The Legend of The Christmas Letter

One of my favorite things to do this time of year is my Holiday letter. I love it, too, when people email me after receiving the letter to tell me how much they enjoy my humor. I think it’s great to go to an extended family event and be complimented on my humble little letter. It’s so fantastic. I’ve even had people ask me if they could be on my Christmas card list! But, I suppose I must come forward and tell you that I can’t really take sole credit. I mean I do have a small staff of tiny men and women working for me. Sure, I have the ideas, but they are the ones who put it altogether. It used to be that I would creep into houses via chimney or, even better, mail slot, but that’s when I was a lot slimmer and younger and without so much facial hair. Anyway now I am just too darn busy to be hand delivering mail. And the demand is so much greater. Now I have my little friends, the elves do it.  It used to be that my letters only traveled a short distance, but now I’m expected to get these things out and about all over the globe. Germany? Africa? Missouri? How am I supposed to get it all done and be back in time for Christmas morning?! I mean sure, I have a few feral reindeer in my neighborhood who could probably be bribed into pulling me around, but reindeer just don’t have the same work ethic that they used to. They’d probably charge me an inordinate amount of money, have me put it in Dasher’s paypal account and then ditch me anyway.  Now that marijuana’s legal in Washington I’d be hard pressed to find a couple of reindeer who weren’t clad in tie-dye ponchos, sitting on the couch making paper snowflakes and eating Cheetos, anyway.

Each year I look forward to writing the letter and each year parts of the letter wind up on the cutting room floor. I wish I did these letters on a typewriter because I’d love the drama of pulling out a piece of freshly typed Allen history, crumbling it into a ball and watching it pile up. That would be more satisfying than this backspace, delete thing I have going on. Where’s the pleasure in that? 

This year, I found it especially difficult to write the letter. To me, the letter is all about entertainment. Oh and I suppose it’s necessary to include some information about the family. I want to keep people interested and I want to avoid the possibility that someone might just skim the letter. Give them one or two boring lines and the next thing you know they are skipping whole paragraphs just to get to the end.  This year, I actually did five drafts before I finally came up with a winner. I made the mistake of not immediately printing 155 copies and now I am rethinking the letter again. In fact I was originally going to post all of the false starts here in this blog, but now that I am re-reading them, I might just weave them in to the letter. Don’t tell Mike or the kids I’m thinking of another re-write. That might be all the ammunition they need to take my laptop away and lock it up until next year.

I complained on Facebook about this whole process and people started advising me. People told me not to sweat it.  There were suggestions to let my kids do it. They told me this whole thing was no big deal. I was totally offended. Clearly these people didn’t recognize my writing prowess from years past. These are probably the people who set the letter aside to read later (sarcastic air quotes*) and never do. Or, more likely, they were Facebook novices and didn’t realize the whole point of Facebook was to complain and ask for advice and then get indignant when people actually tried to help you.

Every year as I am beginning this process I re-read the letters from years past. My favorite might be from 2006 when we first moved here and I was on the hunt for decent pizza. Pizza jokes go a long way my friends, a long way. As do toilet training jokes (see 2005), and the inevitable rain jokes-hey it is the Pacific Northwest.

I’m not sure how this year’s letter will compare to the letters of years past. I hope people enjoy it, even if it’s not my best. I will probably leave it out for the elves to put some finishing touches on it tonight. And if it still isn’t up to par by morning the reindeer can always make paper snowflakes out of it.  

 

*Yes, I realize I could have used real quotation marks here, but I really wanted you to be clear that sarcastic air quotes were indeed necessary

May the Best Amphibian Win

I wanted to do something about the elections with my students, but I didn’t want them to be voting based on what their parents were doing. I wanted them to consider the candidates and the issues and vote based on that. More than anything I wanted them to understand the process and the importance of picking a leader. Eight years ago, my friend Laurie did an election with her class based on the book Duck For President by Doreen Cronin. I vaguely remembered her mentioning this, of course in my memory it was both my friends Liz and Laurie doing it (at the time they had neighboring classrooms) and it was the Tortoise vs. The Hare. (I’ve never been known as detail oriented). Still, I had the gist of it and was excited to put my own spin on things. And so the Frog and Toad elections were born.

You probably know Frog and Toad, the delightful storybook characters who are the stars of several books by Arnold Lobel. I thought, and my co-teacher Alicia agreed, that these two likeable fellows would be the perfect candidates. I realized early on that I might have miscalculated, because when reading the book to my class, I noticed for the first time how lazy Toad is. The fact that he wouldn’t get out of bed from November-May didn’t bode well for his candidacy. Still, it was too late to find new candidates, so I moved forward. After reading the story to my class we generated a list of characteristics of both Frog and Toad. It was clear my initial worries about Toad were warranted, as children noted that he was lazy, too emotional, and quick to jump to conclusions. This was before they knew he was running for president!

