I know a good slice of pizza or a quality piece of chocolate when I taste it. I have a sensitive palate for water, turning my nose up at all sorts of bottled and tap without batting an eye. My taste buds can differentiate between a delicious piece of cheesecake or something whipped together by the infamous Sara Lee. I hate freezer burn and will turn away a lavish ice cream sundae if said ice cream is suspected of the burn. Pink chicken makes me nauseous, shiny deli roast beef makes me cry, mayonnaise is my Darth Vader. When it comes to steak I am all about fillet mignon. But we all have our blind spots. Wine is mine.
Don’t misunderstand, I like wine. I like it a lot. I like white wine. I like fruity, white wine and I like not so fruity white wine. I’m not a big red wine drinker, but will knock some back in a pinch. I just don’t quite understand the wine experience. I don’t really care if the grapes were grown in Spain, France, Washington, California, or on Uncle Pete’s farm in Topeka. I can’t taste accents of pear, apple or boysenberry in my wine. I can’t tell if my wine tastes earthy, buttery, dry or wet. I guess I haven’t built my palate yet. (Don’t worry that was an accidental rhyme and will not be followed by some sort of Seusslike monologue-I do love the good Dr. Seuss though, so maybe next time).
The problem of course is that wine is one of those things that as an adult you should know a thing or two about. Well, okay, I know a thing or two. I know that Mad Dog 20/20, despite its extensive flavor selection and undying popularity in 11th grade, is not really a fine wine. Apparently it’s not a wine at all. I know that the Riunite that my Ohio Aunties used to drink out of a jug, well not really out of the jug-they poured it into glasses-is not a great hostess gift in 49 of the 50 states. I know that if you find a bottle of wine in a doorway in your childhood apartment building, even if the cap is still on and the paper bag is still in nice condition, it’s probably not made from the world’s highest quality fruit. And, for some reason, I know that in 2003 the Merlot grape crops were particularly good, but I have no idea why I know that, or in what region that was true, or if someone at the wine shop was just pulling my leg. Those people in the wine community do have quite a sense of humor.
All is not hopeless though. I have a handful of friends who know as much about wine as I know about Hanna Barbera characters. (Wait dear reader, you didn’t know this about me? Well trust me; from Captain Caveman to Atom Ant to Squiddly Diddly, I’m all over that HB trivia). So from my friends I have learned some basics. Like don’t leave your wine bottle open (even with a cork or bottle stopper) in your fridge for a lengthy amount of time. What you consider a lengthy amount of time is of course, subjective. For instance for me four weeks is a long time to have a bottle of wine in the fridge, to my friend Micki four days is a sin. And apparently you shouldn’t save any red at all. An open bottle of red must be finished that very evening, even if it means Micki and Eddy are at your house until THREE AY EM finishing off the bottle! (Wait this advice is becoming suspect…hmm). From Susan I know that some wine needs to breathe, whatever that means. And she also has taught me that most people like Syrah and though expensive, it’s usually a sure thing. Or did she say most people don’t like Syrah? Or did she say most people don’t like Sarah, her old high school cheerleading rival? Yeah maybe I am confusing wine with whine, never mind that advice. From my guy friends in college (who we affectionately nicknamed “The Slobs”) I learned that the much beloved White Zinfandel has certain aphrodisiac powers that are quite strong, yet short lasting, leaving even the prettiest of girls looking disheveled and, frankly, ashamed as they come out of their wine coma, nothing between them and The Slobs but an empty gallon of White Zin. Okay perhaps, The Slobs are not in the same category as Susan and Micki. Still good advice is good advice.
Recently I added to my list of advisers my coworker Gail. Now a fourth-sixth grade teacher, Gail used to own a wine shop for seven years. She’s somewhat of a connoisseur. She has written articles for wine magazines, knows the taste and temperature distinction in grapes in the California wine country and knows the difference between Yellow Tail and well something fancier than Yellow Tail. (yes, my not-so-wine-savvy-friends there is something fancier than Australia’s finest out there). I had to call Gail the other day as I was heading into the wine shop (a.k.a the wine aisle at Albertson’s) to buy a bottle to bring to Micki’s for dinner. This is risky, bringing a bottle of wine to someone’s house, especially someone who knows something about wine. Gail was helpful, though a bit rude as she put me on hold so she could talk to her pet squirrel about his dinner; so as she was asking her squirrel questions like do you prefer something oaky or fruity, I was looking at the cute labels on wine bottles. I guess you could say I was distracted as there are so many choices out there. Maybe I stopped listening to Gail. I settled on Cupcake Chardonnay (sassy label) and some bottle of red with a super cute kangaroo on it. I am not at liberty to say the brand as Gail might be reading this blog and could choose to throw her hands up and never advise me again. Let’s just say that the kangaroo is the logo for a certain mass-marketed super sweet Australian brand. It’s like the Hershey’s of chocolate or the Domino’s of pizza. It was a bad choice, as they don’t even grow grapes* in Australia, but dang, it said it was imported!
At this point you might be asking, What does this blog really mean? Well I have no idea. You can take it to mean that I am not so cultured when it comes to wine, or you can take it to mean that I am very cultured when it comes to L’Eau (French for water), cheesecake and pizza. But I think you should take it to mean that you can show up at my door with either Kung Fu Girl Riesling or Sauvignon Blanc and either way I’ll let you in, just be sure to leave the shiny roast beef at home.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Shaky Voice
First of all let me start this blog with a good old fashioned apology! I have been so wrapped up in all that is September (back to school for me, for Madison and Max and now for Mike, too) that I only managed to squeak out one blog in the past month! I love blogging, so it pained me not to be here typing away. I have always enjoyed writing--perhaps even more than I enjoy talking. Well, that might be a stretch; after all I do love to gab, to converse, to shoot the breeze. Most people know this about me, so it usually come as a surprise when I tell them my number one fear--public speaking.
Okay, perhaps it's my number 15 fear, the first fourteen would have to do with gruesome death or end-of-the-world scenarios, you know, nothing you want to read about here. Let's save that for the big wigs like Stephen King and the Brothers Grimm. Public speaking really plagues me, yet, it is something I long to be good at. I can visualize myself standing in front of a crowd of thousands telling stories off the top of my head-no index cards or loose leaf paper, strutting naturally across the stage, using big words and knowing what they actually mean. I look out at the crowd and they hang on my every word. I open the lecture to questions and I answer everything with an intelligent, clear and thoughtful response. That's the fantasy. Let's just say I'm not there yet.
We all have our fears, but let's be honest, some fears are easier to avoid than others. Let's say you are afraid of sharks, well maybe you stay out of the the Great Barrier Reef. If it's dark you fear, sleep with a night light. Or let's say it's heights that make your stomach turn, then you choose not to scale the Eiffel Tower. But there are some things you just can't avoid, if you fear spiders, strangers or Starbucks, they're every where and you're kinda screwed. The same can be said for public speaking. Though I am not expected to give a speech on a daily basis there are certain times each school year when I am required to speak to a crowd and sound knowledgeable, while I'm at it.
Okay, at this point you might suggest that I am doing a form of public speaking every day in front of my students, but to me that feels different. I can't explain why, but I am totally comfortable talking to children in large or small groups. In my experience they make a less intimidating audience, though I am sure there are people that would argue the opposite. Like I said, as a teacher, there are occasions when I must give a parent education night or a presentation to fellow staff members. In recent years I have been told by coworkers that they can't even tell that I am nervous. That's because I have learned to cover some of my more obvious flaws.
Different people react to fear in different ways. When I am nervous I speak loudly and my voice quivers.I get very cold and physically shaky. I always take an extra sweatshirt with me when I am flying across the country (yep, I also have a fear of flying-ready to sign me up for therapy yet?) because I know I am going to be freezing for the whole flight. The cold is sometimes accompanied by sweat, which is in my opinion ridiculous, but it happens. The worst part for me, the part that is horribly embarrassing is the physical shaking. When I was in fifth grade I did a huge research project on Betsy Ross. I really got into the role, had a costume, a very well-written report and was excited to present to my class. I could not tell you a single thing that was in that report, but I can tell you that I quivered so much that the only thing my classmates could hear was the sound of shaking paper. If you think I am exaggerating, think again. I saw my fifth grade teacher about ten years ago and she said "Remember that time you did the report on Betsy Ross and you stood there shaking like a leaf, I felt so bad for you!" Remember it? I've repeated it over and over again through they years! In high school I gave speeches during election time to run for class office. I always won, just going to show you that teenagers can be some of the most sympathetic people on earth. Even in college when I was presenting a project on how to make a Japanese kite out of paper, I shook so hard that my friends in my class couldn't make eye contact with me for a week! So now when I give a presentation I do any thing I possibly can to avoid holding things. I memorize what I will say, I call on assistants to help with visuals and I involve my audience whenever possible! It's a clever technique that works much of the time, but not always.
