It is a beautiful snow covered day in the Pacific Northwest. Everything is white, from lawns to sidewalks to trees to rooftops. It’s the kind of day that makes romantics swoon- cold snow outside, warm fire inside. This is the perfect day for you to sit quietly in the kitchen, take a small, dulling pencil to an unlined piece of paper and just write. From time to time you will be glancing out the windows, inspired by the tranquil snowscape.
It’s the kind of day that if you didn’t have report cards due in less than a week, and you didn’t have to share your computer with your husband, and you didn’t have the world’s fattest starving cats mewing constantly at your feet, and you didn’t have children with mini-icicles hanging from their eyelashes trudging snow through your house in desperate search of hot cocoa, then it’s the kind of day that you could decide to become a serious writer.
It’s the kind of day that you will reflect upon later as you sit on the couch of the Today show with a tiny microphone tucked into the lapel of your new suit. That snowy Thursday in 2012 when you were so taken by the beauty of the world and the stillness of your soul that you tossed aside all else and wrote. You will talk about this very day while giving commencement addresses at certain fine colleges. You will recall the background whirr of laughing children as they soared down the sledding ramp your husband built before he threw out his back. And you will give a little chuckle at the memory, because his back will be fine at that point and you will only remember how funny he looked on the ground in the snow.
Later in your memoirs you will refer to this very snowy day. The day you decided to stop being a dreamer and instead be a writer. The day you glanced out and saw snow weighing down the limbs of the evergreens, the slushy lake, the sound of frozen rain hitting your rooftop and then the silence as the rain turned back to snow. You will remember your hands wrapped around a mug of something warm, you might remember it as creamy hot chocolate, but it was really just a mug of steaming tea.
It is the kind of day that you serve homemade cinnamon rolls to your children and their friends as they take yet another break from sledding. It’s the kind of day that if you hadn’t been on a diet, you, too, would indulge in a warm homemade cinnamon treat. No, wait, it’s the kind of day that you shrug your shoulders and forgive yourself the indiscretion, enjoying the sweet taste of cream cheese frosting and warm cinnamon on your tongue.
It’s the kind of day that you need to move from room to room to room to find a quiet place to write. And as you move, with your writer’s eye you notice laundry that needs to be folded, bags that need to be unpacked, toys and shoes that need to be put away, lists that need to be crossed off. You allow yourself a few more minutes to write. Your pencil is getting duller, your paper is full of words, scratches, scribbles, and is that a sketch of a tree?
It’s the kind of day that you realize you are not a professional writer; that your commas are all wrong and you dislike flowery descriptions almost as much as you dislike birthday cards that rhyme. You remind yourself that you think it’s cliché when writers write about writing, but then you forgive yourself because you are writing about snow days after all. It’s exactly the kind of day that you will find yourself laboring over report cards, eating a little too much of everything, tediously folding laundry, giving hugs after minor sledding crashes and maybe sneaking in a run down that sled ramp if you can. It’s the kind of day that you will find yourself, eventually, snuggled on the couch reading a book written by someone more talented than you. But your heart still feels happy and your life still feels full. It’s just that kind of day.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Saturday, December 31, 2011
It's in the Mail
My friends and I used to be big letter writers. Way back before texting and emailing, we used to be huge fans of passing notes in class and sending letters via the USPS. It really was a fun treat to go to the mailbox and find a letter with my name on it. Now it’s rare for me to send or receive a long email, never mind a handwritten letter. It’s not a big deal really. I have no hard feelings about it. I do quite well with facebook, texting and phone calls. And maybe it makes this time of year all the sweeter. Money and jewelry aside, there’s nothing I love receiving more than a Christmas card. I am especially fond of the photo cards that people send. I love to see everyone’s children or their pets. Even some of my friends who don’t have kids, or whose kids have long since left the nest, send cards. I love to look at pictures of my friends and family and see how they’ve chosen to represent their life this year. And, it makes me happy to know that these people thought of me, even if the thought was “Why the heck are the Allens still on our card list?”
