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.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
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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