My friends and I used to be big letter writers. Way back before texting and emailing, we used to be huge fans of passing notes in class and sending letters via the USPS. It really was a fun treat to go to the mailbox and find a letter with my name on it. Now it’s rare for me to send or receive a long email, never mind a handwritten letter. It’s not a big deal really. I have no hard feelings about it. I do quite well with facebook, texting and phone calls. And maybe it makes this time of year all the sweeter. Money and jewelry aside, there’s nothing I love receiving more than a Christmas card. I am especially fond of the photo cards that people send. I love to see everyone’s children or their pets. Even some of my friends who don’t have kids, or whose kids have long since left the nest, send cards. I love to look at pictures of my friends and family and see how they’ve chosen to represent their life this year. And, it makes me happy to know that these people thought of me, even if the thought was “Why the heck are the Allens still on our card list?”
Having made so many moves in our Coast Guard life, we have the good fortune of knowing a lot of great people. Our walls are covered with these Christmas card treats, which makes me very happy. This year we haven’t received as many cards as we did in the past. I have a couple of theories. The first and most logical theory is that several so-called friends now hate me because I’m so darn cute and perky. In a jealous rage they have decided to blackball me from their Holiday Cheer. Theory two-the Jen theory-is that anyone named Jennifer is banned by the government to send mail to anyone named Aimee, and since 65% of my friends are named Jennifer, I have received only 35% of the usual mailings. The next theory, though less likely, is that fewer people have sent cards out this year. According to this particular theory it’s because they have other things in life they are trying to manage and can’t balance it all (as if). The final theory, the one certain people are calling “THE TRUTH” is that they have the wrong address. Last year all of our mail was forwarded because it had been less than a year since we moved in, but this year the post office is returning to sender. So supposedly a bunch of my friends have received their original cards and will be re-mailing them ASAP. (Right). Oh as I re-read this I suppose the last two theories have some merit, but not much.
Wow, it looks like I am basing my self-worth and popularity on a bunch of cards. That would just be weird and a little desperate. I mean it’s not like I texted my friends, and casually mentioned that I didn’t receive their cards. Okay, since they are probably reading this anyway, maybe I texted one or two or even three friends, but I just didn’t want them to be left out of my Christmas card book.
Oh yes, you heard me. I save photo Christmas cards in an album that we can look at year after year. I’d like to say I do this because I’m clever, creative, organized and a little nostalgic. But really it started because my mother believes, and has passed this neurotic belief on to me, that it is bad luck to throw away a photo. Yes. I am serious; I do not throw away photos. If we have ever had a photo of you it’s still here somewhere. We’ve moved these photos from house to house to house. Heck, we’ve even lugged these photos across the country. We’re like our own little Smithsonian (if the Smithsonian catalogued photos of ordinary people putting bunny ears behind their friends’ heads). If it’s a Christmas letter photo in our possession you’ll have the honor of making the book. If it’s anything else your photo will sit on the fridge for a while and then eventually be tossed into a drawer along with trinkets, hoozy-whatsits and thingamajigs. Look at it this way, if you ever run for political office and are afraid that less-than-savory photo of you from college might surface, well it will…oh sorry that’s probably not reassuring-especially for those of you who didn’t send me a Christmas card this year.
This year my obsession with the Christmas cards seems to be teetering on the verge of Charlie Brownness. Go ahead and think back to the Valentine’s Day Special when Charlie Brown relentlessly checks his mail in hopes of receiving a Valentine. Now keep that image in your mind, throw some curly hair and some mascara on old Chuck and you have the perfect image of me at my mailbox daily. Unlike Charlie Brown, though, my mailbox isn't always empty. Boy oh boy, when a card arrives I am giddy. Some days several cards arrive, I can barely breathe thinking about it. It’s so exciting!
As the holiday season draws to a close I feel a tinge of sadness. I know soon the only thing filling my mailbox will be bills and catalogues. The best I can hope for is a wedding invitation or a baby announcement. I look forward to next Christmas season when I am almost guaranteed to find a card in my mailbox every day. And just to be sure no one forgets me next year, I’ve decided to send out self-addresses stamped envelopes.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Awesome
She looked like a cross between Cleopatra, Cher and maybe the Mona Lisa, too. She sported a classic late 60s look with dark blue eye shadow and long, thick, black hair that she would painstakingly straighten every day. He was short in stature, and had been compared to every decent looking actor on the shorter side, from Jack Nicholson to Bob Newhart. She was a Jewish girl from the suburbs of Boston; he an Irish Catholic boy from the Midwest. She still listened to Malt Shop music; he was a Motown boy through and through. Perhaps they would agree on the brilliancy of the Beatles, though he would surely prefer the psychedelic version of the Fab Four, while she would stand by their clean cut boy image of earlier days. He had left Ohio to see the world via the US Navy and though he did have fun in cities like Paris, there really was no place like Boston for a young sailor, at least in his eyes.
They met at the Enlisted Man’s Club in Charlestown, Ma. My mom’s friend Paula had persuaded my mom to go there. My mother always described her younger self as a “Goody-Two-Shoes”, so I imagine it took some convincing on Paula’s part to actually get my mom out the door. But out the door she went with her long black hair tucked into a blonde wig.
He spotted her at the club and wanted to talk to this curvy blonde woman. It took some nerve and probably a couple of cans of Schlitz for him to saunter on over. He started chatting and when he felt the time was right, put his arm around her. Of course, old Slick ran into a little glitch-as his arm went up and over her head, he hit her wig and knocked it off.
I like to imagine my mom giving him a good slap at this point, but I know her well enough to know that wasn’t the case. Good thing to, because Dad gallantly threw his jacket over her head and escorted her to the restroom!Somehow this goofy character managed to make mom smile and she actually talked to him when she came out of the restroom. Soon they were on their first date together. He wasn’t like other guys, for example, most guys didn’t take their own transistor radios with them on dates. Dad did. He put it right on the table in the middle of their first dinner together. Mom’s friend Paula was surprised that he got a first date, but a second date, well that was baffling. Paula and the gang warmed to my dad, but it took many months. “He was just so goofy, but your mom really saw something in him…”It took some time for this strange Midwestern boy to win over Mom’s family, too. But somehow he did. And now he’s a family favorite. Everyone loves him.
My dad saw something in my mom that was a mixture of smarts and naïveté. Though he was no bad boy, he’d been out in the real world. Yes, she was a girl of the 60s, but she led a fairly sheltered teenhood. Once on a date at the drive-in my parents were approached by a couple of hippies who asked if they “had any papers.” My sweet mom said, “I think we do.” She got out of the car, opened the trunk and handed the hippies a copy of The Boston Globe!
On November 28, 1971, the Motown loving sailor and the Goody-Two Shoes married in Marblehead, Ma. Dad moved out of his roach infested bachelor pad and Mom left her parents’ home in Malden. They took an apartment where I’m sure the transistor radio figured prominently. I picture them in their youth-her long, black straight hair and his long sideburns, thick mustache and polyester shirts-in my mind they are the iconic 70s couple dancing the nights away in their small living room. Whether they were dancing to The Commodores or the Carpenters doesn’t really matter, what matters is that they were, and still are, awesome.
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-Inspired by the book My Parents Were Awesome: Before Fanny packs and Minivans, They Were People Too. By Eliot Glazer
Also inspired by my parents of course!! Happy Anniversary. :)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Guest Blogger Max A. Presents....
I have a treat for you guys! November is Guest Blogger month here at the Squeaky Voice-okay made that up, but whatever-and so today I present a crisp and funny piece of fiction written by one of my all time favorite wordsmiths, my son, Max A. Ladies and Gentlemen enjoy this story entitled...
The Pickle Scientist
Once there was a scientist. He made a potion. It was green. It bubbled. He got more stuff and set it aside. He drank the potion. He got small and green! He turned into a pickle!! He ate the stuff he set aside!!!He grew arms, then legs then a face!!!! He knew what reversed every potion. It was called nignith. It was in an underground forest. It was under the Sahara desert. He wanted to go to the airport but pickles can’t drive. Even living ones. Reason number one is that they are too small. Reason number two is that they are too light for the gas pedal or the brake. So he walked.
The airport was 20 miles away. He walked and walked and walked, when he finally got to the airport he felt like he had walked 500 miles.He ran through the airport. He looked up. A few seconds later a five year old kid looked down and said, “Mommy, someone dropped their pickle!” The little boy’s mom picked the scientist pickle up. She put him in the garbage!!! It smelled horrible in there. He managed to get out. “Yuck,” he said. Gum was stuck to his back! To make things clear abcdefg! That means already been chewed definitely eaten fat gum. He took it off and threw it into the trash. H ran and snuck onto plane B3.
He didn’t know where they were going. They were flying over the Sahara then the pilot made an announcement “We are low on gas!” When they were only a few miles away from the Sahara when they ran out of gas. The pilot said “Attention WE ARE OUT OF GAS, I REPEAT OUT OF GAS! Please use emergency exit!” Everyone ran to the closest emergency exit, but the scientist just hid under a chair. He had a plan! He had a plain plan on the plane.
As he hit the ground the plane split in half. He took everything a vehicle needed and made a broken down car. He wasn’t a mechanic so he could not fix the mini- car. He walked until the Sahara was just a mile away. Just then someone from the plane crawled by. Why did he crawl by? Because he was so hungry. He saw that pickle and chased him. Then he stood there confused. The scientist dug a hole and quickly buried himself. Then he dropped! He landed on moss. “This is it “He said. I can find the nignith here!
He walked, then skipped, then ran, then jogged. He looked everywhere in the forest. At the end was a wall with poison ivy all over it. He wondered what was behind it. He got an idea. He dug with his hands under one wall. He found the nignith, ate it then teleported back home.
The Pickle Scientist
Once there was a scientist. He made a potion. It was green. It bubbled. He got more stuff and set it aside. He drank the potion. He got small and green! He turned into a pickle!! He ate the stuff he set aside!!!He grew arms, then legs then a face!!!! He knew what reversed every potion. It was called nignith. It was in an underground forest. It was under the Sahara desert. He wanted to go to the airport but pickles can’t drive. Even living ones. Reason number one is that they are too small. Reason number two is that they are too light for the gas pedal or the brake. So he walked.
The airport was 20 miles away. He walked and walked and walked, when he finally got to the airport he felt like he had walked 500 miles.He ran through the airport. He looked up. A few seconds later a five year old kid looked down and said, “Mommy, someone dropped their pickle!” The little boy’s mom picked the scientist pickle up. She put him in the garbage!!! It smelled horrible in there. He managed to get out. “Yuck,” he said. Gum was stuck to his back! To make things clear abcdefg! That means already been chewed definitely eaten fat gum. He took it off and threw it into the trash. H ran and snuck onto plane B3.