On day two of our project we talked about the right to vote. We talked about how we listen to what the candidates have to say before we make our decisions. There were several children who had watched the Presidential debates on TV and had a good idea of what a debate might look like. It was my intention all along to have a debate, and was excited that the students were on board with the idea. The children were tasked with writing one debate question each for the candidates. The children could write their question any time and drop it in a basket. I peeked at some, but for the most part the questions were a surprise.The debate was scheduled for 11:15 the next day. Some of the children tried to translate this election to the Presidential election. We have a lot of Obama supporters in our class and a lot of Frog supporters, too. One child declared “A vote for Frog is a vote for Obama,” as he tried to sway some of the undecided classmates. Another child reminded her classmates not to make any decisions “until we hear from the candidates at the debate.”

On debate day, Alicia read the children’s questions to me; while I, using my homemade Frog and Toad puppets, answered. I tried to answer the questions in a way I thought was close to how Frog and Toad would,  though paying attention to the fact that Toad was already in hot water with the voters. When Alicia started reading the questions I was overwhelmed with pride. I shouldn’t have been surprised at how thoughtful their questions were, but  surprised I was.  What would you do for the poor? How would you support the military? Do you think recycling is important? What would you do about Hurricane Sandy? What would you do with criminals?  What would you do about trash? How would you help homeless people? What would you do about bullying? Every single question was interesting, thoughtful and, frankly, a challenge to answer. As great as the questions were, the discussion afterward was even better. Some children liked Toad’s strong stance on bullying, others liked that Frog would take the gentle approach with bullies. Some children thought it was enough that Toad would Skype military overseas from his bed. Most thought it was nobler that Frog was going to visit troops and see to it that they got to fly home more often to see their families. And so it went. The debate and discussion ended, posters were created and the upcoming elections continue to be a lunchtime topic in our classroom.

Today is Election Day. We have a private voting booth set up in the classroom, official looking ballots and even “I Voted” stickers with Frog and Toad pictured on them. I have a strong feeling that Frog will win, but we will let the people speak for themselves. After listening to their thoughtful debate questions, and their follow-up discussion, I trust those 6, 7, 8 and 9 year olds to pick a good president. Let’s hope the adults of our nation are as reflective and thoughtful when they cast their own ballots today.

Three

The Squeaky Voice is brought to you today by the number three.

Three- the number of times in my life I had a Popsicle stuck to my top lip. The first time was the worst, I was eight or nine years old and my lips were scabbed and bruised for weeks. The next time was more embarrassing than painful, as I stood at the bus stop on North Pleasant St. in Amherst, a slightly overweight twenty year old with a raspberry sorbet popsicle dangling from her upper lip. The third time was, well, tonight, I set my lips on a Coconut Fruit bar only to get them stuck there. One will never learn.

Three-the number of days my kids will be at the Olympic Park Institute on a classroom trip. I miss them already, but am selfishly enjoying some me time. Tonight blogging and reading. Tomorrow night pedicure, a glass of wine and a Mad Men marathon.

Three-the number of weeks Max and I will be on an elimination diet. He had allergy testing done and has twelve foods he is allergic to. We will eliminate them all for three weeks and then add them back in one by one (except for spinach, which is too severe to reintroduce).  I feel like he shouldn’t have to do it alone and so I am going to do it with him, wish us luck.

Three-the number of teachers checking kids’ heads for lice on a daily basis. Guess who is one of the lucky inspectors? Yes, the term nit-picking has new meaning in my life. My head itches just thinking about it. Oh dear, I hope that’s why it’s itching.

Three-the number of nightmares I had last night—two of them were about lice.

Three (times two)-the number of times Six snuck over to the neighbors’ house last week, went through their doggy door, tracked black muck through their house, got up on their couch and proceeded to take a nap.

Three-the number of pounds I have lost on the Flat Belly Diet. It feels good to get back into my jeans again.

Three-the amount of drafts I have written for my blog tonight, the first was a full essay on the dangers of popsicles, the second was about, well not about much really, the third is this one. I think I liked the popsicles best, but I deleted it.

Three-the number of weeks Mike has been in Baltimore. I miss him. Only nine days to go! (Note: Nine is a multiple of three).

Three-the number of coworkers I have in my classroom. A co-teacher, an intern and an assistant. They are all wicked awesome. I love my team!

Three (plus ten)-the number of miles I ran on Sunday as I completed my 14^th or 15^th Half Marathon!

Three-the number of weeks I am lobbying for in regards to our Europe trip next summer.  (A few days in Iceland, a week in Italy, a week in France and then wrap it up in Dublin on my 40^th birthday to run another half marathon).

Three-the number of household members who I miss like crazy right now.

Three- the number of times I’ve wanted to delete this entire blog entry for its total corniness, but I’ve got too much invested in it now.

Three slices-the average amount of pizza I can take down in one sitting (okay should rephrase it to say the average I will allow myself; truly I could probably take down 5).

Three- the number of times I have gotten up to look in the mirror at my lip. It looks better than it feels.

Three-the number of dumb endings I have come up with and scrapped.

One- the ending I’m decidedly going with. Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six at 11

Sometimes, when I am in the middle of a frustrating or embarrassing situation, I look on the bright side, thinking “Hey, at least I have something to blog about.” At eleven o’clock last night, as I was paddling around my lake (in my pajamas, in a thunder storm), I thought this very thing.