Having made so many moves in our Coast Guard life, we have the good fortune of knowing a lot of great people. Our walls are covered with these Christmas card treats, which makes me very happy. This year we haven’t received as many cards as we did in the past. I have a couple of theories. The first and most logical theory is that several so-called friends now hate me because I’m so darn cute and perky. In a jealous rage they have decided to blackball me from their Holiday Cheer. Theory two-the Jen theory-is that anyone named Jennifer is banned by the government to send mail to anyone named Aimee, and since 65% of my friends are named Jennifer, I have received only 35% of the usual mailings. The next theory, though less likely, is that fewer people have sent cards out this year. According to this particular theory it’s because they have other things in life they are trying to manage and can’t balance it all (as if). The final theory, the one certain people are calling “THE TRUTH” is that they have the wrong address. Last year all of our mail was forwarded because it had been less than a year since we moved in, but this year the post office is returning to sender. So supposedly a bunch of my friends have received their original cards and will be re-mailing them ASAP. (Right). Oh as I re-read this I suppose the last two theories have some merit, but not much.
Wow, it looks like I am basing my self-worth and popularity on a bunch of cards. That would just be weird and a little desperate. I mean it’s not like I texted my friends, and casually mentioned that I didn’t receive their cards. Okay, since they are probably reading this anyway, maybe I texted one or two or even three friends, but I just didn’t want them to be left out of my Christmas card book.
Oh yes, you heard me. I save photo Christmas cards in an album that we can look at year after year. I’d like to say I do this because I’m clever, creative, organized and a little nostalgic. But really it started because my mother believes, and has passed this neurotic belief on to me, that it is bad luck to throw away a photo. Yes. I am serious; I do not throw away photos. If we have ever had a photo of you it’s still here somewhere. We’ve moved these photos from house to house to house. Heck, we’ve even lugged these photos across the country. We’re like our own little Smithsonian (if the Smithsonian catalogued photos of ordinary people putting bunny ears behind their friends’ heads). If it’s a Christmas letter photo in our possession you’ll have the honor of making the book. If it’s anything else your photo will sit on the fridge for a while and then eventually be tossed into a drawer along with trinkets, hoozy-whatsits and thingamajigs. Look at it this way, if you ever run for political office and are afraid that less-than-savory photo of you from college might surface, well it will…oh sorry that’s probably not reassuring-especially for those of you who didn’t send me a Christmas card this year.
This year my obsession with the Christmas cards seems to be teetering on the verge of Charlie Brownness. Go ahead and think back to the Valentine’s Day Special when Charlie Brown relentlessly checks his mail in hopes of receiving a Valentine. Now keep that image in your mind, throw some curly hair and some mascara on old Chuck and you have the perfect image of me at my mailbox daily. Unlike Charlie Brown, though, my mailbox isn't always empty. Boy oh boy, when a card arrives I am giddy. Some days several cards arrive, I can barely breathe thinking about it. It’s so exciting!
As the holiday season draws to a close I feel a tinge of sadness. I know soon the only thing filling my mailbox will be bills and catalogues. The best I can hope for is a wedding invitation or a baby announcement. I look forward to next Christmas season when I am almost guaranteed to find a card in my mailbox every day. And just to be sure no one forgets me next year, I’ve decided to send out self-addresses stamped envelopes.
Having made so many moves in our Coast Guard life, we have the good fortune of knowing a lot of great people. Our walls are covered with these Christmas card treats, which makes me very happy. This year we haven’t received as many cards as we did in the past. I have a couple of theories. The first and most logical theory is that several so-called friends now hate me because I’m so darn cute and perky. In a jealous rage they have decided to blackball me from their Holiday Cheer. Theory two-the Jen theory-is that anyone named Jennifer is banned by the government to send mail to anyone named Aimee, and since 65% of my friends are named Jennifer, I have received only 35% of the usual mailings. The next theory, though less likely, is that fewer people have sent cards out this year. According to this particular theory it’s because they have other things in life they are trying to manage and can’t balance it all (as if). The final theory, the one certain people are calling “THE TRUTH” is that they have the wrong address. Last year all of our mail was forwarded because it had been less than a year since we moved in, but this year the post office is returning to sender. So supposedly a bunch of my friends have received their original cards and will be re-mailing them ASAP. (Right). Oh as I re-read this I suppose the last two theories have some merit, but not much.