He didn’t know where they were going. They were flying over the Sahara then the pilot made an announcement “We are low on gas!” When they were only a few miles away from the Sahara when they ran out of gas. The pilot said “Attention WE ARE OUT OF GAS, I REPEAT OUT OF GAS! Please use emergency exit!” Everyone ran to the closest emergency exit, but the scientist just hid under a chair. He had a plan! He had a plain plan on the plane.
As he hit the ground the plane split in half. He took everything a vehicle needed and made a broken down car. He wasn’t a mechanic so he could not fix the mini- car. He walked until the Sahara was just a mile away. Just then someone from the plane crawled by. Why did he crawl by? Because he was so hungry. He saw that pickle and chased him. Then he stood there confused. The scientist dug a hole and quickly buried himself. Then he dropped! He landed on moss. “This is it “He said. I can find the nignith here!
He walked, then skipped, then ran, then jogged. He looked everywhere in the forest. At the end was a wall with poison ivy all over it. He wondered what was behind it. He got an idea. He dug with his hands under one wall. He found the nignith, ate it then teleported back home.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Conspiracy Theory
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Bored? Read this...
Hi Friends,
This is an article I did for my school newsletter. It's not the typical Squeaky Voice material, but I thought you parents out there might like it. ;)
Bored To Tears
Understanding & Appreciating Boredom
By Aimee Allen
It was yet another rainy Saturday in the Pacific Northwest. One mild-mannered ten year old had hit her threshold for inactivity. She was tired of drawing, couldn’t bear to watch any more TV, had read every book on her bookshelf and had done and redone her dolls’ hair more times than even Vidal Sassoon himself could possibly fathom. With tears in her eyes she surveyed her living room; her mother was curled up on the couch with a glass of ginger ale nursing the stomach flu, her brother was lounged in the corner reading a Geronimo Stilton book and her dad, now a full-time student, was across the hall in the office studying for finals. It was at this moment that the sweet ten year old uttered the words that drive most parents crazy. “I’m sooooo bored.”
This of course roused her otherwise infirmed mother, who set her ginger ale down rather loudly on the window sill. This exasperated mother loudly asked “How on Earth in the year 2011, with all the toys, games, books, etc., can anyone claim to be bored?” Knowing as she said it that it wasn’t just the daughter’s declaration that bothered her, it was the whole connotation of boredom.
As parents we try to balance our children’s lives without making them too full or too dull. When our children say they are bored, we tend to take this personally. The whole idea of boredom makes us feel uneasy. No one sets out to host a boring dinner party, tell a boring story, go on a boring vacation, have a boring home or be a boring parent. In fact we most likely dread the idea. So when you are accused, and it does feel like an accusation, of any of these things, it hurts the ego. Still, if we take a step back, we might find that boredom isn’t always a detriment.
One of my professors from graduate school felt strongly that boredom in the right doses was a good thing for people. He noted that in such a fast-paced society with people almost always on the go, boredom forces us to sit with ourselves for a bit. Boredom allows us to quiet our minds, to introspect and to problem solve. For many people boredom can be the gateway to creativity. Many artists, inventors, musicians and writers have credited sheer boredom for their best works. The world-renowned artist and sculptor Anish Kapoor said, “It's precisely in those moments when I don't know what to do, boredom drives one to try a host of possibilities...”
Leonardo da Vinci was said to often be bored. I read somewhere that he was even bored in his sleep. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said, “Boredom is just the reverse side of fascination: both depend on being outside rather than inside a situation, and one leads to the other.” Certainly da Vinci was open to transforming his moments of boredom to moments of fascination. How lackluster the world would be if people like Kapoor and da Vinci were not able to embrace and then overcome boredom time and time again.
You don’t have to be a famous artist to embrace boredom. I grew up in an apartment complex where there were a lot of other children around to play with. On the rare occasion that I found myself outdoors alone, I would complain that I was bored. At those times I would often plop down in the courtyard and watch the ants. I found their lives quite fascinating. I could, and did, watch them march back and forth for hours. Other times I would start to pull the grass out of the ground and see how small I could shred each blade before going to the next. Shredding blades of grass can be pretty tedious work, but I had some of the best daydreams and fantasies as I worked those blades.
Daydreaming, a common companion to boredom, can really be a good thing, not just for creativity, but for brain activity as well. As I was researching for this article, I found some science to back this. In his blog “The Frontal Cortex”, writer/scientist Jonah Lehrer, explains “At first glance, these boring moments might seem like a great time for the brain to go quiet, to reduce metabolic activity and save some glucose for later. But that isn't what happens. The bored brain is actually incredibly active, as it generates daydreams and engages in mental time travel. In particular, there seems to be an elaborate electrical conversation between the front and rear parts of the mind, as the medial prefrontal cortex fires in sync with areas like the posterior cingulate and precuneus.” As anyone in the business world will tell you, it is a very good thing when all departments are communicating and working together. While we are lamenting over the tedium of our day the parts of our brain are working as a team, which they cannot to do when we are challenged, focused, or otherwise engaged.
I need to be careful about over-romanticizing boredom. We have all experienced boredom and we know it is an uncomfortable and frustrating feeling. Often when bored, children will occupy themselves with TV and video games. This certainly isn’t a brain-stimulating outlet. Even worse, boredom in large doses can be linked to a variety of negative things such as obesity, drug use, depression, dropping out of school, etc. In fact I just read that the number one reason high school drop-outs give for leaving school is boredom. They don’t have interest in the school subjects and have not made a connection with any of the adults in the school.
So no, we don’t want our children to be bored for long periods of time. The idea of moving from boredom to fascination means that there has to be some acknowledgment of our mental state, some time spent in this state and then a desire to move past the discomfort. Just like any other uncomfortable emotion, we need tools to get ourselves through. In the Montessori classroom we pride ourselves on having many materials that actively engage students’ brains. Children rarely come to us with the claim that they are bored, because there are so many appropriate choices to stimulate their minds. The beauty of the Montessori model is that we have been focusing on independence and problem solving since the children were toddlers. If children do find themselves in a situation where they feel bored, they can usually get through it without much interference on the part of the adult.
Taking this cue from the Montessori classroom, we as parents can encourage our children to utilize their problem solving and independent thinking skills. Conceivably the child will at some level say to him/herself I recognize this feeling, I’ve had it before. What can I do next? What interests me? What activities do I enjoy? What do I want to find out? What have I done in the past to get beyond this feeling? If I can’t come up with solutions on my own, who can I talk to who can help me? Just as it is with adults, for some children this is a natural process, other children might need some guidance. Perhaps this can be a topic at your next family meeting. By saying something as simple as “What do you do when you’re bored?” or “How do you get past feelings of boredom?” you can help your children develop strategies they can use for a lifetime.
On yet another rainy Saturday, I found that mild-mannered ten year old and her younger brother zipping around the house collecting items for a project. It started by putting stickers on a cardboard box. In no time the cardboard box evolved into a setting. Soon they were creating puppets from socks, complete with yarn hair, googly eyes, clothing and personalities. There was sewing involved, script writing and a lot of laughter, too. This provided hours and hours of engagement for both children. When asked where they got the idea for this elaborate project they simply answered, “Well we were just bored.”
References
Lehrer, J. (March 24, 2009). Boredom [Web log post]. Retrieved from http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/2009/03/boredom.php
Brainy quotes http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/a/arthur_schopenhauer.html
Brainy quotes http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/anishkapoo324857.html#ixzz1J9SuNYxq
This is an article I did for my school newsletter. It's not the typical Squeaky Voice material, but I thought you parents out there might like it. ;)
Bored To Tears
Understanding & Appreciating Boredom
By Aimee Allen
It was yet another rainy Saturday in the Pacific Northwest. One mild-mannered ten year old had hit her threshold for inactivity. She was tired of drawing, couldn’t bear to watch any more TV, had read every book on her bookshelf and had done and redone her dolls’ hair more times than even Vidal Sassoon himself could possibly fathom. With tears in her eyes she surveyed her living room; her mother was curled up on the couch with a glass of ginger ale nursing the stomach flu, her brother was lounged in the corner reading a Geronimo Stilton book and her dad, now a full-time student, was across the hall in the office studying for finals. It was at this moment that the sweet ten year old uttered the words that drive most parents crazy. “I’m sooooo bored.”
This of course roused her otherwise infirmed mother, who set her ginger ale down rather loudly on the window sill. This exasperated mother loudly asked “How on Earth in the year 2011, with all the toys, games, books, etc., can anyone claim to be bored?” Knowing as she said it that it wasn’t just the daughter’s declaration that bothered her, it was the whole connotation of boredom.
As parents we try to balance our children’s lives without making them too full or too dull. When our children say they are bored, we tend to take this personally. The whole idea of boredom makes us feel uneasy. No one sets out to host a boring dinner party, tell a boring story, go on a boring vacation, have a boring home or be a boring parent. In fact we most likely dread the idea. So when you are accused, and it does feel like an accusation, of any of these things, it hurts the ego. Still, if we take a step back, we might find that boredom isn’t always a detriment.
One of my professors from graduate school felt strongly that boredom in the right doses was a good thing for people. He noted that in such a fast-paced society with people almost always on the go, boredom forces us to sit with ourselves for a bit. Boredom allows us to quiet our minds, to introspect and to problem solve. For many people boredom can be the gateway to creativity. Many artists, inventors, musicians and writers have credited sheer boredom for their best works. The world-renowned artist and sculptor Anish Kapoor said, “It's precisely in those moments when I don't know what to do, boredom drives one to try a host of possibilities...”
Leonardo da Vinci was said to often be bored. I read somewhere that he was even bored in his sleep. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said, “Boredom is just the reverse side of fascination: both depend on being outside rather than inside a situation, and one leads to the other.” Certainly da Vinci was open to transforming his moments of boredom to moments of fascination. How lackluster the world would be if people like Kapoor and da Vinci were not able to embrace and then overcome boredom time and time again.
You don’t have to be a famous artist to embrace boredom. I grew up in an apartment complex where there were a lot of other children around to play with. On the rare occasion that I found myself outdoors alone, I would complain that I was bored. At those times I would often plop down in the courtyard and watch the ants. I found their lives quite fascinating. I could, and did, watch them march back and forth for hours. Other times I would start to pull the grass out of the ground and see how small I could shred each blade before going to the next. Shredding blades of grass can be pretty tedious work, but I had some of the best daydreams and fantasies as I worked those blades.
Daydreaming, a common companion to boredom, can really be a good thing, not just for creativity, but for brain activity as well. As I was researching for this article, I found some science to back this. In his blog “The Frontal Cortex”, writer/scientist Jonah Lehrer, explains “At first glance, these boring moments might seem like a great time for the brain to go quiet, to reduce metabolic activity and save some glucose for later. But that isn't what happens. The bored brain is actually incredibly active, as it generates daydreams and engages in mental time travel. In particular, there seems to be an elaborate electrical conversation between the front and rear parts of the mind, as the medial prefrontal cortex fires in sync with areas like the posterior cingulate and precuneus.” As anyone in the business world will tell you, it is a very good thing when all departments are communicating and working together. While we are lamenting over the tedium of our day the parts of our brain are working as a team, which they cannot to do when we are challenged, focused, or otherwise engaged.