If those things aren't bad enough, occasionally, instead of breaking into a nervous sweat, I get the giggles. And by giggles I mean it starts with a small snicker and ends with an inappropriate and uncontrollable cacophony of laughter. This can also be traced back to childhood. One time in a Hanukkah play the boy speaking before me accidentally said "All the pee-pee" instead of "All the people" I laughed so hard that I thought I was going to pee-pee myself all over the stage. I couldn't recover and in my mind the play was ruined. In seventh grade I was selected to read a Christmas poem with my friends Jessica and Erika, the auditorium was full of parents, grandparents, teachers and students. I managed to get the giggles somehow and the three of us never got through our poem. They say laughter is contagious which was very unfortunate for Jessica and Erika. We were pulled off stage by a very angry teacher. If only she knew I wasn't being disrespectful, just nervous. I've even gotten the giggles at a funeral. Maybe two funerals. It's not a good thing to have happen.
Like I said in the first paragraph September is always a busy month. This month I had to do both a parent night and a presentation for the school board. I have been doing the September parent night in some form for so long that I almost wasn't nervous, but about fifteen minutes before we started I actually began thinking, "I'm not nervous, that's so weird. It's so crazy that I'm not cold, or shaky, or giggly. I think I might be over my fear. After all my coworkers say I always look confident." Umm yeah, you can imagine how I talked myself from calm to frantic in under fifteen minutes. It wasn't my best night. This past Wednesday was the presentation for the school board members. For some reason I gave a presentation that required me to use some hands-on materials. One was very small and I had to hold it up for the board members to see. They probably couldn't see it anyway as my hand was shaking too hard to make out what I was holding.
I tell my students that the more you practice something the better you become. We've all said that to our children because 99% of the time it's true. (One percent of the time you might practice and practice something, like let's say the clarinet and still your band teacher gently suggests that you find a different hobby-I know, I know, t-h-e-r-a-p-y). So yes, I know to be a better speaker I need to get up there in front of the crowds more often. If I was really ambitious, I'd look for public speaking opportunities. But, I'm just not there yet. For now, if I am going to get up on stage to sweat, giggle and shake, I'd like to do it in a dance club in Paris after a rewarding day of scaling the Eiffel Tower.
Okay, perhaps it's my number 15 fear, the first fourteen would have to do with gruesome death or end-of-the-world scenarios, you know, nothing you want to read about here. Let's save that for the big wigs like Stephen King and the Brothers Grimm. Public speaking really plagues me, yet, it is something I long to be good at. I can visualize myself standing in front of a crowd of thousands telling stories off the top of my head-no index cards or loose leaf paper, strutting naturally across the stage, using big words and knowing what they actually mean. I look out at the crowd and they hang on my every word. I open the lecture to questions and I answer everything with an intelligent, clear and thoughtful response. That's the fantasy. Let's just say I'm not there yet.
We all have our fears, but let's be honest, some fears are easier to avoid than others. Let's say you are afraid of sharks, well maybe you stay out of the the Great Barrier Reef. If it's dark you fear, sleep with a night light. Or let's say it's heights that make your stomach turn, then you choose not to scale the Eiffel Tower. But there are some things you just can't avoid, if you fear spiders, strangers or Starbucks, they're every where and you're kinda screwed. The same can be said for public speaking. Though I am not expected to give a speech on a daily basis there are certain times each school year when I am required to speak to a crowd and sound knowledgeable, while I'm at it.
Okay, at this point you might suggest that I am doing a form of public speaking every day in front of my students, but to me that feels different. I can't explain why, but I am totally comfortable talking to children in large or small groups. In my experience they make a less intimidating audience, though I am sure there are people that would argue the opposite. Like I said, as a teacher, there are occasions when I must give a parent education night or a presentation to fellow staff members. In recent years I have been told by coworkers that they can't even tell that I am nervous. That's because I have learned to cover some of my more obvious flaws.
Different people react to fear in different ways. When I am nervous I speak loudly and my voice quivers.I get very cold and physically shaky. I always take an extra sweatshirt with me when I am flying across the country (yep, I also have a fear of flying-ready to sign me up for therapy yet?) because I know I am going to be freezing for the whole flight. The cold is sometimes accompanied by sweat, which is in my opinion ridiculous, but it happens. The worst part for me, the part that is horribly embarrassing is the physical shaking. When I was in fifth grade I did a huge research project on Betsy Ross. I really got into the role, had a costume, a very well-written report and was excited to present to my class. I could not tell you a single thing that was in that report, but I can tell you that I quivered so much that the only thing my classmates could hear was the sound of shaking paper. If you think I am exaggerating, think again. I saw my fifth grade teacher about ten years ago and she said "Remember that time you did the report on Betsy Ross and you stood there shaking like a leaf, I felt so bad for you!" Remember it? I've repeated it over and over again through they years! In high school I gave speeches during election time to run for class office. I always won, just going to show you that teenagers can be some of the most sympathetic people on earth. Even in college when I was presenting a project on how to make a Japanese kite out of paper, I shook so hard that my friends in my class couldn't make eye contact with me for a week! So now when I give a presentation I do any thing I possibly can to avoid holding things. I memorize what I will say, I call on assistants to help with visuals and I involve my audience whenever possible! It's a clever technique that works much of the time, but not always.
If those things aren't bad enough, occasionally, instead of breaking into a nervous sweat, I get the giggles. And by giggles I mean it starts with a small snicker and ends with an inappropriate and uncontrollable cacophony of laughter. This can also be traced back to childhood. One time in a Hanukkah play the boy speaking before me accidentally said "All the pee-pee" instead of "All the people" I laughed so hard that I thought I was going to pee-pee myself all over the stage. I couldn't recover and in my mind the play was ruined. In seventh grade I was selected to read a Christmas poem with my friends Jessica and Erika, the auditorium was full of parents, grandparents, teachers and students. I managed to get the giggles somehow and the three of us never got through our poem. They say laughter is contagious which was very unfortunate for Jessica and Erika. We were pulled off stage by a very angry teacher. If only she knew I wasn't being disrespectful, just nervous. I've even gotten the giggles at a funeral. Maybe two funerals. It's not a good thing to have happen.
Like I said in the first paragraph September is always a busy month. This month I had to do both a parent night and a presentation for the school board. I have been doing the September parent night in some form for so long that I almost wasn't nervous, but about fifteen minutes before we started I actually began thinking, "I'm not nervous, that's so weird. It's so crazy that I'm not cold, or shaky, or giggly. I think I might be over my fear. After all my coworkers say I always look confident." Umm yeah, you can imagine how I talked myself from calm to frantic in under fifteen minutes. It wasn't my best night. This past Wednesday was the presentation for the school board members. For some reason I gave a presentation that required me to use some hands-on materials. One was very small and I had to hold it up for the board members to see. They probably couldn't see it anyway as my hand was shaking too hard to make out what I was holding.
I tell my students that the more you practice something the better you become. We've all said that to our children because 99% of the time it's true. (One percent of the time you might practice and practice something, like let's say the clarinet and still your band teacher gently suggests that you find a different hobby-I know, I know, t-h-e-r-a-p-y). So yes, I know to be a better speaker I need to get up there in front of the crowds more often. If I was really ambitious, I'd look for public speaking opportunities. But, I'm just not there yet. For now, if I am going to get up on stage to sweat, giggle and shake, I'd like to do it in a dance club in Paris after a rewarding day of scaling the Eiffel Tower.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
This One's On Me
I thought this world was only big enough for one of me, but apparently someone out there in New Haven Connecticut begged to differ. When you are as fantastic, popular and lovable as I am, sometimes your fans go a little over the top and start to dress like you, talk like you, listen to the same music as you and change their entire belief system to be more like you. I don't know why I am so surprised that someone else out there wants to be me. I myself have thought it wouldn't be so bad to be more like Madonna, Oprah or the lead singer of the Flock of Seagulls. I mean look, we celebs are all in the same boat--A following so devoted to us that they unknowingly cross the line from benign fan to super-devoted and somewhat psychotic Number One Fan, just like that. Of course my NOF (number one fan) was so dedicated that he or she decided dressing/talking/walking like me wouldn't really be a fitting tribute, so instead NOF decided to become me via my social security number. Now there's some savvy, right? I mean why go with the superficial stuff when you can get to the heart of someone's finances instead. Wait, hold on, oh gosh, I was just notified by my fact checkers here at the Squeaky Voice that said person did not borrow my social security number out of his or her desire to be Aimee, but instead stole it, just to wrack up a $440 phone bill and not pay it! I don't know how this could be. This is a preposterous accusation! Do you think there are people out there who would really just steal from someone else like that?