Wow, it looks like I am basing my self-worth and popularity on a bunch of cards. That would just be weird and a little desperate. I mean it’s not like I texted my friends, and casually mentioned that I didn’t receive their cards. Okay, since they are probably reading this anyway, maybe I texted one or two or even three friends, but I just didn’t want them to be left out of my Christmas card book.
Oh yes, you heard me. I save photo Christmas cards in an album that we can look at year after year. I’d like to say I do this because I’m clever, creative, organized and a little nostalgic. But really it started because my mother believes, and has passed this neurotic belief on to me, that it is bad luck to throw away a photo. Yes. I am serious; I do not throw away photos. If we have ever had a photo of you it’s still here somewhere. We’ve moved these photos from house to house to house. Heck, we’ve even lugged these photos across the country. We’re like our own little Smithsonian (if the Smithsonian catalogued photos of ordinary people putting bunny ears behind their friends’ heads). If it’s a Christmas letter photo in our possession you’ll have the honor of making the book. If it’s anything else your photo will sit on the fridge for a while and then eventually be tossed into a drawer along with trinkets, hoozy-whatsits and thingamajigs. Look at it this way, if you ever run for political office and are afraid that less-than-savory photo of you from college might surface, well it will…oh sorry that’s probably not reassuring-especially for those of you who didn’t send me a Christmas card this year.
This year my obsession with the Christmas cards seems to be teetering on the verge of Charlie Brownness. Go ahead and think back to the Valentine’s Day Special when Charlie Brown relentlessly checks his mail in hopes of receiving a Valentine. Now keep that image in your mind, throw some curly hair and some mascara on old Chuck and you have the perfect image of me at my mailbox daily. Unlike Charlie Brown, though, my mailbox isn't always empty. Boy oh boy, when a card arrives I am giddy. Some days several cards arrive, I can barely breathe thinking about it. It’s so exciting!
As the holiday season draws to a close I feel a tinge of sadness. I know soon the only thing filling my mailbox will be bills and catalogues. The best I can hope for is a wedding invitation or a baby announcement. I look forward to next Christmas season when I am almost guaranteed to find a card in my mailbox every day. And just to be sure no one forgets me next year, I’ve decided to send out self-addresses stamped envelopes.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Awesome
She looked like a cross between Cleopatra, Cher and maybe the Mona Lisa, too. She sported a classic late 60s look with dark blue eye shadow and long, thick, black hair that she would painstakingly straighten every day. He was short in stature, and had been compared to every decent looking actor on the shorter side, from Jack Nicholson to Bob Newhart. She was a Jewish girl from the suburbs of Boston; he an Irish Catholic boy from the Midwest. She still listened to Malt Shop music; he was a Motown boy through and through. Perhaps they would agree on the brilliancy of the Beatles, though he would surely prefer the psychedelic version of the Fab Four, while she would stand by their clean cut boy image of earlier days. He had left Ohio to see the world via the US Navy and though he did have fun in cities like Paris, there really was no place like Boston for a young sailor, at least in his eyes.
They met at the Enlisted Man’s Club in Charlestown, Ma. My mom’s friend Paula had persuaded my mom to go there. My mother always described her younger self as a “Goody-Two-Shoes”, so I imagine it took some convincing on Paula’s part to actually get my mom out the door. But out the door she went with her long black hair tucked into a blonde wig.
He spotted her at the club and wanted to talk to this curvy blonde woman. It took some nerve and probably a couple of cans of Schlitz for him to saunter on over. He started chatting and when he felt the time was right, put his arm around her. Of course, old Slick ran into a little glitch-as his arm went up and over her head, he hit her wig and knocked it off.
I like to imagine my mom giving him a good slap at this point, but I know her well enough to know that wasn’t the case. Good thing to, because Dad gallantly threw his jacket over her head and escorted her to the restroom!Somehow this goofy character managed to make mom smile and she actually talked to him when she came out of the restroom. Soon they were on their first date together. He wasn’t like other guys, for example, most guys didn’t take their own transistor radios with them on dates. Dad did. He put it right on the table in the middle of their first dinner together. Mom’s friend Paula was surprised that he got a first date, but a second date, well that was baffling. Paula and the gang warmed to my dad, but it took many months. “He was just so goofy, but your mom really saw something in him…”It took some time for this strange Midwestern boy to win over Mom’s family, too. But somehow he did. And now he’s a family favorite. Everyone loves him.