I need to be careful about over-romanticizing boredom. We have all experienced boredom and we know it is an uncomfortable and frustrating feeling. Often when bored, children will occupy themselves with TV and video games. This certainly isn’t a brain-stimulating outlet. Even worse, boredom in large doses can be linked to a variety of negative things such as obesity, drug use, depression, dropping out of school, etc. In fact I just read that the number one reason high school drop-outs give for leaving school is boredom. They don’t have interest in the school subjects and have not made a connection with any of the adults in the school.
So no, we don’t want our children to be bored for long periods of time. The idea of moving from boredom to fascination means that there has to be some acknowledgment of our mental state, some time spent in this state and then a desire to move past the discomfort. Just like any other uncomfortable emotion, we need tools to get ourselves through. In the Montessori classroom we pride ourselves on having many materials that actively engage students’ brains. Children rarely come to us with the claim that they are bored, because there are so many appropriate choices to stimulate their minds. The beauty of the Montessori model is that we have been focusing on independence and problem solving since the children were toddlers. If children do find themselves in a situation where they feel bored, they can usually get through it without much interference on the part of the adult.
Taking this cue from the Montessori classroom, we as parents can encourage our children to utilize their problem solving and independent thinking skills. Conceivably the child will at some level say to him/herself I recognize this feeling, I’ve had it before. What can I do next? What interests me? What activities do I enjoy? What do I want to find out? What have I done in the past to get beyond this feeling? If I can’t come up with solutions on my own, who can I talk to who can help me? Just as it is with adults, for some children this is a natural process, other children might need some guidance. Perhaps this can be a topic at your next family meeting. By saying something as simple as “What do you do when you’re bored?” or “How do you get past feelings of boredom?” you can help your children develop strategies they can use for a lifetime.
On yet another rainy Saturday, I found that mild-mannered ten year old and her younger brother zipping around the house collecting items for a project. It started by putting stickers on a cardboard box. In no time the cardboard box evolved into a setting. Soon they were creating puppets from socks, complete with yarn hair, googly eyes, clothing and personalities. There was sewing involved, script writing and a lot of laughter, too. This provided hours and hours of engagement for both children. When asked where they got the idea for this elaborate project they simply answered, “Well we were just bored.”
References
Lehrer, J. (March 24, 2009). Boredom [Web log post]. Retrieved from http://scienceblogs.com/cortex/2009/03/boredom.php
Brainy quotes http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/a/arthur_schopenhauer.html
Brainy quotes http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/anishkapoo324857.html#ixzz1J9SuNYxq
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Ghost of Five Owl Farm: How one nine year old single-handedly paid for the refurbishment of the Malden Public Library
Just yesterday I found myself cornered in the Queen Anne bookstore in Seattle by two eager, wide-eyed children. There was a small crowd looking on; two retired grandmas, one stay at home dad, one precocious two year old toddler and a middle aged woman who bore a strange resemblance to Dr. Teeth from the Muppets. I could feel the sentiment from the crowd, and they weren’t on my side. “Mom,” one of my children started bargaining, “If you let me buy this book, I will pay you three dollars toward it.” I broke into a sweat; I knew what the crowd was thinking, What’s wrong with this woman, why won’t she buy her children a couple of books? I retaliated rather loudly, “We just bought a bunch of books in Portland on Wednesday,” which happened to be 100% true. “But we already finished those books mom,” my other child chimed in, which also happened to be 100% true. Four or five chapter books purchased on Wednesday had been devoured in the course of a three hour train ride, a couple of hours of downtime and finally a forty minute ferry ride. Even with this new insight, the crowd, showed no mercy as they silently chided this low-class mom who refused to buy her children books. Still, I knew that by the time the weekend was over, my dear children would have read through the two books in hand and then what? If only there was a place that you could take a book, read it, and then bring it back when completed. But where on Earth would that be?
Oh come now, I know what you’re thinking. You are suggesting the library aren’t you? Well, believe me, I love the library, truly, I do. It’s just, well, things are complicated between us. There’s a long history between Aimee Decker Allen and the public libraries of the U.S.A. In hindsight it was a doomed relationship from the start, costly and filled with loss. Still we have had some fine moments, but let’s not play games; you aren’t interested in the good times. You are here to learn of the anguish. Here goes. The real heart ache began in 1982. The details are painful and you needn’t know everything, but let’s just say the incident consisted of, among other things, two unhappy parents, one extremely unkempt bedroom, one threatening yellow slip from the Malden Public Library, one bewildered nine year old and the callous judgment of Mr. Phil Collins transmitted via In The Air Of Night on the family record player.
Up until this point, I loved the library and frequented it often. It was, and still is, arguably the most beautiful building in my home town. It was built in the 1800s and housed thousands of books, encyclopedias and even art work. The library also catered to kids with a huge children’s section taking up the entire bottom floor. I loved that place. As a general rule when checking out books I was allowed two or three. I believe this was a library rule, but it could have been a parental one, not sure. One visit, for some reason, I chose to get only one book and that was a book called The Ghost of Five Owl Farm, even though it was a little dark for my usual taste. I can still see the cover, a purple book with some menacing owls on it. I brought the book home, but it didn’t keep my interest. I set it down in my room one afternoon and that was that. Who knows where the book journeyed after that. Perhaps, the toy box, under the bed, my closet, another room? No matter, in the Decker household The Ghost of Five Owl Farm was forgotten, that is until months later, the library notice… Let me cut to the chase, even after my dad, who has a talent of finding absolutely anything, combed through my bedroom and then the entire house, The Ghost of Five Owl Farm was nowhere to be found. A true mystery.
Remember I was nine when this happened so some details are sketchy, but what I know for sure is my library card was suspended. Though my parents and every other adult on Earth have refuted this claim, I am pretty sure I paid a nickel a day, plus interest, for the next 14 years, paying all my fines off just in time for the Malden Public Library to open their multi-million dollar addition in 1996. Coincidence? I think not. I’m a Gen Xer and I know a conspiracy when I see one.
My story should stop here, lesson learned. But it doesn’t. I just can’t seem to break the pattern. More libraries, more overdue books, more yellow slips, more revoked library cards, more shame, more shame, more shame! Yet I still go back- a new town, a new library. I applied for cards in many libraries and to my surprise each time, I was approved. But part of me always feels an imposter. I alternate library entrances, sometimes I go with the head tuck/eyes averted approach. Other times, I try to bluff them, making eye contact. But they know, oh those wise librarians know. They can spot a girl like me a mile away. Right before I push open the library doors they are probably saying things like “Hey Trudy, bolt down the classics, here comes another riff-raff.” The smart librarians, though, I’m talking the really shrewd ones, they welcome girls like me, they say things like “Never mind on that bake sale Franny, this little hot shot’s going to be paying for story hour for the next three years!” (Feel free to insert a cackle here, I know Trudy and Franny would). They’ve got my number. Oh yes they do, filed away in that covert code they call the Dewey Decimal System.
Nowadays things have gotten simpler. When I have an overdue book, I get a gentle reminder from the library. One of the libraries I belong to even allows you to renew on-line and pay your fines that way, too. Sure, I still have to face the Trudies and the Frannies of the world when I do finally return those books. That’s why whenever possible I return my books to the outside slot in the cover of night. It’s so peaceful at those times, just the quiet whirr of my car engine, the chirping songs of the crickets and the slightly haunting chorus of hoots coming from Five Owl Farm.
Oh come now, I know what you’re thinking. You are suggesting the library aren’t you? Well, believe me, I love the library, truly, I do. It’s just, well, things are complicated between us. There’s a long history between Aimee Decker Allen and the public libraries of the U.S.A. In hindsight it was a doomed relationship from the start, costly and filled with loss. Still we have had some fine moments, but let’s not play games; you aren’t interested in the good times. You are here to learn of the anguish. Here goes. The real heart ache began in 1982. The details are painful and you needn’t know everything, but let’s just say the incident consisted of, among other things, two unhappy parents, one extremely unkempt bedroom, one threatening yellow slip from the Malden Public Library, one bewildered nine year old and the callous judgment of Mr. Phil Collins transmitted via In The Air Of Night on the family record player.
Up until this point, I loved the library and frequented it often. It was, and still is, arguably the most beautiful building in my home town. It was built in the 1800s and housed thousands of books, encyclopedias and even art work. The library also catered to kids with a huge children’s section taking up the entire bottom floor. I loved that place. As a general rule when checking out books I was allowed two or three. I believe this was a library rule, but it could have been a parental one, not sure. One visit, for some reason, I chose to get only one book and that was a book called The Ghost of Five Owl Farm, even though it was a little dark for my usual taste. I can still see the cover, a purple book with some menacing owls on it. I brought the book home, but it didn’t keep my interest. I set it down in my room one afternoon and that was that. Who knows where the book journeyed after that. Perhaps, the toy box, under the bed, my closet, another room? No matter, in the Decker household The Ghost of Five Owl Farm was forgotten, that is until months later, the library notice… Let me cut to the chase, even after my dad, who has a talent of finding absolutely anything, combed through my bedroom and then the entire house, The Ghost of Five Owl Farm was nowhere to be found. A true mystery.
Remember I was nine when this happened so some details are sketchy, but what I know for sure is my library card was suspended. Though my parents and every other adult on Earth have refuted this claim, I am pretty sure I paid a nickel a day, plus interest, for the next 14 years, paying all my fines off just in time for the Malden Public Library to open their multi-million dollar addition in 1996. Coincidence? I think not. I’m a Gen Xer and I know a conspiracy when I see one.
My story should stop here, lesson learned. But it doesn’t. I just can’t seem to break the pattern. More libraries, more overdue books, more yellow slips, more revoked library cards, more shame, more shame, more shame! Yet I still go back- a new town, a new library. I applied for cards in many libraries and to my surprise each time, I was approved. But part of me always feels an imposter. I alternate library entrances, sometimes I go with the head tuck/eyes averted approach. Other times, I try to bluff them, making eye contact. But they know, oh those wise librarians know. They can spot a girl like me a mile away. Right before I push open the library doors they are probably saying things like “Hey Trudy, bolt down the classics, here comes another riff-raff.” The smart librarians, though, I’m talking the really shrewd ones, they welcome girls like me, they say things like “Never mind on that bake sale Franny, this little hot shot’s going to be paying for story hour for the next three years!” (Feel free to insert a cackle here, I know Trudy and Franny would). They’ve got my number. Oh yes they do, filed away in that covert code they call the Dewey Decimal System.