There are some background essentials you must know to fully appreciate the story. I spent close to a third  of the day in my car yesterday.  Grab a map if you aren’t familiar with Washington state and I’ll paint you a quick picture. I drove from my house in Port Orchard, dropped Maddee off at camp in Gig Harbor, went to University Place to do a puppet workshop, drove from UP (as the cool kids call it) to Bothell, sat in a three hour meeting, then hopped on I-405 at 5:20-prime traffic time-and arrived home around 7:30. With me so far?  Great. To boot, I fueled my body with McDonalds, ice cream and cookies. Nice, right?  By the time 9:30 rolled around (kids’ summer bedtime), I was exhausted and cranky. I just wanted to make a beeline for the bed.

I neglected to mention that Max was in tow all day. He was such a good sport coming with me to all my commitments with no complaints. He hadn’t slept well in a couple of nights and after being stuck in the car all day he, too, was exhausted and cranky. Of course, the core difference between a tired and cranky adult and a tired and cranky child is this: the adult wants to go to sleep, the child already at the point of no return, insists he isn’t tired. A smart, well-rested parent, wouldn’t engage in a battle.  You already know my state of mind.

So things weren’t going as smoothly as I’d like in the old Allen abode. After about thirty minutes of trying every trick in the book and then some, Max was asleep. In fact, it seemed every living creature in my household was settled in and sleeping. I was about to climb into bed myself, when I heard my dog, Six, barking and it sounded like she was outside. This was extremely unusual as Six prides herself on her beauty sleep, getting about 18 hours a day. She is always the first to retire, so why she wasn’t already nuzzled in at the foot of my bed, was beyond me.  It had started thundering in the distance and looked like it could rain at any moment so I went outside to see if she might be out there.   I could hear her, but couldn’t see her. I turned on the porch light, still couldn’t see her. I went out front thinking perhaps she somehow got out of the yard, still no sign of her. I decided to go to bed, she has a doggy door and I figured she’d let herself in as soon as it started to rain anyway. All I had to do was ignore her bark.  Right?

Right, I am not good at ignoring whines, complaints or barks. When I tell my brain we are going to ignore something it defies me and decides to hyper focus on it, until what I am ignoring gets so imbedded in my mind and under my skin that I…well, in this case, I get out of bed, and head back into the yard. I heard her again and it sounded like a distress bark. This changed my state of mind from annoyed to concerned. I looked and looked but couldn’t find her. I went back in and got a flashlight, put some shoes on and threw a sweatshirt over my pjs. I looked and saw the back gate was open! Ugh!!

  I would alternate from the front yard to the back, calling her name. Once in a while she’d answer my call with that distress bark. Poor Six! Where could she be? Cornered by coyotes? Taken against her will by some cult? A-ha, I found her. She was stuck in the salmonberry bushes next to our yard. We have a fence and then there is a thicket of trees and salmonberry bushes that eventually give way to our neighbors’ yard. This thicket butts up to the lake, as does our yard and our neighbors. It should be told that Six loves our neighbors and they love Six. Sometimes she swims over to their house, sometimes she sneaks out of the yard to go see them. She often is let in and makes herself at home by their fireplace.  It is my suspicion that she headed over and when no one let her in at 10:20 pm (the audacity!) she decided to make her way home via the thicket. She was probably stuck in some thorns and branches. I had a flashlight, but it was hard to tell for sure if she was caught in something.

The lake in this particular area is fairly shallow, probably just to my knees, but I really wasn’t in the mood to wade in and get her. I had no knowledge of how to get into the thicket from the other side and really no desire to do so anyway.  So, yep, I decided to set sail in our paddleboat and see if I could get over to the bushes and get her untangled. This might be a good time to mention that somehow the paddleboat was  wedged on top of one of our kayaks in the water. Now if it were daylight I would have noticed this situation right away, but my only light came from my flashlight and an occasional burst of lightning. I hopped in to the paddleboat, untied it and started paddling…going absolutely nowhere, of course.

Finally, I realized that only the stern of the paddleboat was in the water. The rest of it was on top of the kayak. I got back out of the boat, pulled the kayak out from underneath, practicing some words I hadn’t said in a while, and climbed back in. The paddleboat was making an unusual swishing sound and not moving very well. The strange thing about paddleboats is that sometimes water actually gets inside the hull , making it challenging to move. I suppose there’s a minor risk of sinking when this happens, which makes this story all the better, doesn’t it? And let’s add to the suspense by my admission that even though I can’t swim I was not wearing my life jacket.  The whole time that I was trying to get from point A to point B (it should have taken two minutes tops)  I heard the following:, a distressed dog bark, a rumble of thunder, a disconcerting swishing sound coming from somewhere in the bowels of the  boat, a distressed dog bark, a rumble of thunder, a disconcerting swishing sound , etc. And so it goes. All the while I couldn’t  help thinking about my cozy bed.   

When I finally got over to the thicket, I realized I didn’t have much of a plan. I had a vague idea to climb out, hold onto the paddleboat with one hand and try to get Six out of whatever trouble she was in with the other hand. Not ideal, but it’s the best I could come up with.  You would think Six would be elated to see me, but instead she turned her head and put her snout in the air, as if she expected to be picked up in a yacht or something.  From the paddleboat, I called her name and she did it again. I couldn’t understand it. She sometimes does this when she is in trouble, too, like if she doesn’t look at us, maybe we won’t see her. But why would she be in trouble, you ask?