Wow, I feel kind of dumb here. Well I guess no harm no foul right? I mean what's $440 amongst friends anyway. Oh, hold on again, hmmm, it seems my staff here at the old SV want to make it clear to me that this person was neither fan nor friend. Wow, way to knock a girl when she's already down, huh? I say friend, you say identity thief, I say fan, you say felon. Tomatoes/Tomahtoes people, really.
Well let's look at this level-headedly, shall we? Perhaps this person really needed to make $440 worth of phone calls and just plain couldn't afford it. Maybe she has a boyfriend living someplace exotic like Minneapolis. Maybe this boyfriend is out there serving our country, sure he's serving Artificial Apple Pie at Minnie's Apple-Less diner, but still that counts. Maybe she needs to call him constantly out of fear that someone else will win over his heart in that City of Sin and Temptation. I can see her sitting on the lawn of Yale University, hugging his photo and letting her imagination get the best of her. Why, of course she should call him! What's that? She could get a plane ticket and motel room for less than $440 and actually go see Bobby Joe in Minneapolis? Okay then, that's probably just the wrong scenario.
Maybe it's not a she at all. Maybe it's a male, yes and maybe he has a sick dog, sure that's it. And the dog has a rare disease and there are only a handful of vets in the entire country that can treat said disease. And for some reason these special vets also moonlight as spies, so they have to carry on their practice in secret locations and are very hard to contact. There's a password involved and long story short he has to call around a lot to try to make contact. I mean call after call and being on hold for hours on end well that could be worth $440 in a heartbeat, right? Or maybe it's a QVC addiction or a simple 900 number fetish, we all know from experience that, though certainly worth it, these could be costly calls, agreed?
Or maybe, really the most likely scenario, is that the person has a similar name, date and social. Maybe she was just opening her own phone account but accidentally wrote the wrong info. This seems reasonable, like instead of Aimee Lynne Allen the person is Jamie Wynn Fallon and instead of being born on 8/4/73 she was born on 4/8/37 and maybe instead of her social security number being....oh gosh, just informed by my chief of staff not to put my social on this blog. My crew here at the Squeaky Voice is so untrusting!!
Okay, I guess I have to be a bit more realistic. I guess there might be a handful of bad guys out there willing to steal someone's social and use it to their benefit. Still, I liked it better when it was all about their adoration of me, rather than their desire to make long distance calls! I need a moment to collect myself and rework my blog here. After all, I thought this was going to be a tribute to my Number one Fan, but I guess that's off. It's too bad really especially since I spent my entire morning putting together over two dozen fan club packets. They contain all the traditional swag, too. A T-shirt, an 8X10 glossy photograph, a copy of my first interview with Tiger Beat Magazine and of course a notarized and autographed copy of my birth certificate!
I guess I'll just have to put those aside for another day. Well, I guess I'm going to log off so I can go sit and sulk somewhere. Sometimes it's tough to be Aimee Allen, unless of course, there's another Aimee Allen out there paying your bills for you.
Wow, I feel kind of dumb here. Well I guess no harm no foul right? I mean what's $440 amongst friends anyway. Oh, hold on again, hmmm, it seems my staff here at the old SV want to make it clear to me that this person was neither fan nor friend. Wow, way to knock a girl when she's already down, huh? I say friend, you say identity thief, I say fan, you say felon. Tomatoes/Tomahtoes people, really.
Well let's look at this level-headedly, shall we? Perhaps this person really needed to make $440 worth of phone calls and just plain couldn't afford it. Maybe she has a boyfriend living someplace exotic like Minneapolis. Maybe this boyfriend is out there serving our country, sure he's serving Artificial Apple Pie at Minnie's Apple-Less diner, but still that counts. Maybe she needs to call him constantly out of fear that someone else will win over his heart in that City of Sin and Temptation. I can see her sitting on the lawn of Yale University, hugging his photo and letting her imagination get the best of her. Why, of course she should call him! What's that? She could get a plane ticket and motel room for less than $440 and actually go see Bobby Joe in Minneapolis? Okay then, that's probably just the wrong scenario.
Maybe it's not a she at all. Maybe it's a male, yes and maybe he has a sick dog, sure that's it. And the dog has a rare disease and there are only a handful of vets in the entire country that can treat said disease. And for some reason these special vets also moonlight as spies, so they have to carry on their practice in secret locations and are very hard to contact. There's a password involved and long story short he has to call around a lot to try to make contact. I mean call after call and being on hold for hours on end well that could be worth $440 in a heartbeat, right? Or maybe it's a QVC addiction or a simple 900 number fetish, we all know from experience that, though certainly worth it, these could be costly calls, agreed?
Or maybe, really the most likely scenario, is that the person has a similar name, date and social. Maybe she was just opening her own phone account but accidentally wrote the wrong info. This seems reasonable, like instead of Aimee Lynne Allen the person is Jamie Wynn Fallon and instead of being born on 8/4/73 she was born on 4/8/37 and maybe instead of her social security number being....oh gosh, just informed by my chief of staff not to put my social on this blog. My crew here at the Squeaky Voice is so untrusting!!
Okay, I guess I have to be a bit more realistic. I guess there might be a handful of bad guys out there willing to steal someone's social and use it to their benefit. Still, I liked it better when it was all about their adoration of me, rather than their desire to make long distance calls! I need a moment to collect myself and rework my blog here. After all, I thought this was going to be a tribute to my Number one Fan, but I guess that's off. It's too bad really especially since I spent my entire morning putting together over two dozen fan club packets. They contain all the traditional swag, too. A T-shirt, an 8X10 glossy photograph, a copy of my first interview with Tiger Beat Magazine and of course a notarized and autographed copy of my birth certificate!
I guess I'll just have to put those aside for another day. Well, I guess I'm going to log off so I can go sit and sulk somewhere. Sometimes it's tough to be Aimee Allen, unless of course, there's another Aimee Allen out there paying your bills for you.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
What a Long, Strange Trip it's Been....
In the game of friendship the number one rule is to never poke fun at your friend’s children. Don’t joke about them, don’t make judging comments about them and certainly, by all means, don’t blog about them! But as Moses said when he dropped commandments 11-20, “sometimes rules are made to be broken.” So it is with permission and with a hearty measure of love that I write the following about a four-legged child I know…some names have been changed to protect the innocent-ish.
Today I went for a run with a group of friends. My good friend Nikki brought her dog Scooper with her. After our run and a dose of caffeine, I offered to take Scooper home with me as he loves to play with my dog, Styx. Okay, you got me, my dog’s name is Six, you figured that out already, but you have no idea who Nikki and Scooper are, so there…
Let’s have a moment of background info for those of you who don’t know Scooper (and since I have cleverly disguised his identity even those of you who know him, will never recognize him here). Nikki and her husband, Freddy got Scooper at the Humane Society a few years ago. A full-bred Walker Coon Hound, Scooper stole their heart with his combination of wholesome good looks, droopy brown eyes and saliva- filled jowls. No one knows what life was like for Scooper before that day, but it is safe to guess he was confined in some way and treated poorly. As a result he doesn’t like small spaces. Also, though I’m not a therapist I feel strongly that he has Sensory Integration Disorder, which is manifested in his phobia of loud noises and OCD which is manifested in his persistence to stick to one routine and his fastidious sorting of M&Ms by color (oh wait, the M&Ms thing is someone else I know).
So, why on Earth did I decide that it would be a good idea to drive almost 20 miles with such a large animal in my Prius? Especially since once, two years ago, I drove with him in my Prius, and that ride had to be followed up with some heavy duty tranquilizers-not for Scooper, but for me. I believe my offer this morning was a combination of love, amnesia and that annoying optimism that I am always spewing. Micki, ah, I mean Nikki, was a little hesitant, but I convinced her that I could handle a ride with Scooper. I know that he loves to have the windows down and the weather was perfect for that. I would remind him to stay in the backseat and it was only a twenty-five minute ride anyway, so what could go wrong?