Nowadays things have gotten simpler. When I have an overdue book, I get a gentle reminder from the library. One of the libraries I belong to even allows you to renew on-line and pay your fines that way, too. Sure, I still have to face the Trudies and the Frannies of the world when I do finally return those books. That’s why whenever possible I return my books to the outside slot in the cover of night. It’s so peaceful at those times, just the quiet whirr of my car engine, the chirping songs of the crickets and the slightly haunting chorus of hoots coming from Five Owl Farm.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
The City Mouse and the Peacock
I’m a city girl. I grew up in an apartment complex. There was even a bus stop outside my kitchen window. Alas, before you get too envious, the bus was the 105, which was kind of lame, not like the 108 which went to the mall and the movies. Anyway as a city girl, my wildlife knowledge was mainly obtained via the Stone Zoo, Sesame Street and the occasional road trip to see family in Ohio.
I went to college in Western Mass., which gave me a little taste of country living. I then lived in Delaware and Maine, and that meant more opportunities for spotting animals other than just squirrels and pigeons. In Maine there were many mornings when our cars would be surrounded by wild turkeys. We’d have to wait for them to go on their way before we could head off to work. Sometimes deer would dart out in front of us in the early mornings and evenings. One day a few of my co-workers were late for work because a moose was standing in the middle of the road and they couldn’t get by him. By the time Mike, Madison and I moved to Connecticut in 2001, I was certainly not a country mouse, but I was used to being up close and personal with the great outdoors.
Don’t misunderstand. Though, not quite a novelty anymore, spotting wildlife was still a thrill. Our new home in Connecticut added a new layer of animal spotting. Our house was a duplex owned by the US Coast Guard. There was a lighthouse on the property and another lighthouse at the end of the beach. Our living room window was actually composed of two huge picture windows that took up the length of the entire room. The windows looked out on the Connecticut River. Take a walk out in the yard and you’re looking at the Long Island Sound. Talk about idyllic. There were winter mornings when I would be looking out at the water and I would see seals floating by on large pieces of ice. On more than one stormy occasion waves would send skates and other marine life soaring over our fence. There were resident swans, rabbits, osprey, hawks, deer, coyote, foxes and more.
The only drawback to our home was that it was a duplex, which meant another Coast Guard family shared our yard with us. We were in the first half of the duplex which also meant that no matter what, once parked, our neighbors had to walk by our windows every day. We lived there for five years and had four sets of neighbors. We liked some more than others. In general though, they were all okay. Our first neighbors were rather aloof. There were two teenage boys who were a cross between punk and Goth. They had several piercings, spiked hair, black painted fingernails; they dressed in black all the time and changed their hair color more often than I changed Madison’s diapers. They were pretty good kids, from what I could tell, but in a town like Old Saybrook, their urban punk look really stood out. Even Mike would occasionally make a crack about their looks. I, the sophisticated and cutting edge city mouse, on the other hand prided myself on not making a big deal about their style. I never could understand why people would stare at teenagers and make them feel uncomfortable just because they were trying to express themselves. Of course, since we never really spoke, they didn’t know this about me, for all they knew I could have been just another disapproving, conservative snob. The family was nice, but things between us were a little awkward. They walked by our windows often, yet I refused to pull the blinds. I didn’t want to ever miss out on the amazing view and the opportunity to spot wildlife. So we developed a sort of unspoken agreement. When they walked by our window they would look straight ahead, trying not to peer into our personal world.
So there I would sit in front of the picture windows rocking baby Madison and enjoying our amazing locale. When we were first living in Connecticut I used to see a group of turkeys in the morning. Not much different than the Maine turkeys, except for the fact that I was the only one who ever saw them. It started to become a little joke between Mike and me. One morning during the mysterious turkey period of my life, I also saw a pheasant in my yard. This time I had a witness. Unfortunately for the poor pheasant, my witness was Rocco, my Boxer. The pheasant was quite a runner, but in the end it was his wings that saved him. Mike missed out on the pheasant spotting and since Rocco refused to corroborate my story, it just became another joke.
I was vacillating between feeling bad for Mike because he was missing out on so many cool animals, and being annoyed with him because he kept teasing me about them. Then one day he called to me from the living room. “Aimee! Aimee! Come quick. There’s a peacock in the yard.” A peacock? How cool! I’d seen so many animals, but never, ever had I seen a peacock out and about. I thought to grab my camera, but I didn’t want to miss seeing this majestic creature strutting through our yard. Instead, I went dashing through the house, sliding on the linoleum floor in my socks. I suppose I would have been quite a sight if let’s say you were walking past our picture window and saw me coming full steam ahead. I was so excited that I ran up to the window and like a child in a candy store, pressed my face against the glass. At that very moment the peacock locked eyes with me.
I can still see it; it was almost like an out of body experience. There I was, with my white and red spit-up covered pjs, mismatched socks, wildly curly hair, my face and hands pressed against the glass, eyes bugging out, searching. I can still see him and his puzzled look. He, the peacock, with his skateboard in one hand, car keys in the other, blue spiked hair fanned out on top of his head, staring back at this unworldly bumpkin who has nothing better to do than hurl herself against the window and pass judgment upon him.
I went to college in Western Mass., which gave me a little taste of country living. I then lived in Delaware and Maine, and that meant more opportunities for spotting animals other than just squirrels and pigeons. In Maine there were many mornings when our cars would be surrounded by wild turkeys. We’d have to wait for them to go on their way before we could head off to work. Sometimes deer would dart out in front of us in the early mornings and evenings. One day a few of my co-workers were late for work because a moose was standing in the middle of the road and they couldn’t get by him. By the time Mike, Madison and I moved to Connecticut in 2001, I was certainly not a country mouse, but I was used to being up close and personal with the great outdoors.
Don’t misunderstand. Though, not quite a novelty anymore, spotting wildlife was still a thrill. Our new home in Connecticut added a new layer of animal spotting. Our house was a duplex owned by the US Coast Guard. There was a lighthouse on the property and another lighthouse at the end of the beach. Our living room window was actually composed of two huge picture windows that took up the length of the entire room. The windows looked out on the Connecticut River. Take a walk out in the yard and you’re looking at the Long Island Sound. Talk about idyllic. There were winter mornings when I would be looking out at the water and I would see seals floating by on large pieces of ice. On more than one stormy occasion waves would send skates and other marine life soaring over our fence. There were resident swans, rabbits, osprey, hawks, deer, coyote, foxes and more.
The only drawback to our home was that it was a duplex, which meant another Coast Guard family shared our yard with us. We were in the first half of the duplex which also meant that no matter what, once parked, our neighbors had to walk by our windows every day. We lived there for five years and had four sets of neighbors. We liked some more than others. In general though, they were all okay. Our first neighbors were rather aloof. There were two teenage boys who were a cross between punk and Goth. They had several piercings, spiked hair, black painted fingernails; they dressed in black all the time and changed their hair color more often than I changed Madison’s diapers. They were pretty good kids, from what I could tell, but in a town like Old Saybrook, their urban punk look really stood out. Even Mike would occasionally make a crack about their looks. I, the sophisticated and cutting edge city mouse, on the other hand prided myself on not making a big deal about their style. I never could understand why people would stare at teenagers and make them feel uncomfortable just because they were trying to express themselves. Of course, since we never really spoke, they didn’t know this about me, for all they knew I could have been just another disapproving, conservative snob. The family was nice, but things between us were a little awkward. They walked by our windows often, yet I refused to pull the blinds. I didn’t want to ever miss out on the amazing view and the opportunity to spot wildlife. So we developed a sort of unspoken agreement. When they walked by our window they would look straight ahead, trying not to peer into our personal world.
So there I would sit in front of the picture windows rocking baby Madison and enjoying our amazing locale. When we were first living in Connecticut I used to see a group of turkeys in the morning. Not much different than the Maine turkeys, except for the fact that I was the only one who ever saw them. It started to become a little joke between Mike and me. One morning during the mysterious turkey period of my life, I also saw a pheasant in my yard. This time I had a witness. Unfortunately for the poor pheasant, my witness was Rocco, my Boxer. The pheasant was quite a runner, but in the end it was his wings that saved him. Mike missed out on the pheasant spotting and since Rocco refused to corroborate my story, it just became another joke.
I was vacillating between feeling bad for Mike because he was missing out on so many cool animals, and being annoyed with him because he kept teasing me about them. Then one day he called to me from the living room. “Aimee! Aimee! Come quick. There’s a peacock in the yard.” A peacock? How cool! I’d seen so many animals, but never, ever had I seen a peacock out and about. I thought to grab my camera, but I didn’t want to miss seeing this majestic creature strutting through our yard. Instead, I went dashing through the house, sliding on the linoleum floor in my socks. I suppose I would have been quite a sight if let’s say you were walking past our picture window and saw me coming full steam ahead. I was so excited that I ran up to the window and like a child in a candy store, pressed my face against the glass. At that very moment the peacock locked eyes with me.
I can still see it; it was almost like an out of body experience. There I was, with my white and red spit-up covered pjs, mismatched socks, wildly curly hair, my face and hands pressed against the glass, eyes bugging out, searching. I can still see him and his puzzled look. He, the peacock, with his skateboard in one hand, car keys in the other, blue spiked hair fanned out on top of his head, staring back at this unworldly bumpkin who has nothing better to do than hurl herself against the window and pass judgment upon him.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Happy Blogaversary!
Woo-hoo! Happy Blogaversary! Let’s celebrate! It’s been one year since a couple of my friends encouraged me to take the plunge and start a blog. I’m so glad I did. I love writing. I always knew I loved writing, but the whole blog thing put a new layer on it. If you remember my blog profile said (it’s now been updated) I love to write but hate to have others read my writing, well those days are over. I love when people read my blog! I love when they comment on the blog page or via facebook or email, or-my personal favorite-face to face. The Leo in me can’t get enough of the praise, when I say “Shucks, go on…” I mean really go on. Go on and on!
Yet, having said all that I must admit that part of me still gets a little queasy each time I post something. I mean, you are talking to a girl who has queried many a magazine in my day only to get rejection, upon rejection, upon rejection. (I do have one article published in a Montessori magazine called Tomorrow’s Child, but other than that I have a drawer full of rejections.) Two of the rejections are handwritten which I guess is almost as good as being published; as my published friends always assure me. Each time I post a blog, I worry that it will be boring or humorless or all around poorly written. What if people lose interest in reading it? What if they never come back? What if they talk about how embarrassed they are for me, Poor girl thinks she can write, when really she’s the literary equivalent of Elaine Bennis on the dance floor.