 Well, let me tell you, at this point in my narrative, I have a good view of her and I can see that she is absolutely, not tangled or stuck in any way!! So, I came upon the ugly realization that her distress barks originated from the fact that she didn’t want to go back through the thorny thicket and she didn’t want to go for a swim either!  This is where Mike would say something like “You should have just left her then and she would have had to swim home eventually.” Well, I don't think so, dear reader! There was NO WAY I was going anywhere without that dog. Thunder, lake water, potentially sinking paddleboat and thorny bushes be damned, I was getting the dog. I called her name again and she slunk onto the bow of the paddleboat, climbed onto my lap (being sure to get my cute pjs nice and muddy) and we were back on the water. I got us moored up, climbed out of the paddleboat, missing the dry beach area by just inches, soaking my feet and my not-waterproof -Toms. I then had to give my beloved canine a bath before I could finally, finally, finally, climb into bed and get some sleep.

When, at last, I made it to my bed, Mike lifted his head and I could see his face was marked with deep sleep lines and he had a little bit of drool in the corner of his mouth. I was so jealous! That should be me with sleep carved into my face, drool running down my lips!! I guess if that were the case, there’d be nothing to blog about, would there? And isn’t that what it’s really all about?  

Private I

Whether we are old friends, new pals, or blog buddies; you have, by now, gathered some things about me. You have probably noted that I am a good person, peaceful, pretty smart and fun-loving. You have more than likely also gleaned that I have the athletic prowess of a drugged two-legged donkey and that I am a Rain Man with birthdates, anniversaries, phone numbers and the like, yet I cannot ever remember when my books are due back to the library. You probably know I like my house and I like being a wife, but I am far from a housewife. For example, my cleaning skills can be summed up with this (unfortunately) true little story: A friend called and asked if she could borrow our steam cleaner for her rugs. When she came over I handed her what I thought was the steam cleaner, apparently it was the vacuum. Wonh woh. And everyone knows I’m no Betty Crocker, but I must say my cooking skills are actually somewhat better than they once were. I can now add the ability to fry turkey bacon to the list of my gourmet culinary achievements.

Whether via blog, or just conversation, you almost certainly know that I have fallen off of two treadmills and a stationary bike. You may or may not know (but surely won’t be surprised), that I embarrassed myself, in my pjs, in front of vice presidential candidate (at the time) Joe Lieberman. You know I have accidentally hugged strangers, sang out incorrect song lyrics and have had some run-ins with spray tanning machines. You are aware that I am obsessed with fresh flowers, pizza, chocolate, The Muppets, and The Bradys. These personal little details either make you roll your eyes or want to pick me up and hug me, and squeeze me, and call me George.

So there, you know me fairly well, but if you know me really well, then you know that I’m actually a pretty private person. Sure, I can be loud, opinionated, witty (I hope), willing to engage in conversation, open-minded and a good listener, but that doesn’t make me any less private, it just sort of disguises it better. There are still many things that I just won’t share. Like what? you ask. Umm, hello, that’s private. Okay, okay, I am referring to things like my fears, concerns and shortcomings in things that really matter to me (being a mother, a daughter, a wife, an educator, a global citizen, a friend, a sister, etc).

I have a few friends who write honest, intimate, eloquent blogs about the very things I won’t. This afternoon, inspired by my friend Janna’s fantastic blog, I decided to open up and dig up the deep stuff. I took pencil to paper and wrote about some of my more cherished thoughts. I made sure the mood was right. I sat out in the grass at Chambers Creek overlooking the Puget Sound. The setting was beautiful, the sun warm on my arms, the grass cool on my legs, there were little children running barefoot on the lawn and birds chirping in my ears. If that’s not inspiration for some deep thinking, what is? So, I wrote and wrote for almost 90 minutes. And then I re-read my sage words and innermost fears. In all honesty, though, it wasn’t that good. I’m not saying this in the voice of someone with low self esteem or low self worth; I’m saying this with an honest critic’s eye. It lacked depth and warmth; it was one dimensional, looking more like a list of deficiencies and less like an inspirational piece. It just didn’t suit me.

Ah well, I gave it the old college try, (which for me sometimes meant setting out for class, getting halfway across campus, then turning around, going back to the dorm and crawling into my bed to watch The Doors movie for the 33^rd time). Anyway, I’ll save today’s earlier writing for another time. Who knows maybe my kids will use the pages to elicit sympathy points in their college essays or even better they can quote me in their memoirs. You know the perfunctory Blame Your Mother chapter. Most likely entitled something like “Frozen Pizza Again?” or “We Were Forced to Wear Kneepads to Cross the Street”.

For now, I’ll continue sharing humorous (hopefully) little accounts of my foibles and follies, my triumphs and achievements. Recent stories you probably haven’t heard, yet, like last week when I went on a kayak trip and within the first five minutes managed to crash into a pier (foible). Perhaps you’d like to hear about me getting back on track with my running after an injury (triumph). Another recent story involves me taking 50 minutes to get to a restaurant that, had I turned right instead of left, would have taken five minutes (folly). Or maybe you’d just like to join with me in celebrating today’s crowning achievement- learning the correct spelling of folly.