I started with all four windows down, but he was attracted to the driver-side window, of course, which meant that he stood directly behind me (FYI Scooper never, ever sits for a car ride). I thought, Okay this is fine, as I braced myself to be drooled on, but instead of drool on my head, I felt a tightness around my neck as if being strangled by something. You see, in lieu of sticking his head over mine and out my window, he decided to rest his head on the shoulder strap of my seat belt and work his way out the window that way. The weight of his head caused the strap to constrict around my neck. Once I regained consciousness I closed the front windows, leaving the back for Scooper’s enjoyment.
As I drove, Scooper moved from side to side across the backseat of my tiny Prius, crying and panting the entire time. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of his handsome self in my rearview mirror and stop pacing, put his feet on the console between the driver seat and the passenger seat and just stare. It was probably in one of these moments that he realized there was nothing blocking his access to the passenger seat. This is when he added hopping into the front as part of his constant dance. So now he would move from left to right in the back and then bound onto the front seat.
Unfortunately for our sensory-sensitive friend, our passenger seat has a weight sensor so every time he landed on the seat a tiny alarm would sound reminding him to put on his seat belt. Well, this alarm scared him each and every time. It would beep, beep and he would startle and leap into the backseat crying. Then he’d try it again, adding a little bit of oomph to his bounce each time. Finally he jumped with such force into the front seat that he missed and hit his face on the front dash before falling in a crumpled ball to the floor. Well, his front half was crumpled his back legs were still on the seat as he is too big to fall down entirely.
At this point, which is about 2 miles into my ride, he decided to spend more and more time on the console, at first I thought it was a decision to avoid the seat belt sensor gods, but really it was just another step in perfecting his routine. Well, as I said Scooper is a Walker Coon Hound, which means he is very tall. His position on the console allowed him to unwittingly turn on all the overhead lights in the front seat with his head, while turning the back seat lights on with his butt. We also have this nifty little compartment above our dash that holds our sunglasses. You just need to tap it and the holder drops down allowing easy access to your shades. Unfortunately for Scooper, each time he got too close he would hit the compartment, the holder would drop down, bump him on the head and scare him to death, sending him cowering into the backseat. Once in the back he would pace left, right-sticking his head out of each window, jump up front, set off the seatbelt alarm, fly back, pace once more and then position himself on the console again. I don’t think Scooper is dumb, I just think his OCD prevents him from stopping this schedule once he has started.
Still, I had high hopes that when I hit the highway the allure of the open road would keep him in the backseat with his head out the window. He did like to stick his head out for a longer duration, but he also liked to come visit me via his regular routine. At one point I made the mistake of actually saying something out loud, I think it was a simple “Seriously, Scooper?” Simple to me, but to him it was an invitation to get even closer. At this point our Clifford-sized friend defied the laws of nature by getting all fours onto the console while turning in circles. This was unfortunate for me, as all I could see in front of me was tail (and not the kind you would see if you were cruising the beach). I swatted at his tail so he turned and put a paw on the wheel, scaring me senseless and crushing my ego. Even the dog drives better than I do! His paw was there for maybe a second and he never tried that move again, but his tail was back a few times, and frankly his tongue got pretty close, too.
About five miles from home, for no apparent reason Scooper went into the backseat, stuck his head out the window and stood quietly for at least 3 minutes, which to me seemed like an eternity. Just as I exhaled thinking that he was finally settled, I heard some heavy panting coming from my lower left. I looked and saw Scooper trying to wedge his head between my seat and the driver side door. I was really afraid that he was going to get stuck there, but I didn’t know how to help him. Would I have to call the fire department and have them remove the entire left side of my door? Whether it was on his own accord, or whether it was divine intervention, I’ll never know, but just as I thought he was really stuck, Scooper pulled his head out and went back to pacing.
When we pulled into my neighborhood he must have recognized the area because he started quietly yipping with excitement. By the time we were two houses away from home he was just three barks shy of a full-fledged hound-dog-howl. Before I could even shut the car off, my children and my dog were at my door. “We knew it! We thought we heard Scooper!” They let Scooper out of the car,opened the gate to our yard and they were all off and running.
Sure it was a rough ride, but it was worth seeing two happy kids and two carefree dogs. Really, at this point, I’ve almost forgotten about the entire incident. I only hope the next time I offer to take him in my Prius, Nikki will gently, but firmly slap some sense into me or at least give me a couple of tranquilizers for the road.
Today I went for a run with a group of friends. My good friend Nikki brought her dog Scooper with her. After our run and a dose of caffeine, I offered to take Scooper home with me as he loves to play with my dog, Styx. Okay, you got me, my dog’s name is Six, you figured that out already, but you have no idea who Nikki and Scooper are, so there…
Let’s have a moment of background info for those of you who don’t know Scooper (and since I have cleverly disguised his identity even those of you who know him, will never recognize him here). Nikki and her husband, Freddy got Scooper at the Humane Society a few years ago. A full-bred Walker Coon Hound, Scooper stole their heart with his combination of wholesome good looks, droopy brown eyes and saliva- filled jowls. No one knows what life was like for Scooper before that day, but it is safe to guess he was confined in some way and treated poorly. As a result he doesn’t like small spaces. Also, though I’m not a therapist I feel strongly that he has Sensory Integration Disorder, which is manifested in his phobia of loud noises and OCD which is manifested in his persistence to stick to one routine and his fastidious sorting of M&Ms by color (oh wait, the M&Ms thing is someone else I know).
So, why on Earth did I decide that it would be a good idea to drive almost 20 miles with such a large animal in my Prius? Especially since once, two years ago, I drove with him in my Prius, and that ride had to be followed up with some heavy duty tranquilizers-not for Scooper, but for me. I believe my offer this morning was a combination of love, amnesia and that annoying optimism that I am always spewing. Micki, ah, I mean Nikki, was a little hesitant, but I convinced her that I could handle a ride with Scooper. I know that he loves to have the windows down and the weather was perfect for that. I would remind him to stay in the backseat and it was only a twenty-five minute ride anyway, so what could go wrong?
I started with all four windows down, but he was attracted to the driver-side window, of course, which meant that he stood directly behind me (FYI Scooper never, ever sits for a car ride). I thought, Okay this is fine, as I braced myself to be drooled on, but instead of drool on my head, I felt a tightness around my neck as if being strangled by something. You see, in lieu of sticking his head over mine and out my window, he decided to rest his head on the shoulder strap of my seat belt and work his way out the window that way. The weight of his head caused the strap to constrict around my neck. Once I regained consciousness I closed the front windows, leaving the back for Scooper’s enjoyment.
As I drove, Scooper moved from side to side across the backseat of my tiny Prius, crying and panting the entire time. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of his handsome self in my rearview mirror and stop pacing, put his feet on the console between the driver seat and the passenger seat and just stare. It was probably in one of these moments that he realized there was nothing blocking his access to the passenger seat. This is when he added hopping into the front as part of his constant dance. So now he would move from left to right in the back and then bound onto the front seat.
Unfortunately for our sensory-sensitive friend, our passenger seat has a weight sensor so every time he landed on the seat a tiny alarm would sound reminding him to put on his seat belt. Well, this alarm scared him each and every time. It would beep, beep and he would startle and leap into the backseat crying. Then he’d try it again, adding a little bit of oomph to his bounce each time. Finally he jumped with such force into the front seat that he missed and hit his face on the front dash before falling in a crumpled ball to the floor. Well, his front half was crumpled his back legs were still on the seat as he is too big to fall down entirely.
At this point, which is about 2 miles into my ride, he decided to spend more and more time on the console, at first I thought it was a decision to avoid the seat belt sensor gods, but really it was just another step in perfecting his routine. Well, as I said Scooper is a Walker Coon Hound, which means he is very tall. His position on the console allowed him to unwittingly turn on all the overhead lights in the front seat with his head, while turning the back seat lights on with his butt. We also have this nifty little compartment above our dash that holds our sunglasses. You just need to tap it and the holder drops down allowing easy access to your shades. Unfortunately for Scooper, each time he got too close he would hit the compartment, the holder would drop down, bump him on the head and scare him to death, sending him cowering into the backseat. Once in the back he would pace left, right-sticking his head out of each window, jump up front, set off the seatbelt alarm, fly back, pace once more and then position himself on the console again. I don’t think Scooper is dumb, I just think his OCD prevents him from stopping this schedule once he has started.