My dad saw something in my mom that was a mixture of smarts and naïveté. Though he was no bad boy, he’d been out in the real world. Yes, she was a girl of the 60s, but she led a fairly sheltered teenhood. Once on a date at the drive-in my parents were approached by a couple of hippies who asked if they “had any papers.” My sweet mom said, “I think we do.” She got out of the car, opened the trunk and handed the hippies a copy of The Boston Globe!
On November 28, 1971, the Motown loving sailor and the Goody-Two Shoes married in Marblehead, Ma. Dad moved out of his roach infested bachelor pad and Mom left her parents’ home in Malden. They took an apartment where I’m sure the transistor radio figured prominently. I picture them in their youth-her long, black straight hair and his long sideburns, thick mustache and polyester shirts-in my mind they are the iconic 70s couple dancing the nights away in their small living room. Whether they were dancing to The Commodores or the Carpenters doesn’t really matter, what matters is that they were, and still are, awesome.
*************************************************************************************
-Inspired by the book My Parents Were Awesome: Before Fanny packs and Minivans, They Were People Too. By Eliot Glazer
Also inspired by my parents of course!! Happy Anniversary. :)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Guest Blogger Max A. Presents....
I have a treat for you guys! November is Guest Blogger month here at the Squeaky Voice-okay made that up, but whatever-and so today I present a crisp and funny piece of fiction written by one of my all time favorite wordsmiths, my son, Max A. Ladies and Gentlemen enjoy this story entitled...
The Pickle Scientist
Once there was a scientist. He made a potion. It was green. It bubbled. He got more stuff and set it aside. He drank the potion. He got small and green! He turned into a pickle!! He ate the stuff he set aside!!!He grew arms, then legs then a face!!!! He knew what reversed every potion. It was called nignith. It was in an underground forest. It was under the Sahara desert. He wanted to go to the airport but pickles can’t drive. Even living ones. Reason number one is that they are too small. Reason number two is that they are too light for the gas pedal or the brake. So he walked.
The airport was 20 miles away. He walked and walked and walked, when he finally got to the airport he felt like he had walked 500 miles.He ran through the airport. He looked up. A few seconds later a five year old kid looked down and said, “Mommy, someone dropped their pickle!” The little boy’s mom picked the scientist pickle up. She put him in the garbage!!! It smelled horrible in there. He managed to get out. “Yuck,” he said. Gum was stuck to his back! To make things clear abcdefg! That means already been chewed definitely eaten fat gum. He took it off and threw it into the trash. H ran and snuck onto plane B3.
He didn’t know where they were going. They were flying over the Sahara then the pilot made an announcement “We are low on gas!” When they were only a few miles away from the Sahara when they ran out of gas. The pilot said “Attention WE ARE OUT OF GAS, I REPEAT OUT OF GAS! Please use emergency exit!” Everyone ran to the closest emergency exit, but the scientist just hid under a chair. He had a plan! He had a plain plan on the plane.
As he hit the ground the plane split in half. He took everything a vehicle needed and made a broken down car. He wasn’t a mechanic so he could not fix the mini- car. He walked until the Sahara was just a mile away. Just then someone from the plane crawled by. Why did he crawl by? Because he was so hungry. He saw that pickle and chased him. Then he stood there confused. The scientist dug a hole and quickly buried himself. Then he dropped! He landed on moss. “This is it “He said. I can find the nignith here!
He walked, then skipped, then ran, then jogged. He looked everywhere in the forest. At the end was a wall with poison ivy all over it. He wondered what was behind it. He got an idea. He dug with his hands under one wall. He found the nignith, ate it then teleported back home.