I Never Forget A Face-Mistaken Identity at its Finest

Maddee, Max and I pulled into Albertson’s parking lot the other morning. It was early; hardly anyone was there. I pulled in across from a woman and recognized her as a parent from the school. I don’t know her name, but I have seen her on several occasions. I started waving vigorously and she just stared at me. She backed out of the spot and drove slowly past, never taking her eyes off of me, as if I might be a little nuts. My kids confirmed my nuttiness by telling me she was not the woman I thought she was.  I argued with them, but  they assured me that they knew who I was talking about and clearly this lady wasn’t her.

Oh well. It happens, right? You’ve done it, too. You’ve looked over and surely recognized someone only to realize it was not that person at all. And maybe you’ve been the recipient, too.  In fact maybe you were walking across the campus at UMASS one day twenty years when quite suddenly you were ambushed by a flustered,  curly-haired girl who hurled herself at you, threw her arms around you and then buried her head in your chest. Your heart only had a few seconds to thump, thump before the girl realized her error, let out a shriek and then took off running (which was quite a feat for this girl as she had a strict no exercise policy in college).  You were probably quite puzzled by the whole event, but  what you didn’t know was that  the girl had almost been hit by a cyclist on campus, he had yelled a few choice words at her and she was upset, embarrassed even. She looked over and thought you were her good friend Todd, so she flung herself at you, only to find out you were not Todd, which doubled her embarrassment and off she ran.

Don’t feel too terribly for me (yes surprise, surprise, I am the girl in the anecdote above) as I was in good company in my foibles.  It seemed with 25,000 students there were several look-alikes floating around campus. In fact, my friend Matt did it so often that he cleverly referred to it as  "A Case of the I-Think-I-Knows." Okay, maybe it doesn't seem that clever, but I remembered it twenty years later, so don't judge.

And it wasn't just Matt and me who had these issues. When we lived in the dorms some of the guys on our floor developed a call of sorts. I don’t know why, it’s a guy thing I guess. It was somewhat of a honking noise, but not quite, just for simplicity we will call it a honk or the sound. Anyway, my friend Jane and I became obsessed with trying to make the sound, too.  Again, I am not sure what the fuss was about this sound, but remember, we were 18 and 19 our brains weren’t fully developed yet.  It’s important to note that the sound, which again can’t be really put into words, traveled best if you cupped your hands around your mouth. Wouldn’t ya know, one day Jane got it right and moved up the food chain of coolness. She was so proud of herself that every time she saw one of the guys she would signal out to him with the sound. You can see where this is going, but humor me anyway. One day while walking on campus she saw our friend Steve and started calling to him using the sound. He was walking in her direction, but not responding. She cupped her hands around her mouth, as she should, but still no dice. Steve continued to walk closer and closer with Jane honking up a storm. Sadly, she got insanely close to him before she realized it wasn’t Steve. She tried to play it off, by continuing to honk at some imaginary someone behind the guy-who-was-not-Steve.  This may have worked, too, if it wasn’t for what happened a few hours later. Once back in her dorm room Jane decided to open her seventh floor window and get some fresh air. Spring was beginning to make an appearance and Jane was excited. When she looked out her window she saw Steve-the real Steve-approaching the building. She hung out her window, cupped her hands around her mouth and started proudly honking like crazy. Redemption. He looked up in confusion, or perhaps horror, and that’s when Jane realized it wasn’t the real Steve, but once again that poor boy from earlier in the day. A boy, mind you,  that she had never seen before that morning. Ah the vision of Jane stalking this poor boy still cracks me up. He's probably in therapy because of it, but that's beside the point.

Now, now, Janey if you’re reading this, I am getting back to my own embarrassing moments, don’t worry. When I graduated from college I struggled to get a teaching job. I was living back at home with my parents and subbing in the local schools. It was early in the school year and I got a call to sub in my old elementary school. There was an assembly to attend and sitting in those seats in the old auditorium at Lincoln school brought back some memories. I need to pause here because to this day this story still embarrasses and confuses me, but here I go anyway. I trust you won’t judge me, too much, even though it is truly a Jim Ignatowski moment (sans the drugs).

Okay so there I was in Lincoln school filled with memories, when I looked over and saw my best friend from fifth grade, Annmarie Marcellino. She moved right after fifth grade and we stayed in touch for a while, but eventually grew apart, and now here she was all these years later. I was elated. So, after the assembly, I quickly dashed over to her and said “Do you remember me?” and she said, “Of course, you’re Aimee Decker.” And I giddily exclaimed “And you’re Annmarie Marcellino my best friend from fifth grade!!”  This is where it gets ugly, folks, she said “No, I’m Jennifer DeRosa, your good friend from high school.” I stood there confused and honestly couldn’t remember her for a moment. It’s like my brain was firing wrong. I finally recovered, and went into a big, how are you? What are you doing here? And so on. But, it was too late. I found out she was still in college and doing an internship at Lincoln. I saw her a few more times when I subbed, but,  I gotta be honest, the friendship never recovered. I mean the trouble is, we really were good friends in high school, so my mistake was a little unforgivable.