Still, I had high hopes that when I hit the highway the allure of the open road would keep him in the backseat with his head out the window. He did like to stick his head out for a longer duration, but he also liked to come visit me via his regular routine. At one point I made the mistake of actually saying something out loud, I think it was a simple “Seriously, Scooper?” Simple to me, but to him it was an invitation to get even closer. At this point our Clifford-sized friend defied the laws of nature by getting all fours onto the console while turning in circles. This was unfortunate for me, as all I could see in front of me was tail (and not the kind you would see if you were cruising the beach). I swatted at his tail so he turned and put a paw on the wheel, scaring me senseless and crushing my ego. Even the dog drives better than I do! His paw was there for maybe a second and he never tried that move again, but his tail was back a few times, and frankly his tongue got pretty close, too.
About five miles from home, for no apparent reason Scooper went into the backseat, stuck his head out the window and stood quietly for at least 3 minutes, which to me seemed like an eternity. Just as I exhaled thinking that he was finally settled, I heard some heavy panting coming from my lower left. I looked and saw Scooper trying to wedge his head between my seat and the driver side door. I was really afraid that he was going to get stuck there, but I didn’t know how to help him. Would I have to call the fire department and have them remove the entire left side of my door? Whether it was on his own accord, or whether it was divine intervention, I’ll never know, but just as I thought he was really stuck, Scooper pulled his head out and went back to pacing.
When we pulled into my neighborhood he must have recognized the area because he started quietly yipping with excitement. By the time we were two houses away from home he was just three barks shy of a full-fledged hound-dog-howl. Before I could even shut the car off, my children and my dog were at my door. “We knew it! We thought we heard Scooper!” They let Scooper out of the car,opened the gate to our yard and they were all off and running.
Sure it was a rough ride, but it was worth seeing two happy kids and two carefree dogs. Really, at this point, I’ve almost forgotten about the entire incident. I only hope the next time I offer to take him in my Prius, Nikki will gently, but firmly slap some sense into me or at least give me a couple of tranquilizers for the road.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A Little Lost
I really like living in the Pacific Northwest. I have fantastic friends and a great house. It's so beautiful here. We have everything from mountains, to oceans, to canyons, to rainforests. The young folk tell me we even have vampires-had we had those in Massachusetts I could have explained away some mysterious marks on my neck my senior year of high school! "Oh gee Dad it was just that shy vampire kid from my chemistry class, he forgot to bring a lunch to school and he was really hungry. I was just helping a friend." Too bad I was in Malden not Forks, huh?
Vampires aside, Mike and the kids love it here, and me, well, like I said I really like it. Especially in the summer when the skies are blue, Mount Rainier is in sight and the temps are warm, but not scorching. I love to explore different trails, to walk or run on the waterfront, to camp (umm okay, love is a strong word, like to camp), to sit on my back deck and enjoy the lake, to kayak, to take the ferry to get an ice cream, to wander around Seattle, to spot whales, to take road trips to and through crazy and beautiful places. The dark and dreary winter is not really my cup of tea, but that's why there is a Starbucks on every corner in this state. They'll serve you your cup of tea or a latte, play some Dave Matthews Band, and send you on your way feeling like there is hope in caffeine. Who needs sunshine when you can order a venti anything?!
Some people feel strongly that this is the best place on Earth and while I see it, really, I do, I'm not sure this is home for me. The beauty of being a military spouse is that we get to sample a lot of places before we finally pick one. The hard part is time does not stand still; parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, nieces, nephews all grow older in a different part of the country. You miss birthday parties, weddings, baby showers, births, graduations and more importantly all the little moments in between. At the same time you get to see new places, meet amazing people and perfect your guilt trip on all friends and family members that have yet to visit. (you know who you are).
Mike and I have lived in five states since we met. We have been in the Pacific Northwest for exactly four years and this has been by far the hardest adjustment for me. I still feel homesick and it comes out of nowhere, it could be as simple as hearing an Aerosmith song on the radio or seeing someone wearing a Red Sox cap. Technology has made it both better and worse, sometimes Facebook or texting hit the spot, but sometimes it just reminds me of what I am missing. I can go weeks and weeks without feeling homesick and then quite suddenly it will hit me. Mike might say "I think we could put a beach in here by the lake," and I will think Oh that's too long term for me! and start to panic. Another day he could say the same thing and I'd think Oh that sounds perfect!
When we traveled the Oregon Coast two weeks ago I texted my friend Kate. She is a native of Eugene, Oregon, but now lives in Jersey. We talked about how beautiful Oregon is, and she mentioned how she'd like to get back to the West Coast. I mentioned how I'd like to eventually head back East. For both Kate and I, our desires to get to our homelands are one thing, but our kids are the number one priority--when should we move them? What is a good age to go? How will they adjust? (Amazing the depth of conversation possible via text).
Sometimes when I really get rolling I think of other things like What if I'm the only one of the four of us who really wants to leave?-or just as scary-What if in two years I don't want to go after all? How heartbroken will my family be if we stay? What if we go back to the EC and regret it? What if we don't fit it anymore? Shouldn't we do one more away tour someplace really different like Hawaii or Puerto Rico before moving back to New England? How heartbroken would my family be then? What if we move back and then the kids turn around and choose a West Coast college? Do we follow them? What about Mike's family? Should we do a few years in Colorado and if so, would I ever be able to breathe walking up a flight of stairs again?
Having said all of this, I'm not unhappy here. Like I inferred earlier, it gets harder emotionally in the winter when the sky is a bleak gray almost everyday. Still I never hate it and sometimes I love it. I'm just not used to getting into these little funks, these pangs of homesickness. Sometimes I feel just a little lost and can't quite find my way home, because I'm not terribly sure where home really is.
There's this saying that I have seen hanging on various plaques in many Coastie homes "Home is where the Coast Guard sends you"... and of course, though a little syrupy and goofy for my taste, it is a fact. (umm any of my followers who have that plaque please disregard the above statement about goofy and syrupy. I never said it). Of course, home is where Mike and the kids are, I do believe it. We could be living in (gasp) Alabama, but as long as we're together it's okay. So yeah, home is with my family, but honestly geography matters. Max and Maddee have said a few times that they wish we could pick up Washington and stick it next to Massachusetts. Pure genius if you ask me, but New York would probably put up quite a stink about being displaced. Of course, they can look at it as a good deed--just a few moments in New York's old spot could improve Washington's pizza situation immensely.
Unlike the common cold, there's really no easy fix to homesickness. A bowl of chicken soup will just remind me of my Nana and I'll want to hop on the next plane to Boston just to give her a hug. It's not helpful to get bogged down in the whole Should I stay or Should I go thing (I always thought my first Clash reference would be to a lesser known, but cooler Clash song-oh well). Mike has two more years here for sure and what happens after that is a mystery. I don't know what the future may hold, but right now I do have a very cozy bed, in a very spacious bedroom, in a pretty little house, in a beautiful state and it is calling my name. I'm just going to throw on my garlic necklace and head up to bed. Good night.
Vampires aside, Mike and the kids love it here, and me, well, like I said I really like it. Especially in the summer when the skies are blue, Mount Rainier is in sight and the temps are warm, but not scorching. I love to explore different trails, to walk or run on the waterfront, to camp (umm okay, love is a strong word, like to camp), to sit on my back deck and enjoy the lake, to kayak, to take the ferry to get an ice cream, to wander around Seattle, to spot whales, to take road trips to and through crazy and beautiful places. The dark and dreary winter is not really my cup of tea, but that's why there is a Starbucks on every corner in this state. They'll serve you your cup of tea or a latte, play some Dave Matthews Band, and send you on your way feeling like there is hope in caffeine. Who needs sunshine when you can order a venti anything?!
Some people feel strongly that this is the best place on Earth and while I see it, really, I do, I'm not sure this is home for me. The beauty of being a military spouse is that we get to sample a lot of places before we finally pick one. The hard part is time does not stand still; parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, nieces, nephews all grow older in a different part of the country. You miss birthday parties, weddings, baby showers, births, graduations and more importantly all the little moments in between. At the same time you get to see new places, meet amazing people and perfect your guilt trip on all friends and family members that have yet to visit. (you know who you are).
Mike and I have lived in five states since we met. We have been in the Pacific Northwest for exactly four years and this has been by far the hardest adjustment for me. I still feel homesick and it comes out of nowhere, it could be as simple as hearing an Aerosmith song on the radio or seeing someone wearing a Red Sox cap. Technology has made it both better and worse, sometimes Facebook or texting hit the spot, but sometimes it just reminds me of what I am missing. I can go weeks and weeks without feeling homesick and then quite suddenly it will hit me. Mike might say "I think we could put a beach in here by the lake," and I will think Oh that's too long term for me! and start to panic. Another day he could say the same thing and I'd think Oh that sounds perfect!