But, I mustn’t worry too much because here we are, me writing and you reading. You are reading this right? Oh phew. So where were we? Oh right, we were getting ready to celebrate my Blogaversary. So while you fill your wine glass (again, but I won’t tell) and grab another cookie, I’ll start preparing for the celebration. And how does one celebrate such a momentous occasion?
By letting the magazine editors of the world know that I am not scarred by their rejection, because I have my followers, my peeps. This is intended to be a rap, but I think you could sing it out opera style, too, if you prefer. Here goes…
This one is dedicated to the thirty-one smartest people on the planet:
Dear Editor
Did you get my query letter?
You’ve got subscribers,
But I’ve got something better.
You see over here at the Squeaky Voice,
I’ve got the prime of the prime,
The choice of the choice.
I’ve got followers,
I’ve got thirty-one,
Who choose to read my blog
Because it’s super fun.
It makes no difference
That you’ve rejected my ideas
‘Cause here we’re grassroots
Let’s toast to that-Cheers!
I write what I want
And I write it with style,
And when my followers comment
It makes me smile.
Unless of course they say
It’s super dumb.
But that would never happen
With my Thirty-one.
My thirty-one are special
And they’re wicked smart.
They understand that writing
is a work of art.
They see Squeaky Voice and they click on the link
Because they know what I say will not stink.
Hopefully they smile
And let out a chuckle
Maybe they laugh so hard
That their knees start to buckle.
Thirty-one people can’t possibly be wrong
Just ask my mom or my sister,
Or my friend Tim Wong.
Dear Editor
my letter’s sittin’ in your box
Please say you’ll have me,
Because the Squeaky Voice rocks.
On that note I will leave you with your wine and cookies. Thanks for your support. I hope our first Blogaversary together was everything you dreamed it would be. I know it was for me.
Yet, having said all that I must admit that part of me still gets a little queasy each time I post something. I mean, you are talking to a girl who has queried many a magazine in my day only to get rejection, upon rejection, upon rejection. (I do have one article published in a Montessori magazine called Tomorrow’s Child, but other than that I have a drawer full of rejections.) Two of the rejections are handwritten which I guess is almost as good as being published; as my published friends always assure me. Each time I post a blog, I worry that it will be boring or humorless or all around poorly written. What if people lose interest in reading it? What if they never come back? What if they talk about how embarrassed they are for me, Poor girl thinks she can write, when really she’s the literary equivalent of Elaine Bennis on the dance floor.
But, I mustn’t worry too much because here we are, me writing and you reading. You are reading this right? Oh phew. So where were we? Oh right, we were getting ready to celebrate my Blogaversary. So while you fill your wine glass (again, but I won’t tell) and grab another cookie, I’ll start preparing for the celebration. And how does one celebrate such a momentous occasion?
By letting the magazine editors of the world know that I am not scarred by their rejection, because I have my followers, my peeps. This is intended to be a rap, but I think you could sing it out opera style, too, if you prefer. Here goes…
This one is dedicated to the thirty-one smartest people on the planet:
Dear Editor
Did you get my query letter?
You’ve got subscribers,
But I’ve got something better.
You see over here at the Squeaky Voice,
I’ve got the prime of the prime,
The choice of the choice.
I’ve got followers,
I’ve got thirty-one,
Who choose to read my blog
Because it’s super fun.
It makes no difference
That you’ve rejected my ideas
‘Cause here we’re grassroots
Let’s toast to that-Cheers!
I write what I want
And I write it with style,
And when my followers comment
It makes me smile.
Unless of course they say
It’s super dumb.
But that would never happen
With my Thirty-one.
My thirty-one are special
And they’re wicked smart.
They understand that writing
is a work of art.
They see Squeaky Voice and they click on the link
Because they know what I say will not stink.
Hopefully they smile
And let out a chuckle
Maybe they laugh so hard
That their knees start to buckle.
Thirty-one people can’t possibly be wrong
Just ask my mom or my sister,
Or my friend Tim Wong.
Dear Editor
my letter’s sittin’ in your box
Please say you’ll have me,
Because the Squeaky Voice rocks.
On that note I will leave you with your wine and cookies. Thanks for your support. I hope our first Blogaversary together was everything you dreamed it would be. I know it was for me.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Dark Beauties
My friend Carol, glass of white wine in hand, took a dramatic step backward, looked Micki and me up and down and then with a playful twinkle in her eye proclaimed “You white girls go through an awful lot of trouble, don’t you?” Carol was referring to our freshly tanned bodies. Well freshly, spray-tanned anyway. We were the talk of the Harbor Montessori School auction that year, not really victims of gossip, since we were the ones sharing the story, but something like that. Actually, a lot of people still talk about it, proving that you can have more than 15 minutes of fame.
It was March of 2008 and we had been training religiously for our very first half-marathon. We found ourselves feeling fit and toned. And with newly toned muscles, came cuter dress choices, and cuter dresses showed off a bit more skin and that skin was white, very white. I am not sure how the topic of spray tanning came up or how the final decision was made to do it, but decide we did. On the day of the auction Micki and I met at the tanning chain Desert Sun and it is here the legend begins…
It was, of course, raining out, but inside was a surreal mix of bright lights, yellow walls, coconut scented air and unnaturally dark-skinned people with bleach blond hair and ultra bright teeth. There were two people behind the counter who were expecting us when we came in. They were quite a pair-a blond male with a condescending smile and a blonder female who was bopping her head to the Jonas Brothers. Oh, I guess I should mention that Micki, who was in business savvy mode when making our appointment, was able to get us a really nicely priced package to share. The package included eight spray tans. The catch of course, was that the people at Desert Sun, might have been led to believe that we were a couple. Now what constitutes a couple anyway? Is it a couple of friends, a couple of pals, a couple of bumbling idiots? If so then, we were a couple. Still, they might have been thinking we were both living under the same roof, sleeping in the same bed and going by the same last name. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
So there I was with my wife, waiting to get our spray tans on. I was in a bit of a panic, I’m not a huge fan of being sprayed with chemicals, nor am I all that trusting of small enclosed places. So as I was talking myself through the panic, the blond girl was quickly explaining how the spray tan worked. There was something about a hair net, and cream to put on our hands so they wouldn’t look unnaturally dark. There were some other directions, too, but she assured us there would be a computer voice talking us through it. “Listen to the voice & you’ll be fine.” I knew Micki was going first, so she could fill me in on any directions I missed. Micki headed to the back room while I read a fantastically educational magazine called “People”.
She came out a few minutes later with a sheepish look on her not-so-dark face. She was trying to talk, but I could barely understand her. At first I thought she was hyperventilating, but I soon realized she was hysterically laughing. So here’s what happened. The spray tan booth is basically a shower and inside it there are designated spots to stand on. These spots put you at the right distance to get an all over body spray. Micki, however, missed that tidbit of instruction and instead stood right in front of the sprayer. This means the sprayer managed to only spray her torso. It looked as if her head, neck and legs had been vacationing in the Nordic region, while her belly button had the pleasure of touring the equator. Oh and did I mention she forgot to turn around when signaled, so she got sprayed twice in the front and not at all in the back.
The kind people behind the counter rolled their eyes, exchanged glances and let Micki go for another round for free. This time Micki was able to do it right and she looked pretty good, too. I was relieved that she was the one who botched things up and nerves aside, felt pretty confident that I wouldn’t do the same.
So in I went. First step was getting naked in this cold little room. Next step the special hand cream that blocks the spray tan, then lock the door, set the first of two “on” buttons and, oops! Almost forgot the hair net; now that would be a disaster. Put on the hair net and step into the shower. Locate the metal plates to stand on (the ones Micki missed) press the next “on” button which closes the door and prepare.
It might help to remember that I was anxious about this whole thing and now as I listened to the soothing computer voice countdown 10, 9, 8, my heart was starting to race a bit, 7, 6, 5, it only lasts 60 seconds I reassured myself, so I should be okay and this computer voice talks you through the whole thing anyway, 4, 3, 2, 1….
YIKES!!! I had no idea that the spray would be both cold and extremely powerful. I startled, sucked in a huge gulp of chemical spray and, out of reflex, I threw my hand over my face-apparently some instinctual protection-cover your money maker. Of course that hand had that tan-block on it, and it would leave a nice print on my face, but I didn’t realize this just yet. Through all the internal chaos, I heard the computer voice say something, but had no idea what. Just at that moment the spray stopped. I felt sure this was to allow people to exhale; assuming everyone to ever spray tan had a huge anxiety attack in the booth and held their breath. That must have been what the voice was telling me-you are about to get a break to take a courtesy breath and then we will proceed. The voice started counting down again and I readied myself for the upcoming spray. And I was sprayed- on the front. I thought nothing of this. The voice came on again. The spray stopped and I prepared to turn around, the booth had other plans. The door opened and the machine turned off. That is when I realized that the courtesy break to catch my breath was actually the time I was supposed to be turning around. That’s what the computer voice was telling me, but somehow I missed it. So now I had the task of going out and saying that I, too, messed up my session and I, too, only got my front sprayed.
At some point before reaching the front desk, I stopped and looked in a mirror. This is when I notice my nose and part of my cheek were discolored. They were white, of course, because of the tan blocker. This changed my priorities from getting my back tanned to somehow fixing my striped face. The people at the front desk, who were probably texting each other about what idiots we were, gave me a special tanning lotion to put on my nose and cheek. It was basically like the self-tanner you by at the store, only faster acting. With a little scrubbing and the use of the cream, the idea was, my polychromatic face would somehow find a middle ground and look normal. All I could do was wait. With only four hours until auction time, I went ahead and did a second session in the booth, (not for free) this time spraying my back only. The second round, to the best of my recollection, was uneventful.
Micki and I left Desert Sun swearing to never go back. We went home, (to our separate homes), and watched as our skin got progressively darker. Just like any other tanning experience, the color gradually increases all day. Micki was pretty dark and her belly was very dark, as it had two coats on it. My entire body was very dark, since I did a double session on the front the first time and a double on the back the second time. We walked into the auction looking nothing like the alabaster girls we were the day before. And since almost everyone at the auction actually saw us at school the day before, well, we couldn’t pretend to have just returned from Bali or Hawaii or the planet Mercury. And so we went with the truth, putting delicious little smiles on all the people at the auction that night. I like to think that despite it all, we still looked pretty good. Funny though, there are no pictures to prove my theory.
Just like any other traumatic experience, the horrible details faded to the back of our minds, only to come rushing back, when on auction day the next year we walked into Desert Sun for a spray tan and the guy behind the counter said, “Hey I remember you two.”