The Pickle Scientist
Once there was a scientist. He made a potion. It was green. It bubbled. He got more stuff and set it aside. He drank the potion. He got small and green! He turned into a pickle!! He ate the stuff he set aside!!!He grew arms, then legs then a face!!!! He knew what reversed every potion. It was called nignith. It was in an underground forest. It was under the Sahara desert. He wanted to go to the airport but pickles can’t drive. Even living ones. Reason number one is that they are too small. Reason number two is that they are too light for the gas pedal or the brake. So he walked.
The airport was 20 miles away. He walked and walked and walked, when he finally got to the airport he felt like he had walked 500 miles.He ran through the airport. He looked up. A few seconds later a five year old kid looked down and said, “Mommy, someone dropped their pickle!” The little boy’s mom picked the scientist pickle up. She put him in the garbage!!! It smelled horrible in there. He managed to get out. “Yuck,” he said. Gum was stuck to his back! To make things clear abcdefg! That means already been chewed definitely eaten fat gum. He took it off and threw it into the trash. H ran and snuck onto plane B3.
He didn’t know where they were going. They were flying over the Sahara then the pilot made an announcement “We are low on gas!” When they were only a few miles away from the Sahara when they ran out of gas. The pilot said “Attention WE ARE OUT OF GAS, I REPEAT OUT OF GAS! Please use emergency exit!” Everyone ran to the closest emergency exit, but the scientist just hid under a chair. He had a plan! He had a plain plan on the plane.
As he hit the ground the plane split in half. He took everything a vehicle needed and made a broken down car. He wasn’t a mechanic so he could not fix the mini- car. He walked until the Sahara was just a mile away. Just then someone from the plane crawled by. Why did he crawl by? Because he was so hungry. He saw that pickle and chased him. Then he stood there confused. The scientist dug a hole and quickly buried himself. Then he dropped! He landed on moss. “This is it “He said. I can find the nignith here!
He walked, then skipped, then ran, then jogged. He looked everywhere in the forest. At the end was a wall with poison ivy all over it. He wondered what was behind it. He got an idea. He dug with his hands under one wall. He found the nignith, ate it then teleported back home.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Conspiracy Theory
Miscommunication and dumb luck-Two of my favorite storytelling companions. These age old buddies are becoming an endangered species nowadays, what with the cell phone and all. Everyone has their conspiracy theories. Wanna hear one of mine? I believe cell phones were sent here by humorless aliens to ruin our fun and kill our best stories. Think about it. Gone are the days where you can tell a story about missing a rendezvous point, or getting lost, or misunderstanding a friend’s intention or being late for a wedding because you couldn’t find the church and you had no way to get in touch with anyone who could help you.
No you go to tell a great story about how you were being chased by hungry elephants and someone in your audience stops you mid sentence…Why didn’t you just call the zoo? Why didn’t you dial 911? Did you take a photo? Why wasn’t this posted on your facebook? And if you can somehow get past that party-pooper there will be someone else fact checking on their phone and hollering out that elephants are vegetarians-so what the heck was the danger anyway?
I have had so many times when I could have had a great story in my midst, but instead my cell phone sweeps in and saves the day. I'm sure you know the feeling. Flat tire? Call for help-no story there. Are you lost? Google directions-no story there. About to be embarrassed because you’ve bumped into an old boyfriend and you’ve forgotten his name? Fake a sneeze, turn around text your friend Michelle and voila, you’ve saved face, but alas another anecdote foiled.