When we traveled the Oregon Coast two weeks ago I texted my friend Kate. She is a native of Eugene, Oregon, but now lives in Jersey. We talked about how beautiful Oregon is, and she mentioned how she'd like to get back to the West Coast. I mentioned how I'd like to eventually head back East. For both Kate and I, our desires to get to our homelands are one thing, but our kids are the number one priority--when should we move them? What is a good age to go? How will they adjust? (Amazing the depth of conversation possible via text).
Sometimes when I really get rolling I think of other things like What if I'm the only one of the four of us who really wants to leave?-or just as scary-What if in two years I don't want to go after all? How heartbroken will my family be if we stay? What if we go back to the EC and regret it? What if we don't fit it anymore? Shouldn't we do one more away tour someplace really different like Hawaii or Puerto Rico before moving back to New England? How heartbroken would my family be then? What if we move back and then the kids turn around and choose a West Coast college? Do we follow them? What about Mike's family? Should we do a few years in Colorado and if so, would I ever be able to breathe walking up a flight of stairs again?
Having said all of this, I'm not unhappy here. Like I inferred earlier, it gets harder emotionally in the winter when the sky is a bleak gray almost everyday. Still I never hate it and sometimes I love it. I'm just not used to getting into these little funks, these pangs of homesickness. Sometimes I feel just a little lost and can't quite find my way home, because I'm not terribly sure where home really is.
There's this saying that I have seen hanging on various plaques in many Coastie homes "Home is where the Coast Guard sends you"... and of course, though a little syrupy and goofy for my taste, it is a fact. (umm any of my followers who have that plaque please disregard the above statement about goofy and syrupy. I never said it). Of course, home is where Mike and the kids are, I do believe it. We could be living in (gasp) Alabama, but as long as we're together it's okay. So yeah, home is with my family, but honestly geography matters. Max and Maddee have said a few times that they wish we could pick up Washington and stick it next to Massachusetts. Pure genius if you ask me, but New York would probably put up quite a stink about being displaced. Of course, they can look at it as a good deed--just a few moments in New York's old spot could improve Washington's pizza situation immensely.
Unlike the common cold, there's really no easy fix to homesickness. A bowl of chicken soup will just remind me of my Nana and I'll want to hop on the next plane to Boston just to give her a hug. It's not helpful to get bogged down in the whole Should I stay or Should I go thing (I always thought my first Clash reference would be to a lesser known, but cooler Clash song-oh well). Mike has two more years here for sure and what happens after that is a mystery. I don't know what the future may hold, but right now I do have a very cozy bed, in a very spacious bedroom, in a pretty little house, in a beautiful state and it is calling my name. I'm just going to throw on my garlic necklace and head up to bed. Good night.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
It Had to Happen Sometime...
If it hasn't happened to you yet, it will. You and I will be somewhere, perhaps a party, perhaps the grocery store parking lot, maybe a lazy day stroll, or a marathon shopping trip, possibly it will be in my own home lingering over a glass of white wine. I can't tell you when or where, but it will happen. There we will be engaged in conversation when somehow you will bring it up. It will likely be innocent, possibly playful, never vicious, no matter though, there it will be.You'll see the change in my eyes, my mannerisms; you won't quite know how to read me, what's happening to Aimee. Her eyes are as round as saucers, her face is turning so red. I'll try to practice self control, as we experts do, but finally, I won't be able to hold back my knowledge and my opinions.
"What was that?" I might start, "You say you've never tasted anything better than a Margarita Pizza from the California Pizza Kitchen? Did I hear that right?" If other people are around, people who are privy to my paramount pizza palette, they will start to inch slowly out of the room. You might notice it, but it won't register until it's a little too late. Now I'm the one doing the inching, inching closer to you, so close you feel the air in the room growing thin. I'll edge closer still, my teeth clenched in a very polite New England smile. "I'm sorry, would you just repeat that? Did you just suggest we order Domino's?" Don't fret, that's not anger you are seeing in my eyes, oh no, it's sheer pity. Poor ignorant fool, it's likely you have never been East of Pittsburgh. (A quick and loving note to my Chicago friends the deep-dish is a fantastic invention to be discussed at another time-apples and oranges).
See "back East" we enjoy something called REAL PIZZA! And it has become this girl's quest, some might say obsession, to find it. Here's the thing, I had no idea that good pizza was a regional gig. It's just not something we talked about in our family. Sure, mom and dad claimed to be open--ask me anything they'd say, but when it came to warning me about the pizza deprivation I might face, well their lips were sealed. I understand, there are some things that parents just can't prepare their child for and bad pizza is one of them. Still, I should have known, all the signs were there. Let's rewind about 14 years, I was visiting my now in-laws in Colorado. They ordered pizza one night, but I just thought we got a bum pizza. I didn't know this was the standard fare. Then the next visit the same thing. Over the years I developed a false belief that my in-laws had stock in some second-rate pizza company and that is why we never got a real ,piping hot, quality pizza. I feel so guilty for thinking such things, but really I was so naive then. I didn't even catch on when I once heard my father-in-law telling the story about his first visit to Boston. He was walking around the North End and all these people were eating huge slices of pizza. He noticed they were all folding their slices so he did it, too. He was pretty passionate, calling the whole experience, "fascinating". I should have known at that moment that I had something special going tucked up in the Northeast. I just never put two and two together. That is until I moved to Washington.
Now before you get your umbrellas in a bunch, I am not dissing Washington. This state has a lot of bragging rights, but alas, pizza isn't one of them. Of course, there are pockets of good pizza places, but you shouldn't have to try so hard to find one. If my calculations are correct, and you know they are, there is 1 good pizza place for every 17.2 mediocre pizza places and 38 bad places.* Tonight I wanted good pizza, so I drove 20 minutes one way to pick up a pizza from Tony's in Bremerton. Tony's makes me happy, they get the crust almost perfect, there are bubbles in the pizza, the cheese/sauce ratio is usually right, when it's hot everything starts to slide right off (yes this is a good sign my friends) and the slices are perfect folding size. Tonight the pizza was a little greasier than I would like, but my word, that's why there are paper napkins out there people--a little dab will do ya!
You have to eat a lot of bad pizza to find a gem. And sometimes the gems are in the most unexpected places.Yesterday, on our road trip, we stopped at Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington coast. As we swung the family truckster into the parking lot we noticed a little pizza stand on wheels called Serious Pizza. Mike and I were just oozing with feelings of pity for the campers gathered round that pizza stand. Heck, we just had McDonald's in Asotria and these poor folks were stuck here at Serious Pizza. No wonder they call this place Cape Disappointment. Then we caught a better look. There was a real wood oven! My eyes darted over to the pizza as it passed from cook to camper--it looked perfect! I could taste it from my seat. If I hadn't just eaten, or let's face it, if no one knew I had just eaten, I would have pulled a Yogi Bear and snatched that pizza out from under those campers' noses. We decided then and there that we will be vacationing there next summer. Didn't even get a glimpse at the beach or the campsites. But the truth is, who needs high quality amenities when you have good pizza. You say Cape Disappointment, I say Cape Delicious.
On the topic of pizza I could go on and on, and I will, I promise you. Just because you've read this blog doesn't get you off the hook. Sure, it will buy you some time, but we're not through here. You might try to outsmart me by writing it down on your list of things never to discuss with Aimee (I'd like to see that list by the way and I am going to go ahead and suggest you add adverbs to it if you haven't yet), but there will come a day when you slip up. And when you say the "P" word, get ready for me to unleash my wisdom East Coast Style.
*I am working feverishly on an official equation and once I own the rights to said equation I will publish it right here on the Squeaky Voice. :)
"What was that?" I might start, "You say you've never tasted anything better than a Margarita Pizza from the California Pizza Kitchen? Did I hear that right?" If other people are around, people who are privy to my paramount pizza palette, they will start to inch slowly out of the room. You might notice it, but it won't register until it's a little too late. Now I'm the one doing the inching, inching closer to you, so close you feel the air in the room growing thin. I'll edge closer still, my teeth clenched in a very polite New England smile. "I'm sorry, would you just repeat that? Did you just suggest we order Domino's?" Don't fret, that's not anger you are seeing in my eyes, oh no, it's sheer pity. Poor ignorant fool, it's likely you have never been East of Pittsburgh. (A quick and loving note to my Chicago friends the deep-dish is a fantastic invention to be discussed at another time-apples and oranges).