It was March of 2008 and we had been training religiously for our very first half-marathon. We found ourselves feeling fit and toned. And with newly toned muscles, came cuter dress choices, and cuter dresses showed off a bit more skin and that skin was white, very white. I am not sure how the topic of spray tanning came up or how the final decision was made to do it, but decide we did. On the day of the auction Micki and I met at the tanning chain Desert Sun and it is here the legend begins…
It was, of course, raining out, but inside was a surreal mix of bright lights, yellow walls, coconut scented air and unnaturally dark-skinned people with bleach blond hair and ultra bright teeth. There were two people behind the counter who were expecting us when we came in. They were quite a pair-a blond male with a condescending smile and a blonder female who was bopping her head to the Jonas Brothers. Oh, I guess I should mention that Micki, who was in business savvy mode when making our appointment, was able to get us a really nicely priced package to share. The package included eight spray tans. The catch of course, was that the people at Desert Sun, might have been led to believe that we were a couple. Now what constitutes a couple anyway? Is it a couple of friends, a couple of pals, a couple of bumbling idiots? If so then, we were a couple. Still, they might have been thinking we were both living under the same roof, sleeping in the same bed and going by the same last name. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
So there I was with my wife, waiting to get our spray tans on. I was in a bit of a panic, I’m not a huge fan of being sprayed with chemicals, nor am I all that trusting of small enclosed places. So as I was talking myself through the panic, the blond girl was quickly explaining how the spray tan worked. There was something about a hair net, and cream to put on our hands so they wouldn’t look unnaturally dark. There were some other directions, too, but she assured us there would be a computer voice talking us through it. “Listen to the voice & you’ll be fine.” I knew Micki was going first, so she could fill me in on any directions I missed. Micki headed to the back room while I read a fantastically educational magazine called “People”.
She came out a few minutes later with a sheepish look on her not-so-dark face. She was trying to talk, but I could barely understand her. At first I thought she was hyperventilating, but I soon realized she was hysterically laughing. So here’s what happened. The spray tan booth is basically a shower and inside it there are designated spots to stand on. These spots put you at the right distance to get an all over body spray. Micki, however, missed that tidbit of instruction and instead stood right in front of the sprayer. This means the sprayer managed to only spray her torso. It looked as if her head, neck and legs had been vacationing in the Nordic region, while her belly button had the pleasure of touring the equator. Oh and did I mention she forgot to turn around when signaled, so she got sprayed twice in the front and not at all in the back.
The kind people behind the counter rolled their eyes, exchanged glances and let Micki go for another round for free. This time Micki was able to do it right and she looked pretty good, too. I was relieved that she was the one who botched things up and nerves aside, felt pretty confident that I wouldn’t do the same.
So in I went. First step was getting naked in this cold little room. Next step the special hand cream that blocks the spray tan, then lock the door, set the first of two “on” buttons and, oops! Almost forgot the hair net; now that would be a disaster. Put on the hair net and step into the shower. Locate the metal plates to stand on (the ones Micki missed) press the next “on” button which closes the door and prepare.
It might help to remember that I was anxious about this whole thing and now as I listened to the soothing computer voice countdown 10, 9, 8, my heart was starting to race a bit, 7, 6, 5, it only lasts 60 seconds I reassured myself, so I should be okay and this computer voice talks you through the whole thing anyway, 4, 3, 2, 1….
YIKES!!! I had no idea that the spray would be both cold and extremely powerful. I startled, sucked in a huge gulp of chemical spray and, out of reflex, I threw my hand over my face-apparently some instinctual protection-cover your money maker. Of course that hand had that tan-block on it, and it would leave a nice print on my face, but I didn’t realize this just yet. Through all the internal chaos, I heard the computer voice say something, but had no idea what. Just at that moment the spray stopped. I felt sure this was to allow people to exhale; assuming everyone to ever spray tan had a huge anxiety attack in the booth and held their breath. That must have been what the voice was telling me-you are about to get a break to take a courtesy breath and then we will proceed. The voice started counting down again and I readied myself for the upcoming spray. And I was sprayed- on the front. I thought nothing of this. The voice came on again. The spray stopped and I prepared to turn around, the booth had other plans. The door opened and the machine turned off. That is when I realized that the courtesy break to catch my breath was actually the time I was supposed to be turning around. That’s what the computer voice was telling me, but somehow I missed it. So now I had the task of going out and saying that I, too, messed up my session and I, too, only got my front sprayed.
At some point before reaching the front desk, I stopped and looked in a mirror. This is when I notice my nose and part of my cheek were discolored. They were white, of course, because of the tan blocker. This changed my priorities from getting my back tanned to somehow fixing my striped face. The people at the front desk, who were probably texting each other about what idiots we were, gave me a special tanning lotion to put on my nose and cheek. It was basically like the self-tanner you by at the store, only faster acting. With a little scrubbing and the use of the cream, the idea was, my polychromatic face would somehow find a middle ground and look normal. All I could do was wait. With only four hours until auction time, I went ahead and did a second session in the booth, (not for free) this time spraying my back only. The second round, to the best of my recollection, was uneventful.
Micki and I left Desert Sun swearing to never go back. We went home, (to our separate homes), and watched as our skin got progressively darker. Just like any other tanning experience, the color gradually increases all day. Micki was pretty dark and her belly was very dark, as it had two coats on it. My entire body was very dark, since I did a double session on the front the first time and a double on the back the second time. We walked into the auction looking nothing like the alabaster girls we were the day before. And since almost everyone at the auction actually saw us at school the day before, well, we couldn’t pretend to have just returned from Bali or Hawaii or the planet Mercury. And so we went with the truth, putting delicious little smiles on all the people at the auction that night. I like to think that despite it all, we still looked pretty good. Funny though, there are no pictures to prove my theory.
Just like any other traumatic experience, the horrible details faded to the back of our minds, only to come rushing back, when on auction day the next year we walked into Desert Sun for a spray tan and the guy behind the counter said, “Hey I remember you two.”
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Bag Lady
My last blog was about friendship. I certainly am rich in friends. I have so many interesting and amazing characters in my life. I think I can thank my mom for my willingness to get to know and enjoy people, even if at first I can find little in common with them. From my perspective my mom has always had a variety of interesting supporting characters in her life story. . My mom’s friends certainly ran the gamut-from displaced hippies, to southern belles, to Beatlemaniacs to school teachers, to clowns to just about everything in between. As an adult, I very much enjoy talking with all of her friends, though I certainly have a few favorites. (and if you are reading my blog and a friend of my mom’s I assure you, you are one of them). As a child I also had some favorites, and sure I had a few who I felt mildly jealous of, and then a few I just couldn’t quite warm up to. I am happy to say that I can’t think of any friend of my mom’s that I ever truly disliked.
Still, as a child, one of my mom’s friends always struck me as the Anti-cool. Of course, I know now, what I didn’t know then, which is that this woman was/is a great friend; an honest, reliable and kindhearted person. I only knew she was quite odd. She was a single mom working full-time and raising two teens, but to me that was irrelevant. I only knew that we weren’t allowed in her apartment often and we certainly weren’t allowed to wear shoes there. I knew that she was (and still is) famous for slinging around phrases like pobody’s nerfect and I’ll take off my hat and crap in my shoe. (I am still trying to figure that one out). She wore rubber clogs before the CEO of crocs was even a twinkle in his father’s eyes. I feel pretty sure that she had a car, but took the bus everywhere; all of these things in my young mind were borderline deplorable. But, the thing I always thought oddest about her, was her insistence on carrying her own tote bags into grocery stores. I’m talking the late 70s early 80s here. And this woman is riding the buses of Malden with tote bags full of groceries. The horror! The gang at Mal’s supermarket couldn’t fathom putting groceries in used bags when there were perfectly good paper, and eventually plastic, bags right there for free! We went grocery shopping with this woman on more than one occasion that I can remember and I was completely mortified by her sheer disrespect of society’s norms. You go to the grocery store and you use their handy bags and then you throw the bags away. End of story. Geesh.
I had no idea that this quirky woman was actually way ahead of her times. Now grocery bags are all the rage aren’t they? And guess who has hopped up on the bandwagon? That’s right. Yours truly. I am obsessed with the reusable bag, as any environmentally responsible American should be. And I’m shameless about it, too. I am not afraid to use an Albertson’s bag at Fred Meyer, not ashamed to wear my red Target bags like a badge into Kohl’s. I even have a bag from the NEX, that’s right, the US military has jumped on board with this handy Earth saver. And I salute them. I won’t lie; I even have two totes from the Dollar Tree and guess what? They only cost me a buck. Today as I was scooting through Joann’s Fabric an over sized reusable tote caught my eye. It was brown with colorful birds, a cute little slogan and of course, the handy recycle sign. It looked like one of those heavy duty totes that just might run you a good five bucks, but to my delight it was only $1.99 so I scooped it up. What’s the shame in one more bag anyway? Well dear friend, I’ll tell you what the shame is. This Earth-conscious, eco-adorable, reusable bag bandwagoneer has a little tiny confession to make.
I rarely remember to actually bring my bags into the store with me. I’m saying, and I am being generous here, that I actually walk through those automatic glass doors maybe 35% of the time with bags in tow. At first I would remedy this by simply buying more reusable bags when at the store. After all if you are spending $200+ on groceries, what’s another few bucks? With the stash of bags growing exponentially though, a certain miserly fellow asked me kindly to stop adding to the collection for a while and maybe, just maybe, USE THE BAGS WE ALREADY HAVE. Thereby putting a wrench in my life goal to collect as many ugly green Albertson’s bags I could lay my hands on.
My next remedy was to stash a bunch of the bags, in the trunk of my car. Smart right? Well, how many times do you actually start your grocery trip by heading to the trunk of the car? Exactly. So, there goes that idea. Truly then, what’s a girl to do when she finds herself in the heat of a heavy duty grocery trip and realizes that she’s left the bags in the car? Depending on the shopping venue and the distance between myself and my automobile, I have been known to strategically stash my cart somewhere and trudge out to the car. Sometimes, though, especially if it’s raining or cold or I have the kids with me or I’m in a hurry, (strike sometimes and make it usually) I just get paper bags instead. And I won’t lie there have been a few times when I have done the walk of shame to my car, plastic bags in tow.
The days that I do remember to actually use my bags I go skipping out of the grocery store like I just hit the lottery. Look at me, I’m so enviro-cool! I drive a Prius, I use those eco-friendly light bulbs,I put my potatoes, carrots and other worldly goods in these great reusable sacks. Bow down to this superior momma. But like I said those occasions are few and far between. Most days I slink quietly out of the store-the weight of the dying Earth upon my shoulders.
And so there you have it. I have fessed up. I have so many reusable bags that I would never have to use the same bag twice, yet I can barely remember to actually use them at all. It’s embarrassing to say the least. I really do feel bad but then again, pobody’s nerfect.