Ah, sadly I could go on and on with cases of mistaken identity, but  I bet you are feeling a little sorry for me at this point. I think it’s best if I end it here. If it’s any consolation to you, the woman Maddee, Max and I saw in the parking lot the other day was who I thought it was. She just didn’t recognize me. Go figure.

I Ran (So Far Away)

I am a confessed co-dependent runner. I really like to have a partner to distract me from the run itself. Alas, there are times when I must run alone and for those times I depend on my tunes to keep me going. Over two years ago I created a playlist based on beats per minute. Apparently if you run between a 9 and a 10 minute mile you should be running to songs between 140-160 BPM*. So Mike and I sat around with a metronome and our music library and put together the ultimate running playlist, which I loved. Again, I do most of my runs with a partner and don’t use my ipod shuffle too often, still two+ years of the same old playlist was enough to eventually leave me ready to toss my little ipod shuffle into the road and watch it get run over again and again and again and again.

So this week after much research I created a new playlist that meets all my music requirements:
  1. The aforementioned BPM thing
2. Music I actually know and like (IE No Taylor Swift or Kenny Chestnut)
3.Songs that I wouldn’t quickly tire of

This time I didn’t even have to do the metronome thing as, lo and behold, other people in the world have already done it and have been kind enough to place their songs on the good ol’ net. So, I thought why not share these jazzy beats with you,my loyal followers (and take credit for other people’s hard work), and help you get off and running (if you aren’t already). And of course if you aren’t a runner you might enjoy this playlist for other activities such as cleaning your house, driving in your car, making dinner, hosting a super fun party, dancing in the shower or dancing in the shower while making dinner and hosting a super fun party. Yes!

And while I’m at it I’ll post the tunes on my previous list, which I used to love, but now can’t bear to listen to and will likely poke someone’s eyes out if they ever play them in my presence. Yippee! It is important to note that some of these songs have (gasp) explicit lyrics. Yes, even a clean living girl like myself enjoys hearing a naughty word here and there while running.

Of course I cleverly title all my playlists. This new one is called…wait for it, wait for it… “It’s Gotta Good Beat 2012”
Alone Together –The Strokes
American Music-Violent Femmes (not sure if this is in the BPM range, but it’s a necessity)
Blue Orchid-White Stripes
Change Your Mind-The Killers
Come Dancing-The Kinks
Crazy-Gnarls Barkley
Dog Days Are Over (which incidentally I thought were the Dark Days-oh well)-Florence & The Machine
Dream On –Aerosmith (you didn’t think I’d skip a classic did you?)
Float On-Modest Mouse
Funky Boss-Beastie Boys (I never run without my Boys)
Get on Your Boots-U2
I Melt With You-Modern English
I Ran (so far away)-Flock of Seagulls –Oh yes I did my friends!
It’s On The Rocks-The Donnas
Jacqueline-Franz Ferdinand
King of Rock (this is an exception to the BPM, but still too fun to overlook-put it in the beginning for warm up or end for cool down)
Lady Killer-Flash and the Pan
Like Clockwork-Boomtown Rats
Lump-The Presidents of the United States of America
Nine in the Afternoon-Panic at the Disco
No Rain-Blind Melon-honestly one of my all time faves-judge away
Ooh La- The Kooks
Piece of My Heart (this is slightly over the 160 BPM, but whatevah)
Rehab-Amy Winehouse
Strawberry Swing-Coldplay (sorry Coldplay haters)
Stronger-Kanye West (another not quite 140 BPM but had to throw it in there)
Talk to Ya Later-The Tubes
Veronica-Elvis Costello
We’re Going to Be Friends-White Stripes (again one of my all time favorite tunes)
What I Like About You-The Romantics
  Approx 1:45 mins.

Playlist # 2 "Fall to the Beat" (Named after the Season it was created and not after my well-known grace and agility)
Animals-Nickelback (don’t judge it has a good beat-not for innocent ears please)
Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown-Jim Croce
Beat on The Brat-Ramones
Beautiful Day-U2 The Beautiful People-Marilyn Manson
Born to Run-Bruce Springsteen
Dropping some NYC-Blues Traveler
Everlong-Foo Fighters
Fight For Your Right To Party-Beastie Boys
Hard Day’s Night-Beatles
I Get Around-Beach Boys
I Wanna Be Sedated-Ramones
Longview-Green Day
Looks That Kill-Motley Crue
Love Shack-B-52s
Material Girl- Madonna
Mr. Jones-Counting Crows (I pretty much hate this song, but there it is)
Peggy Sue-Buddy Holly
Pretty Fly-Offspring
Pump It Up-Elvis Costello
The Red-Chevelle
Runaround Sue-Dion
Shake it Up-Cars
Sugar Magnolia-Grateful Dead (one of my happy songs :))
Sweet Leaf-Black Sabbath
25 or 6 to 4- Chicago (least favorite Chicago song ever btw)
Approx 1.5 hours

So there you have it, friends. Enjoy….