At least I’m in my 30s so I have years and years of pre-technology stories to share. In fact I don’t even know if Mike and I would be married today if we had a cell phone back in 1995 when we ran out of gas on Route 3. We were in this big orange truck I think it belonged to his friend BJ…hang on let me text BJ and ask him….I’m back, yep it was BJ’s truck a 1984 Chevy pickup, and the gas gauge was broken. We were heading from my swinging bachelorette pad in Boston (aka my tiny bedroom in the apartment I shared with my parents, sister and six guinea pigs in Malden) to Mike’s place on the Cape. We were in the early days of dating, still getting to know each other. We were driving along the highway, (listening to a mixed tape I’m sure), when we ran out of gas. Mike managed to get us over to the shoulder and we sat there for a few moments. Now, if this had been 2011, we would have called someone to come help us…or better yet, maybe we would have just sent a text. Either way that would have been the end of the story. But we didn’t have a cell phone, so we made a decision. We hopped out of the truck and wandered down route 3 for about 2 miles, walked off an exit ramp and entered the town of Plymouth. Just two miles, sure, but did I mention it was about 95 degrees in the shade? Did you focus on the fact that we were walking on a highway in MASSACHUSETTS where drivers are nicknamed Massholes or a reason. Nonetheless, we arrived in Plymouth, got a gas can from the hardware store, filled it with gas and still had enough money to buy a heavenly Reese’s ice cream bar (hmm I wonder if they still make those? I’ll have to Google that when I’m done with this blog). We trudged back onto the highway, managed to get a ride from two women in a van-sure the van wreaked of freshly smoked weed- but who are we to turn down a free ride? Somehow it was actually a great experience. Mike thought it was cool that I was so laid back about the whole thing, and I thought it was gallant of him to use his last dollar to buy me an ice cream. We joke that this was the day that we knew we had a future together. This is something we might not have discovered if we could have just called someone for help.
I have so many great stories that could be instantly ruined by the introduction of the cell phone. There was the time my friend Jenn was supposed to get on the T at Oak Grove station and a friend and I would hop on that same train at Malden Station (one stop later), from there we would all ride the T into town (Boston). For some reason-and this has nothing to do with Jenn being, well, Jenn-when the train pulled up and the doors opened we got on using one set of doors only to see her get off using the other set. I can still see her confused face and her hands reaching for the glass as we streaked by heading into town. Where would we meet? Which stop were we getting off? Should we go back? Would she know how to find us if we didn’t? B-o-r-i-n-g if we had a cell, right? A quick text—meet us at Haymarket we’ll be standing by the bearded man who smells of urine, but sings a mean version of No Woman No Cry-well that would have ruined a classic story. Really, it would have.
As I sit here I can think of many, many, many stories that would have been ruined if we had a cell phone. And that’s just me. Think of the change in sitcoms, Laverne and Shirley? The Brady Bunch? Three’s Company? These guys would never make it now. The cell phone would ruin every single plot from those shows. And how about you? How many good stories are foiled because you can remedy things quickly and painlessly with your Droid?
And yes, the truth is in the real world I rely more on conveniences than great stories to get me through my day. I am the first person to nosedive into a panic attack as soon as my iPhone shows signs of low battery. Still, the storyteller in me can’t help but wonder how much laughter has been lost to this mega-invention. I don’t think there’s an app. for that-at least not yet.
No you go to tell a great story about how you were being chased by hungry elephants and someone in your audience stops you mid sentence…Why didn’t you just call the zoo? Why didn’t you dial 911? Did you take a photo? Why wasn’t this posted on your facebook? And if you can somehow get past that party-pooper there will be someone else fact checking on their phone and hollering out that elephants are vegetarians-so what the heck was the danger anyway?
I have had so many times when I could have had a great story in my midst, but instead my cell phone sweeps in and saves the day. I'm sure you know the feeling. Flat tire? Call for help-no story there. Are you lost? Google directions-no story there. About to be embarrassed because you’ve bumped into an old boyfriend and you’ve forgotten his name? Fake a sneeze, turn around text your friend Michelle and voila, you’ve saved face, but alas another anecdote foiled.
At least I’m in my 30s so I have years and years of pre-technology stories to share. In fact I don’t even know if Mike and I would be married today if we had a cell phone back in 1995 when we ran out of gas on Route 3. We were in this big orange truck I think it belonged to his friend BJ…hang on let me text BJ and ask him….I’m back, yep it was BJ’s truck a 1984 Chevy pickup, and the gas gauge was broken. We were heading from my swinging bachelorette pad in Boston (aka my tiny bedroom in the apartment I shared with my parents, sister and six guinea pigs in Malden) to Mike’s place on the Cape. We were in the early days of dating, still getting to know each other. We were driving along the highway, (listening to a mixed tape I’m sure), when we ran out of gas. Mike managed to get us over to the shoulder and we sat there for a few moments. Now, if this had been 2011, we would have called someone to come help us…or better yet, maybe we would have just sent a text. Either way that would have been the end of the story. But we didn’t have a cell phone, so we made a decision. We hopped out of the truck and wandered down route 3 for about 2 miles, walked off an exit ramp and entered the town of Plymouth. Just two miles, sure, but did I mention it was about 95 degrees in the shade? Did you focus on the fact that we were walking on a highway in MASSACHUSETTS where drivers are nicknamed Massholes or a reason. Nonetheless, we arrived in Plymouth, got a gas can from the hardware store, filled it with gas and still had enough money to buy a heavenly Reese’s ice cream bar (hmm I wonder if they still make those? I’ll have to Google that when I’m done with this blog). We trudged back onto the highway, managed to get a ride from two women in a van-sure the van wreaked of freshly smoked weed- but who are we to turn down a free ride? Somehow it was actually a great experience. Mike thought it was cool that I was so laid back about the whole thing, and I thought it was gallant of him to use his last dollar to buy me an ice cream. We joke that this was the day that we knew we had a future together. This is something we might not have discovered if we could have just called someone for help.