Still, as a child, one of my mom’s friends always struck me as the Anti-cool. Of course, I know now, what I didn’t know then, which is that this woman was/is a great friend; an honest, reliable and kindhearted person. I only knew she was quite odd. She was a single mom working full-time and raising two teens, but to me that was irrelevant. I only knew that we weren’t allowed in her apartment often and we certainly weren’t allowed to wear shoes there. I knew that she was (and still is) famous for slinging around phrases like pobody’s nerfect and I’ll take off my hat and crap in my shoe. (I am still trying to figure that one out). She wore rubber clogs before the CEO of crocs was even a twinkle in his father’s eyes. I feel pretty sure that she had a car, but took the bus everywhere; all of these things in my young mind were borderline deplorable. But, the thing I always thought oddest about her, was her insistence on carrying her own tote bags into grocery stores. I’m talking the late 70s early 80s here. And this woman is riding the buses of Malden with tote bags full of groceries. The horror! The gang at Mal’s supermarket couldn’t fathom putting groceries in used bags when there were perfectly good paper, and eventually plastic, bags right there for free! We went grocery shopping with this woman on more than one occasion that I can remember and I was completely mortified by her sheer disrespect of society’s norms. You go to the grocery store and you use their handy bags and then you throw the bags away. End of story. Geesh.
I had no idea that this quirky woman was actually way ahead of her times. Now grocery bags are all the rage aren’t they? And guess who has hopped up on the bandwagon? That’s right. Yours truly. I am obsessed with the reusable bag, as any environmentally responsible American should be. And I’m shameless about it, too. I am not afraid to use an Albertson’s bag at Fred Meyer, not ashamed to wear my red Target bags like a badge into Kohl’s. I even have a bag from the NEX, that’s right, the US military has jumped on board with this handy Earth saver. And I salute them. I won’t lie; I even have two totes from the Dollar Tree and guess what? They only cost me a buck. Today as I was scooting through Joann’s Fabric an over sized reusable tote caught my eye. It was brown with colorful birds, a cute little slogan and of course, the handy recycle sign. It looked like one of those heavy duty totes that just might run you a good five bucks, but to my delight it was only $1.99 so I scooped it up. What’s the shame in one more bag anyway? Well dear friend, I’ll tell you what the shame is. This Earth-conscious, eco-adorable, reusable bag bandwagoneer has a little tiny confession to make.
I rarely remember to actually bring my bags into the store with me. I’m saying, and I am being generous here, that I actually walk through those automatic glass doors maybe 35% of the time with bags in tow. At first I would remedy this by simply buying more reusable bags when at the store. After all if you are spending $200+ on groceries, what’s another few bucks? With the stash of bags growing exponentially though, a certain miserly fellow asked me kindly to stop adding to the collection for a while and maybe, just maybe, USE THE BAGS WE ALREADY HAVE. Thereby putting a wrench in my life goal to collect as many ugly green Albertson’s bags I could lay my hands on.
My next remedy was to stash a bunch of the bags, in the trunk of my car. Smart right? Well, how many times do you actually start your grocery trip by heading to the trunk of the car? Exactly. So, there goes that idea. Truly then, what’s a girl to do when she finds herself in the heat of a heavy duty grocery trip and realizes that she’s left the bags in the car? Depending on the shopping venue and the distance between myself and my automobile, I have been known to strategically stash my cart somewhere and trudge out to the car. Sometimes, though, especially if it’s raining or cold or I have the kids with me or I’m in a hurry, (strike sometimes and make it usually) I just get paper bags instead. And I won’t lie there have been a few times when I have done the walk of shame to my car, plastic bags in tow.
The days that I do remember to actually use my bags I go skipping out of the grocery store like I just hit the lottery. Look at me, I’m so enviro-cool! I drive a Prius, I use those eco-friendly light bulbs,I put my potatoes, carrots and other worldly goods in these great reusable sacks. Bow down to this superior momma. But like I said those occasions are few and far between. Most days I slink quietly out of the store-the weight of the dying Earth upon my shoulders.
And so there you have it. I have fessed up. I have so many reusable bags that I would never have to use the same bag twice, yet I can barely remember to actually use them at all. It’s embarrassing to say the least. I really do feel bad but then again, pobody’s nerfect.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
BFF
In the game of love I am a huge fan of monogamy; in friendship though, not so much. Taking a cue from the folks on Wall Street I am a big believer in investing your finest in a lot of different places. Some friends are like the neighborhood credit unions who have known my family and me forever. They are always overjoyed when I walk through the door. Others are the big chain banks who greet me with good cheer, enjoy having me around, but don’t notice too much when I am gone. Others still are like the offshore bank account entrusted with just the right amount of my dirty little secrets. And still others, well, if I continue to compare my friends to institutions I won’t have any friends left. Still you get the point.
It’s not that I am against having an intimate relationship with another woman; in fact I have a lot of close bonds. It’s just the thought of picking one person that leaves me utterly baffled. When Mike and I had our wedding I had ten bridesmaids. And I still felt like I was leaving out some very worthy and special people. If Mike and I were to have our wedding today I would still be struggling to pick my “top ten”, there are just so many great choices. Sometimes though, I can’t help but wonder what I am missing. Because I have so many great girlfriends, I have been able to see what best friendship looks like. I can name you woman couples-Moe and Kathy, Melissa and Krista, Carly and Gina, Michelle and Lisa, Colleen and Van, Kim and Cheryl, Madison and Olivia-and tell you in all honesty they have something as magical as a good marriage.
I just finished reading Let’s Take the Long Way Home by Gail Caldwell. I loved that book so much. It is about a friendship between two women. A friendship like I mentioned above. At different points in my reading I thought of different friends. I thought of ten people I wanted to buy it for. Ten people who I love as much as I possibly can love. Then I thought of a few more. This must be what it is like to be a polygamist. Now I totally see why Hugh Hefner has so many bunnies in the mansion.
Sometimes I wonder if it is because of my own good marriage and my friendship with Mike that I don’t have a best girlfriend. Or maybe it’s because I don’t put out. No seriously. By this I mean only that I am a fairly private person. I don’t portray myself this way, which is an art in itself I must say, but I really am pretty selective about what I share. My lack of willingness to put it all out there is a turn-off in the game of BFF. I know this. Still, I don’t feel lonely because of it.
To me the best friend thing, it’s kind of like picking a favorite food, favorite song, favorite book, favorite vacation—it’s just about impossible. I can say my favorite food is pizza, but when you say what about Nana’s chicken soup, well that really throws a wrench in things. That’s my favorite, too. And so is filet mignon and chocolate mousse cake. I can tell you how much I loved Kauai, but then you’ll remind me of that trip to Niagara Falls with Mike, or the UK or even just Hampton Beach circa 1994 and it’s all a wash.
I’ve used the marriage metaphor, but in my case it’s not really a great example, it’s not like I am dating all of these people with the intent to settle down with just one. On the contrary, I would never give up what I have, each person their own special being. No there are far too many amazing people in my life. I guess I am just not meant to have the classic version of the best friend.
Instead my life is filled with people from coast to coast who I can laugh with, cry with, rely on, talk to, and embarrass myself in front of. I am so fortunate to have room in my heart and in my life for so many great friends. And so lucky that they have room for me.
It’s not that I am against having an intimate relationship with another woman; in fact I have a lot of close bonds. It’s just the thought of picking one person that leaves me utterly baffled. When Mike and I had our wedding I had ten bridesmaids. And I still felt like I was leaving out some very worthy and special people. If Mike and I were to have our wedding today I would still be struggling to pick my “top ten”, there are just so many great choices. Sometimes though, I can’t help but wonder what I am missing. Because I have so many great girlfriends, I have been able to see what best friendship looks like. I can name you woman couples-Moe and Kathy, Melissa and Krista, Carly and Gina, Michelle and Lisa, Colleen and Van, Kim and Cheryl, Madison and Olivia-and tell you in all honesty they have something as magical as a good marriage.
I just finished reading Let’s Take the Long Way Home by Gail Caldwell. I loved that book so much. It is about a friendship between two women. A friendship like I mentioned above. At different points in my reading I thought of different friends. I thought of ten people I wanted to buy it for. Ten people who I love as much as I possibly can love. Then I thought of a few more. This must be what it is like to be a polygamist. Now I totally see why Hugh Hefner has so many bunnies in the mansion.
Sometimes I wonder if it is because of my own good marriage and my friendship with Mike that I don’t have a best girlfriend. Or maybe it’s because I don’t put out. No seriously. By this I mean only that I am a fairly private person. I don’t portray myself this way, which is an art in itself I must say, but I really am pretty selective about what I share. My lack of willingness to put it all out there is a turn-off in the game of BFF. I know this. Still, I don’t feel lonely because of it.
To me the best friend thing, it’s kind of like picking a favorite food, favorite song, favorite book, favorite vacation—it’s just about impossible. I can say my favorite food is pizza, but when you say what about Nana’s chicken soup, well that really throws a wrench in things. That’s my favorite, too. And so is filet mignon and chocolate mousse cake. I can tell you how much I loved Kauai, but then you’ll remind me of that trip to Niagara Falls with Mike, or the UK or even just Hampton Beach circa 1994 and it’s all a wash.
I’ve used the marriage metaphor, but in my case it’s not really a great example, it’s not like I am dating all of these people with the intent to settle down with just one. On the contrary, I would never give up what I have, each person their own special being. No there are far too many amazing people in my life. I guess I am just not meant to have the classic version of the best friend.
Instead my life is filled with people from coast to coast who I can laugh with, cry with, rely on, talk to, and embarrass myself in front of. I am so fortunate to have room in my heart and in my life for so many great friends. And so lucky that they have room for me.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Fingerprints
July 4th 1997, Mike and I stand on Penn’s Landing in Phili with a few thousand other people waiting for the fireworks show. The crowd is enthusiastic, entertaining and oozing pride in their city—the birthplace of independence. It was dark, it was loud, Mike and I had secured a great spot on a banister squished in between a large man who smelled of cheesesteaks (extra onion) and a young, thin, unisex person dressed in a black unitard with fluorescent green tape running down its sides. We laughed, we joked and we reveled in our freedom. Freedom of thought. Freedom of speech. Freedom to be the unique and interesting individuals we all were. Fast forward to 10:00 pm. It had been dark for quite a while at this point and the crowd was getting restless. No fireworks. We were all puzzled, the thousands of us; until word somehow spread that the fireworks were at the art museum across the city. Just why on Earth did we all end up on the wrong end of town? I think it is simply that a few thousand of us had the same idea; we just thought it should be at Penn’s Landing. It just made sense that it would be. Meanwhile across town there was probably another twenty something girl watching beautiful fireworks with her handsome boyfriend, while compressed in between a fat, smelly guy and a skinny, strangely-clad Blue Man Group reject.
They say we humans, are at the top of the evolutionary chain. What an intelligent and original bunch we are. But moments such as what we will now refer to (in a stage whisper) as the Penn‘s Landing Incident make me wonder. We were like a bunch of lemmings out there--waiting for a show that was never scheduled to happen in the first place. As one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, would say “All of us take pride and pleasure in the fact that we are unique, but I'm afraid that when all is said and done the police are right: it all comes down to fingerprints." Though the optimist in me finds this a little dark, the realist in me thinks it’s about right.