*If you consistently run faster than a 9 minute mile I’m too jealous of you to give you playlist advice. I suppose you could google it and I guess I can give you the hint that you want songs around 160 BPM and faster

Say What?

As a general rule human beings aren’t too fond of aging. Well, here’s a tip to staying young my friends, watch your language. Different words and slang can be attached to different generations, right daddy-o? So adopting a few catch phrases from the younger generation could possibly give you some youthful bliss. But before you decide to swap chillax for settle down, you better think long and hard.

Take the 40 something woman from Greenwich, Connecticut who decides to spice up her vocabulary with a phrase like, True dat. To this woman, actually this whole club of women, I say, Sweetheart this is the equivalent of wearing a bright green belly shirt and a pair of Victoria Secret sweatpants with hotty written across the butt. You’re too old. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for you. When confronted with the urge to emphatically agree with someone please, try these phrases- I emphatically agree or if you want to go more casual I hear ya or even an amen sister, if you must. If you are in your twenties and have ever been out of Whitesville, USA true dat to your heart’s content, otherwise, it’s off the table.

I understand the urge to speak like the kids, believe me. I work with a twenty-two year old who has some great little phrases. But they belong to her and her generation. When she says “I like that guy, he’s chill.” It means that guy is relaxed, laid back, good temperament etc. , if I said “That guy is so chill” it means I’m 38 years old, I’m teetering on some kind of middle life crisis and I desperately want you to think I’m cool, but obviously I’m not. And frankly I don’t really like that guy, he’s kind of lazy.

I also notice she says things like that’s kind of sketch…where in my generation we say that’s kind of sketchy or he’s kind of sketchy. I know it’s only the difference of the letter “y”, but apparently that y goes a long way. Again, if you are of the sketch generation it makes perfect sense to be Y free—but if you are my age, dropping the Y is just some delusional anti-aging mechanism, like I can’t drop these love handles I acquired in my thirties, but I can drop the Y in sketchy and sound like a hip chick. (and here’s your problem –a hip chick? What are you your mother?).

Speaking of mothers, somewhere along the line my mom heard a particular word which was a combo of a strong swear word and the word ugly, and got the gist of what it meant, but didn’t realize its exact meaning. She used it a lot when referring to things that were unattractive-cars, outfits, hairdos. Eventually we had to let her in on the details (the deets as my younger friends would say) and she dropped that from her vocabulary like a hot potato. She then buried that hot potato and probably forgot about it until her darling daughter brought it up in this blog—sorry mom.

So you need to beware of using too many words from the younger crowd, but you also don’t want to sound like a granny. So you have to pay attention. There are words that are outdated, but somehow we hang on to them anyway. I am fond of dude, and I hear it now and again, but I think it might be one of those words that people aren’t really saying anymore, yet no one quite has the courage to tell me. Kind of like when no one told me scrunchies were out of style. I’m still bitter, about that and you know who you are, but that’s a complaint for another day. There are regional colloquialisms & oopses, too, my wicked awesome friends, but again, I’ll leave that for another day.

Maybe you are reading this and finding you say all sorts of things that don’t quite suit you, and maybe you want to crawl into a hole right about now. But before you burrow into that fissure of language embarrassment, allow me to let you in on some good news. Words they sometimes make a comeback and sometimes they cross the ages. Take super. When I was in elementary school super was a word of our parents’ generation. Think Leave it to Beaver- “Gee, that’s super, Wally.” It was also a teacher word, reserved for spelling quizzes and history tests. 100%-Super! Super was not a word we would use out on the playground. “Oh gee, Lisa, your jelly shoes are super!” Nope, that would never happen. But now Super is everywhere. It rolls off my tongue with such enthusiasm you’d think I was born to say it. And, here’s the great part, it’s a cross-generational phrase. It’s relatable whether you are 6, 16, or maybe even 60. Your hair is super-cute! Your sister is super-nice! That party was super-fun! You get the picture.

Language is both simple and complicated. It’s a good indication to where you are from, how you were educated, and your place in time in space. Language is fun and words are great to play around with. I think you should take risks and toss a new word into your vocab(ulary) here and there. But remember the rules of moderation my friend. Too many words from the past make you seem like you should be walking around with blue eye shadow and teased hair. Too many words from the younger generation cry out “I’m having a midlife crisis, but can’t afford a sports car.” It’s all about balance my language touting friends. And if you have to look it up in the urban dictionary before using it, it just might be better left for the kids.

Madder than Old King Cole, Meaner than a Junkyard Bug

This just in…that Paul McCartney is slipperier than you thought. Warn the authorities. It’s not just one Man on the Run. It’s a whole band of them. Including the jailer man and Sailor Sam and they were hurting everyone! And still, with all that new information to my ears it’s still just one man on the run. The man was on the run.

And if this new piece of info rocks your world as much as it rocks mine, here are some other things you must know. And -full disclosure- I JUST found this out about a month ago. It appears that Steely Dan is not reassuring a fallen star that Fame will come back to him and they aren’t even clairvoyants issuing a warning of the pain coming back either. Both of these things make sense, but instead Old SD is more concerned with talking to some girl Peg. Peg? That changes everything. I mean Peg is a too-perky girl with a long ponytail a yellow sweater and a poodle skirt. Not some favorite foreign movie buff. I like the song better when I sing it in the shower, Pain it will come back to you. Or the alternative version Fame it will come back to you. Not that I sing it all that much.