See "back East" we enjoy something called REAL PIZZA! And it has become this girl's quest, some might say obsession, to find it. Here's the thing, I had no idea that good pizza was a regional gig. It's just not something we talked about in our family. Sure, mom and dad claimed to be open--ask me anything they'd say, but when it came to warning me about the pizza deprivation I might face, well their lips were sealed. I understand, there are some things that parents just can't prepare their child for and bad pizza is one of them. Still, I should have known, all the signs were there. Let's rewind about 14 years, I was visiting my now in-laws in Colorado. They ordered pizza one night, but I just thought we got a bum pizza. I didn't know this was the standard fare. Then the next visit the same thing. Over the years I developed a false belief that my in-laws had stock in some second-rate pizza company and that is why we never got a real ,piping hot, quality pizza. I feel so guilty for thinking such things, but really I was so naive then. I didn't even catch on when I once heard my father-in-law telling the story about his first visit to Boston. He was walking around the North End and all these people were eating huge slices of pizza. He noticed they were all folding their slices so he did it, too. He was pretty passionate, calling the whole experience, "fascinating". I should have known at that moment that I had something special going tucked up in the Northeast. I just never put two and two together. That is until I moved to Washington.
Now before you get your umbrellas in a bunch, I am not dissing Washington. This state has a lot of bragging rights, but alas, pizza isn't one of them. Of course, there are pockets of good pizza places, but you shouldn't have to try so hard to find one. If my calculations are correct, and you know they are, there is 1 good pizza place for every 17.2 mediocre pizza places and 38 bad places.* Tonight I wanted good pizza, so I drove 20 minutes one way to pick up a pizza from Tony's in Bremerton. Tony's makes me happy, they get the crust almost perfect, there are bubbles in the pizza, the cheese/sauce ratio is usually right, when it's hot everything starts to slide right off (yes this is a good sign my friends) and the slices are perfect folding size. Tonight the pizza was a little greasier than I would like, but my word, that's why there are paper napkins out there people--a little dab will do ya!
You have to eat a lot of bad pizza to find a gem. And sometimes the gems are in the most unexpected places.Yesterday, on our road trip, we stopped at Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington coast. As we swung the family truckster into the parking lot we noticed a little pizza stand on wheels called Serious Pizza. Mike and I were just oozing with feelings of pity for the campers gathered round that pizza stand. Heck, we just had McDonald's in Asotria and these poor folks were stuck here at Serious Pizza. No wonder they call this place Cape Disappointment. Then we caught a better look. There was a real wood oven! My eyes darted over to the pizza as it passed from cook to camper--it looked perfect! I could taste it from my seat. If I hadn't just eaten, or let's face it, if no one knew I had just eaten, I would have pulled a Yogi Bear and snatched that pizza out from under those campers' noses. We decided then and there that we will be vacationing there next summer. Didn't even get a glimpse at the beach or the campsites. But the truth is, who needs high quality amenities when you have good pizza. You say Cape Disappointment, I say Cape Delicious.
On the topic of pizza I could go on and on, and I will, I promise you. Just because you've read this blog doesn't get you off the hook. Sure, it will buy you some time, but we're not through here. You might try to outsmart me by writing it down on your list of things never to discuss with Aimee (I'd like to see that list by the way and I am going to go ahead and suggest you add adverbs to it if you haven't yet), but there will come a day when you slip up. And when you say the "P" word, get ready for me to unleash my wisdom East Coast Style.
*I am working feverishly on an official equation and once I own the rights to said equation I will publish it right here on the Squeaky Voice. :)
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Adventures on Yakima St
In Massachusetts when I was younger we called the Department of Motor Vehicles “The Registry”, most places call it the “DMV” and here in Washington it’s simply “The Department of Licensing” aka the “DOL”. No matter what you call it, I’ve always considered it a shoe-in for the gold medal at the World’s-Most-Boring-Place-on-Earth contest. Well that’s what I thought anyway, until I hit the DOL on Yakima St. in Tacoma yesterday.
I drove to Yakima St looking for a sleek metropolitan style building, but found the DOL tucked into a shopping center with only a cheesy blue “Driver Licensing” sign to indicate its presence. In an effort to save our tax dollars, the DOL thought it was a good idea to rent a store front in between a liquor store, a Subway and the dollar tree. The room, complete with tile floor, fluorescent lights and a shopping cart or two, was clearly once a Fred Meyer or a Safeway. Instead of aisles of groceries the body of the store was filled with rows and rows of hard plastic chairs. Most of which were occupied. Madison insisted on coming in, even though from experience I knew she was going to be bored out of her skull. Still, it was an alternative to sitting in my hot car with my sister, nephew and Max. Madison was a trooper she lasted about five minutes in the place before she decided she’d rather be squished in the back seat of the Prius reading picture books with her brother and cousin.
Bear with me as I try to run through the seamless and fantastic organizational process of the DMV (DOL, Registry whatever). Okay first you get in a long line to get a number, this number allows you to sit and relax in aforementioned chairs for the hour or so that you wait to be served. Back in my day we used to have to stand in line for the entire time, so actually now that I think of it, the take a number business is quite lovely. They give numbers that also have letters in front of them which clues in the kind- hearted and patient workers to the service you will need. For example R for renewal, E for enhanced and so on. There’s a big screen that announces who is next and which window to attend. So it isn’t horrible per se, especially if you have, let’s imagine, eight games of scrabble going with your friends via the iphone.
As I was standing in the first line I met a very nice woman about my age and her mom, who was also very likable. We did a little small talk and they even saved my spot in line when I had to dash off to the ATM machine to press clear since my entire account information was still on the screen. The woman my age had been to the DOL once already that morning, but had to go back to get her mom to vouch for her or something like that. I’m not quite clear on that piece. Anyway, I got my number and hunkered down in a chair a couple of rows behind my new friends. (We liked each other, but I didn’t want to seem desperate for DOL kinship).
Then there was the waiting. Waiting is a strange thing. It separates the strong from the weak, the sweet from the ugly and the kind from the kind-of-crazy. But really, when push comes to shove (and it will just about come to that in a few paragraphs so hang tight) even seemingly good people can go bad.
So there I was watching the clock, texting my sister, playing scrabble, checking my email and occasionally chatting with my fellow waitees. Things were slow, but not unpleasant really. I enjoyed a light conversation with the man next to me about the DOLs of the future, I suggested they’d be obsolete, everything could be done online; he took the other argument, the one where our world is so overpopulated and so many more people will be needing the service of the DOL, but with all the cut backs in the state there would never be enough employees and so on. What we were dealing with was nothing compared to the chaos of the future. Nice fellow, half empty glass and all. Our conversation was interrupted when R378 was called to counter number 1, “Ooh I’m R379, I am going to be next.” I bragged out loud. Mr. Half Empty was R402. He turned and struck up a conversation with the woman on his right. I went back to scrabble when suddenly there arose such a clatter…
R378 happened to be those nice women I met in line earlier-the ones who saved my spot. I have no idea what went down, but something happened and the mother, (who I will now refer to affectionately as my friend) started screaming and then started to storm out. Not wanting to be outdone the clerk behind the counter mumbled something that I think sounded like “Never come back” and of course my friend came charging back. “Excuse me?” She started shouting and wagging her finger. Her head was bopping a million miles a minute. Then she addressed the entire crowd—all of us in our rows and rows of seats. “You know these people at the DOL are rude. You know they’re rude to us.” She got some Yes ma’am and You got that rights from the crowd. “Oh look at that, he’s calling the police. Go ‘head.” (then to us again) “I don’t even think he’s really calling the police, but he can go ahead I ain’t afraid anyway.”
A few moments pass and the guy behind the counter is either really speaking to the police or doing what my aunt used to do when my cousins were naughty which would entail pretending to have an entire conversation with their father about how bad they were, when really she was just talking to the dial tone. I didn’t think he was pulling an Auntie Sue. This was the real deal, he was giving the police a description. Meanwhile the rest of us were whispering to each other, sure there was a moment or two when we all tried to look away or pretend to busy ourselves, but the pretenses were gone. This was quite a show. Now we were speculating and taking sides. My friend was going on and on, “That’s right, you call them. Uh-uh, you got it wrong, I’m five foot two. Wait a minute,” at this point she takes a big step back and puts herself in the middle of the room and says “Not black, I’m gooooolden brown.” She looks at all of us for our approving nods, which I felt obliged to give, given our relationship. You see forging a friendship at the DOL is something akin to being old army buddies.