Just look at your friends’ posts on facebook: the best ones are often great movie or song quotes, funny jokes that someone googled, or one of those fast statuses that give you suggestions you can post. Sure occasionally you’ll have the friend who will post that he was grazed by a bus (true story), or the post about your aunt who thought she threw her cigarette out the window, but really threw it into the hood of her coat (true again), but those are diamonds in the rough.
Take comfort my friends; this lack of originality isn’t always a bad thing. After weeks of throwing around possible team names for our Running Group I realized we could just search “Cool Team Names” on the internet. When I plugged that into google I came up with several links, cool team names, team names that rock, cool team names that rock and so on. A few weeks ago I wanted to bake Max a Super Mario Bros. cake for his birthday. I had some ideas, but couldn’t quite get them rolling, so I searched the internet and within seconds there was the dream cake. In fact there were dozens of Super Mario cakes. Sure these are superficial reasons to be happy that we are unoriginal, but there are some serious ones, too. As a mom and a teacher I am glad that there are books, sites, support groups and so on that promise humans this very thing. You aren’t alone, whatever your worries, someone out there has had them, too. So yes, sometimes being unoriginal is a good thing.
Still, I have spent 90% of my day trying to come up with a unique and entertaining blog and I finally had to come to terms with the fact that there might not be such a thing. Chances are some of you will find this entertaining, others lackluster, but one thing is a guarantee-there must be someone out there who has blogged about this very same thing. In these moments the only thing that makes me feels better is that you have chosen to read my blog instead of hers.
They say we humans, are at the top of the evolutionary chain. What an intelligent and original bunch we are. But moments such as what we will now refer to (in a stage whisper) as the Penn‘s Landing Incident make me wonder. We were like a bunch of lemmings out there--waiting for a show that was never scheduled to happen in the first place. As one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, would say “All of us take pride and pleasure in the fact that we are unique, but I'm afraid that when all is said and done the police are right: it all comes down to fingerprints." Though the optimist in me finds this a little dark, the realist in me thinks it’s about right.
Just look at your friends’ posts on facebook: the best ones are often great movie or song quotes, funny jokes that someone googled, or one of those fast statuses that give you suggestions you can post. Sure occasionally you’ll have the friend who will post that he was grazed by a bus (true story), or the post about your aunt who thought she threw her cigarette out the window, but really threw it into the hood of her coat (true again), but those are diamonds in the rough.
Take comfort my friends; this lack of originality isn’t always a bad thing. After weeks of throwing around possible team names for our Running Group I realized we could just search “Cool Team Names” on the internet. When I plugged that into google I came up with several links, cool team names, team names that rock, cool team names that rock and so on. A few weeks ago I wanted to bake Max a Super Mario Bros. cake for his birthday. I had some ideas, but couldn’t quite get them rolling, so I searched the internet and within seconds there was the dream cake. In fact there were dozens of Super Mario cakes. Sure these are superficial reasons to be happy that we are unoriginal, but there are some serious ones, too. As a mom and a teacher I am glad that there are books, sites, support groups and so on that promise humans this very thing. You aren’t alone, whatever your worries, someone out there has had them, too. So yes, sometimes being unoriginal is a good thing.
Still, I have spent 90% of my day trying to come up with a unique and entertaining blog and I finally had to come to terms with the fact that there might not be such a thing. Chances are some of you will find this entertaining, others lackluster, but one thing is a guarantee-there must be someone out there who has blogged about this very same thing. In these moments the only thing that makes me feels better is that you have chosen to read my blog instead of hers.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Worrier Dash
This summer we stopped at the sand dunes in Florence, Oregon on our way back from the Redwoods. The dunes are absolutely one of the coolest and most bizarre things this side of the Mississippi. (This side meaning my side, which to many of you is not this side, but that side; but for a few of you it really is this side). Anyway, the dunes are a result of millions of years of rain erosion and wind. There are miles and miles of dunes in Oregon, yet we had a hard time finding them. We were searching for them and nearly gave up when we stumbled upon the ultimate dunes. The sandy hills we found were actually behind a Fred Meyer grocery store. Sure that’s odd, but also really convenient, especially when you want to buy a coke or use the restroom to flush your sand encrusted eyes with cold water. Anyhow, there were people on sleds, snowboards and there were people like us who were just on foot. Mike and the kids loved running and then jumping off of the edge of the dunes seeing how far down the hill they could land. Try as I might I would get a running start and then falter at the edge, doing a move that I thought was a jump, but apparently it was more of a plop. The family would razz me and I would attempt it again, getting to the last step and then…plop. I just couldn’t do it! It seems that my attempts were really entertaining for certain members of my family, but for me, well, not so much. I was so frustrated with myself, but try as I might it was the same thing again and again. Recently we were reminiscing about the trip. Max accused me of being a chicken, but Maddee came to my defense saying, “It’s not really that she’s afraid, she’s just very protective of her body.” Hmm that’s a way to spin it, I guess.
Well spin or no spin they are both right, I am protective of my body, but that’s because I am scared of getting hurt. And being fearful is no fun. I don’t really have enough faith in my body, or in the laws of nature, for that matter. Sure, I understand that what goes up must come down, but once I’m down how do I get back up again? I worry about getting hurt and I worry about being embarrassed. Now as a mom, I also worry about my children developing the same fearful attitudes about trying something that is new and a bit scary.
It’s not just fear that holds me back; it’s also a sheer lack of coordination. The main reason I run for exercise is that running requires no other equipment. I can’t catch a ball, swing a bat or handle a racket. I am an absolute horror show on wheels, blades, and skis. My goodness I am the girl who fell off a treadmill, not once, but twice. I even fell off the stationary bike in spinning class. Coordination is not my middle name.
And so now knowing what you know, I am going to confess that I did something totally crazy last Friday. Yep. I signed up for this summer’s Warrior Dash. Not only did I sign up for the Warrior Dash, but I lobbied several friends to join me. What’s the Warrior Dash, you ask? Well, it’s just a little three and a half mile obstacle course that has you jumping over fire, climbing cargo nets, hopping over walls, running over scrap metal cars, trudging through muddy waters, crawling under barbed wire fences, and so on. What on Earth would possess a girl who is afraid to take two stairs at a time, to sign up for something like that? Well, I have no idea. In fact if I had an extra $200 I’d probably pull up a couch and pay a professional to analyze that very thing. Unfortunately I spent my last $200 on a charming little helmet to wear when crossing the street during rush hour. After all, you can’t be too careful.
When push comes to shove, (which I hope it doesn’t because once again someone could get hurt) I can come up with some good reasons for doing the Warrior Dash. Strangely only a handful of my reasons are directly related to the cool Viking hat and the free beer one receives upon completing the Dash. Up until recently I didn’t give myself much credit for being physically strong. My first indication that I might not be as wimpy as I thought was childbirth. I had no idea I could do that-twice-and do it without meds! Even though I was pretty impressed with myself, I thought it might possibly be some sort of fluke. Then of course training for and completing my first 5k, then 10K, then Half Marathon and then Full Marathon put me in tune with how physically and mentally strong I could be. Showing that once again I can be physically strong seems like a good reason to do the Dash. And being mentally tough--doing a bunch of things that are totally scary--always sounds fantastic to me. That is until, it’s time to do them, but I’ll worry about that when I am hanging head first from a cargo net muddy, bloody and full of tears.
More reasons? Well, there is of course, the fact that I am in a bit of a healthy eating/exercise slump and preparing for the Warrior Dash seems like a good way to mix things up and get motivated. And I won’t lie; I’ve always liked getting a little muddy. So those are the reasons I can think of right now. I am sure there are other reasons, too, but instead of worrying about why I want to do it, I think I better worry about how I am going to do it or better yet, maybe I should just choose not to worry at all. Hmmmm.
Well spin or no spin they are both right, I am protective of my body, but that’s because I am scared of getting hurt. And being fearful is no fun. I don’t really have enough faith in my body, or in the laws of nature, for that matter. Sure, I understand that what goes up must come down, but once I’m down how do I get back up again? I worry about getting hurt and I worry about being embarrassed. Now as a mom, I also worry about my children developing the same fearful attitudes about trying something that is new and a bit scary.
It’s not just fear that holds me back; it’s also a sheer lack of coordination. The main reason I run for exercise is that running requires no other equipment. I can’t catch a ball, swing a bat or handle a racket. I am an absolute horror show on wheels, blades, and skis. My goodness I am the girl who fell off a treadmill, not once, but twice. I even fell off the stationary bike in spinning class. Coordination is not my middle name.
And so now knowing what you know, I am going to confess that I did something totally crazy last Friday. Yep. I signed up for this summer’s Warrior Dash. Not only did I sign up for the Warrior Dash, but I lobbied several friends to join me. What’s the Warrior Dash, you ask? Well, it’s just a little three and a half mile obstacle course that has you jumping over fire, climbing cargo nets, hopping over walls, running over scrap metal cars, trudging through muddy waters, crawling under barbed wire fences, and so on. What on Earth would possess a girl who is afraid to take two stairs at a time, to sign up for something like that? Well, I have no idea. In fact if I had an extra $200 I’d probably pull up a couch and pay a professional to analyze that very thing. Unfortunately I spent my last $200 on a charming little helmet to wear when crossing the street during rush hour. After all, you can’t be too careful.
When push comes to shove, (which I hope it doesn’t because once again someone could get hurt) I can come up with some good reasons for doing the Warrior Dash. Strangely only a handful of my reasons are directly related to the cool Viking hat and the free beer one receives upon completing the Dash. Up until recently I didn’t give myself much credit for being physically strong. My first indication that I might not be as wimpy as I thought was childbirth. I had no idea I could do that-twice-and do it without meds! Even though I was pretty impressed with myself, I thought it might possibly be some sort of fluke. Then of course training for and completing my first 5k, then 10K, then Half Marathon and then Full Marathon put me in tune with how physically and mentally strong I could be. Showing that once again I can be physically strong seems like a good reason to do the Dash. And being mentally tough--doing a bunch of things that are totally scary--always sounds fantastic to me. That is until, it’s time to do them, but I’ll worry about that when I am hanging head first from a cargo net muddy, bloody and full of tears.
More reasons? Well, there is of course, the fact that I am in a bit of a healthy eating/exercise slump and preparing for the Warrior Dash seems like a good way to mix things up and get motivated. And I won’t lie; I’ve always liked getting a little muddy. So those are the reasons I can think of right now. I am sure there are other reasons, too, but instead of worrying about why I want to do it, I think I better worry about how I am going to do it or better yet, maybe I should just choose not to worry at all. Hmmmm.
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