I understand the idea of singing of a woman, but you usually picture the woman to be sultry, seductive, not goody-two shoes Peg! Maybe Steely Dan should take a lesson from Nirvana. Anastasia, now there’s a temptress. When the lights down it’s less dangerous, here we are now, Anastasia. Sure sometimes she gets a little out of control-- Acting stupid and outrageous, here we are now Anastasiaaaa! But still that’s a woman worth writing a song about.

And some women just leave a man speechless, like in the Stones song:
I’m so uh-uh-uh; I’m so uh-uh-uh; I’m so uh-uh-uh and she’s so cold! I’m a burning bike, I’m a burning fire, I’m a bleeding volcano. I’m so uh-uh-uh I’m so uh-uh-uh and she’s so cold. I tried rewinding her, I tried reminding her….

And of course, songs aren’t always about women, sometimes they’re about nature. Like the Who’s big hit:

Blue water, blue, blue, blue blue. Blue water , Blue blue, blue, blue. Now tell me who are you? Now tell me who are you? (then apparently the water replies) Blue wa, blue wa, blue wa, blue wa. Blue wa, blue wa. Blue wa. Blue water. Blue, blue, blue, blue.

And sometimes songs are about cute fuzzy, woodland creatures. Like when Madison was three she sang that famous Ramones song again and again, the one about the frisky Easter Bunny playing his favorite sport:

Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit with a baseball bat! Oh yeah, oh yeah oh oh.

Bottom line, there’s a song out there for everyone and if you can’t really find something that suits you, just change the words (along with the artists intentions) and sing your heart out. But be careful, some people take these things pretty seriously. So always look over your shoulder, watch your back and stay clear of punk rock rabbits carrying aluminum bats.

The Kind of Day...

It is a beautiful snow covered day in the Pacific Northwest. Everything is white, from lawns to sidewalks to trees to rooftops. It’s the kind of day that makes romantics swoon- cold snow outside, warm fire inside. This is the perfect day for you to sit quietly in the kitchen, take a small, dulling pencil to an unlined piece of paper and just write. From time to time you will be glancing out the windows, inspired by the tranquil snowscape.

It’s the kind of day that if you didn’t have report cards due in less than a week, and you didn’t have to share your computer with your husband, and you didn’t have the world’s fattest starving cats mewing constantly at your feet, and you didn’t have children with mini-icicles hanging from their eyelashes trudging snow through your house in desperate search of hot cocoa, then it’s the kind of day that you could decide to become a serious writer.

It’s the kind of day that you will reflect upon later as you sit on the couch of the Today show with a tiny microphone tucked into the lapel of your new suit. That snowy Thursday in 2012 when you were so taken by the beauty of the world and the stillness of your soul that you tossed aside all else and wrote. You will talk about this very day while giving commencement addresses at certain fine colleges. You will recall the background whirr of laughing children as they soared down the sledding ramp your husband built before he threw out his back. And you will give a little chuckle at the memory, because his back will be fine at that point and you will only remember how funny he looked on the ground in the snow.

Later in your memoirs you will refer to this very snowy day. The day you decided to stop being a dreamer and instead be a writer. The day you glanced out and saw snow weighing down the limbs of the evergreens, the slushy lake, the sound of frozen rain hitting your rooftop and then the silence as the rain turned back to snow. You will remember your hands wrapped around a mug of something warm, you might remember it as creamy hot chocolate, but it was really just a mug of steaming tea.

It is the kind of day that you serve homemade cinnamon rolls to your children and their friends as they take yet another break from sledding. It’s the kind of day that if you hadn’t been on a diet, you, too, would indulge in a warm homemade cinnamon treat. No, wait, it’s the kind of day that you shrug your shoulders and forgive yourself the indiscretion, enjoying the sweet taste of cream cheese frosting and warm cinnamon on your tongue.

It’s the kind of day that you need to move from room to room to room to find a quiet place to write. And as you move, with your writer’s eye you notice laundry that needs to be folded, bags that need to be unpacked, toys and shoes that need to be put away, lists that need to be crossed off. You allow yourself a few more minutes to write. Your pencil is getting duller, your paper is full of words, scratches, scribbles, and is that a sketch of a tree?

It’s the kind of day that you realize you are not a professional writer; that your commas are all wrong and you dislike flowery descriptions almost as much as you dislike birthday cards that rhyme. You remind yourself that you think it’s cliché when writers write about writing, but then you forgive yourself because you are writing about snow days after all. It’s exactly the kind of day that you will find yourself laboring over report cards, eating a little too much of everything, tediously folding laundry, giving hugs after minor sledding crashes and maybe sneaking in a run down that sled ramp if you can. It’s the kind of day that you will find yourself, eventually, snuggled on the couch reading a book written by someone more talented than you. But your heart still feels happy and your life still feels full. It’s just that kind of day.