I swear we made eye contact at that moment and I felt like I needed to say something, so I leaned over to Mr. HalfEmpty and told him that I met her earlier in line and she was really a great lady. Two rows in front of us a man with all of his front teeth, but strangely none of his back, said “I went to high school with the daughter. She was always a good kid. Real friendly.” I suddenly pictured the two of us—front tooth dude and me—as character witnesses at the trial. As if reading my mind, my friend gets up real close to the guy behind the counter who is still on the phone with the cops and then steps back and addresses us again. “I didn’t get physical with this guy. Did anyone here see me gettin’ physical? If you did you better speak up right now. (she paused, did this amazing full body wag and then said) That’s what I thought.See now I got my witnesses.”
“This is just like Social Security, except at Social Security they have cops on the premises.” Half Empty says to me. “They are so rude there. That’s why they have to have the cops. Ever been there?” “Uh-uh” I say feeling suddenly as if I have missed out on some exclusive club. “No? Really? In fact they were so rude last time I was there I’m going back with my lawyer on Thursday.” I had no idea what to say to this and then I blurted in my typical Little-Miss- Diplomat way “I bet it’s a hard job to be behind that counter all day.” That was stupid, so I followed that quickly with, “But still they should be respectful, there’s no reason to be so rude.” “Mmmhhmm.” He nodded noncommittally. I couldn’t tell if I had gotten out of his good graces or not and for some reason I cared. Just at that moment my number was called. “Good for you,” Half Empty remarked. Maybe he really was HalfFull after all or maybe he was just happy I was leaving.
Right around that time my friend and her daughter stepped outside, as did the unhappy DOL clerk and his supervisor. The cops came, but I am relieved to say they didn’t single me out as a character witness. Strangely, no one really wanted to hear my side of it. Well no one except the clerk behind window number seven, because the first thing she said to me when I approached the counter was, “Oh my God. What happened out there?”
I drove to Yakima St looking for a sleek metropolitan style building, but found the DOL tucked into a shopping center with only a cheesy blue “Driver Licensing” sign to indicate its presence. In an effort to save our tax dollars, the DOL thought it was a good idea to rent a store front in between a liquor store, a Subway and the dollar tree. The room, complete with tile floor, fluorescent lights and a shopping cart or two, was clearly once a Fred Meyer or a Safeway. Instead of aisles of groceries the body of the store was filled with rows and rows of hard plastic chairs. Most of which were occupied. Madison insisted on coming in, even though from experience I knew she was going to be bored out of her skull. Still, it was an alternative to sitting in my hot car with my sister, nephew and Max. Madison was a trooper she lasted about five minutes in the place before she decided she’d rather be squished in the back seat of the Prius reading picture books with her brother and cousin.
Bear with me as I try to run through the seamless and fantastic organizational process of the DMV (DOL, Registry whatever). Okay first you get in a long line to get a number, this number allows you to sit and relax in aforementioned chairs for the hour or so that you wait to be served. Back in my day we used to have to stand in line for the entire time, so actually now that I think of it, the take a number business is quite lovely. They give numbers that also have letters in front of them which clues in the kind- hearted and patient workers to the service you will need. For example R for renewal, E for enhanced and so on. There’s a big screen that announces who is next and which window to attend. So it isn’t horrible per se, especially if you have, let’s imagine, eight games of scrabble going with your friends via the iphone.
As I was standing in the first line I met a very nice woman about my age and her mom, who was also very likable. We did a little small talk and they even saved my spot in line when I had to dash off to the ATM machine to press clear since my entire account information was still on the screen. The woman my age had been to the DOL once already that morning, but had to go back to get her mom to vouch for her or something like that. I’m not quite clear on that piece. Anyway, I got my number and hunkered down in a chair a couple of rows behind my new friends. (We liked each other, but I didn’t want to seem desperate for DOL kinship).
Then there was the waiting. Waiting is a strange thing. It separates the strong from the weak, the sweet from the ugly and the kind from the kind-of-crazy. But really, when push comes to shove (and it will just about come to that in a few paragraphs so hang tight) even seemingly good people can go bad.
So there I was watching the clock, texting my sister, playing scrabble, checking my email and occasionally chatting with my fellow waitees. Things were slow, but not unpleasant really. I enjoyed a light conversation with the man next to me about the DOLs of the future, I suggested they’d be obsolete, everything could be done online; he took the other argument, the one where our world is so overpopulated and so many more people will be needing the service of the DOL, but with all the cut backs in the state there would never be enough employees and so on. What we were dealing with was nothing compared to the chaos of the future. Nice fellow, half empty glass and all. Our conversation was interrupted when R378 was called to counter number 1, “Ooh I’m R379, I am going to be next.” I bragged out loud. Mr. Half Empty was R402. He turned and struck up a conversation with the woman on his right. I went back to scrabble when suddenly there arose such a clatter…
R378 happened to be those nice women I met in line earlier-the ones who saved my spot. I have no idea what went down, but something happened and the mother, (who I will now refer to affectionately as my friend) started screaming and then started to storm out. Not wanting to be outdone the clerk behind the counter mumbled something that I think sounded like “Never come back” and of course my friend came charging back. “Excuse me?” She started shouting and wagging her finger. Her head was bopping a million miles a minute. Then she addressed the entire crowd—all of us in our rows and rows of seats. “You know these people at the DOL are rude. You know they’re rude to us.” She got some Yes ma’am and You got that rights from the crowd. “Oh look at that, he’s calling the police. Go ‘head.” (then to us again) “I don’t even think he’s really calling the police, but he can go ahead I ain’t afraid anyway.”
A few moments pass and the guy behind the counter is either really speaking to the police or doing what my aunt used to do when my cousins were naughty which would entail pretending to have an entire conversation with their father about how bad they were, when really she was just talking to the dial tone. I didn’t think he was pulling an Auntie Sue. This was the real deal, he was giving the police a description. Meanwhile the rest of us were whispering to each other, sure there was a moment or two when we all tried to look away or pretend to busy ourselves, but the pretenses were gone. This was quite a show. Now we were speculating and taking sides. My friend was going on and on, “That’s right, you call them. Uh-uh, you got it wrong, I’m five foot two. Wait a minute,” at this point she takes a big step back and puts herself in the middle of the room and says “Not black, I’m gooooolden brown.” She looks at all of us for our approving nods, which I felt obliged to give, given our relationship. You see forging a friendship at the DOL is something akin to being old army buddies.
I swear we made eye contact at that moment and I felt like I needed to say something, so I leaned over to Mr. HalfEmpty and told him that I met her earlier in line and she was really a great lady. Two rows in front of us a man with all of his front teeth, but strangely none of his back, said “I went to high school with the daughter. She was always a good kid. Real friendly.” I suddenly pictured the two of us—front tooth dude and me—as character witnesses at the trial. As if reading my mind, my friend gets up real close to the guy behind the counter who is still on the phone with the cops and then steps back and addresses us again. “I didn’t get physical with this guy. Did anyone here see me gettin’ physical? If you did you better speak up right now. (she paused, did this amazing full body wag and then said) That’s what I thought.See now I got my witnesses.”
“This is just like Social Security, except at Social Security they have cops on the premises.” Half Empty says to me. “They are so rude there. That’s why they have to have the cops. Ever been there?” “Uh-uh” I say feeling suddenly as if I have missed out on some exclusive club. “No? Really? In fact they were so rude last time I was there I’m going back with my lawyer on Thursday.” I had no idea what to say to this and then I blurted in my typical Little-Miss- Diplomat way “I bet it’s a hard job to be behind that counter all day.” That was stupid, so I followed that quickly with, “But still they should be respectful, there’s no reason to be so rude.” “Mmmhhmm.” He nodded noncommittally. I couldn’t tell if I had gotten out of his good graces or not and for some reason I cared. Just at that moment my number was called. “Good for you,” Half Empty remarked. Maybe he really was HalfFull after all or maybe he was just happy I was leaving.
Right around that time my friend and her daughter stepped outside, as did the unhappy DOL clerk and his supervisor. The cops came, but I am relieved to say they didn’t single me out as a character witness. Strangely, no one really wanted to hear my side of it. Well no one except the clerk behind window number seven, because the first thing she said to me when I approached the counter was, “Oh my God. What happened out there?”
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