I have so many great stories that could be instantly ruined by the introduction of the cell phone. There was the time my friend Jenn was supposed to get on the T at Oak Grove station and a friend and I would hop on that same train at Malden Station (one stop later), from there we would all ride the T into town (Boston). For some reason-and this has nothing to do with Jenn being, well, Jenn-when the train pulled up and the doors opened we got on using one set of doors only to see her get off using the other set. I can still see her confused face and her hands reaching for the glass as we streaked by heading into town. Where would we meet? Which stop were we getting off? Should we go back? Would she know how to find us if we didn’t? B-o-r-i-n-g if we had a cell, right? A quick text—meet us at Haymarket we’ll be standing by the bearded man who smells of urine, but sings a mean version of No Woman No Cry-well that would have ruined a classic story. Really, it would have.
As I sit here I can think of many, many, many stories that would have been ruined if we had a cell phone. And that’s just me. Think of the change in sitcoms, Laverne and Shirley? The Brady Bunch? Three’s Company? These guys would never make it now. The cell phone would ruin every single plot from those shows. And how about you? How many good stories are foiled because you can remedy things quickly and painlessly with your Droid?
And yes, the truth is in the real world I rely more on conveniences than great stories to get me through my day. I am the first person to nosedive into a panic attack as soon as my iPhone shows signs of low battery. Still, the storyteller in me can’t help but wonder how much laughter has been lost to this mega-invention. I don’t think there’s an app. for that-at least not yet.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
I Gave At The Office
I hate to sound like an old lady, but back in my day you could walk through the mall and not get stopped every two feet by someone wanting to sell you something. And I hate saying no to people, which makes things a hundred times worse. My typical mall trip consists of me entering and getting swept up by some kiosk worker who wants to straighten my hair, after I have my new cute hairdo I go ahead and get my photo on a mug(don’t worry I make sure there’s no leftover teriyaki in my teeth from the free sample forced on me in the food court). Next I am talked into buying a new cell phone cover to go with the new phone I am unwittingly about to purchase from the guy two kiosks down. Soon I’m entering a drawing to win a new car; meanwhile some random woman is buffing my nails. I take a rest from this whirlwind trip by taking a survey. Then I get some feathers in my straight hair, buy a remote control flying saucer and finally splurge on my eighth pair of super fuzzy slippers. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, the slippers aren’t that fuzzy.
And it’s not just the mall. Grocery stores are bad, too. Do you know how many petitions I’ve signed? Do you know how many tubs of popcorn I’ve purchased from the Boy Scouts? And don’t even get me started on those adorable little girls peddling their sinister Thin Mints. It’s enough to drive a nice girl crazy.
Well, here’s a little irony for you, I’ve been known to stand in the grocery store aggravating customers, too. Yep, I do this once a month for a local charity. There I stand, just inside the grocery store, papers in hand, waiting for someone to make eye contact and then I make my move.
I approach with a smile, look into their eyes and explain that I am collecting groceries for a local food bank. I then hand them the paper, which happens to be a list of items the food bank needs most. Yes, I’m just there to do something good with no ulterior motive. I’m not selling anything and not trying to give away prizes, raffle tickets, or even trying to get petitions signed. However, the truth is at least 40% of the people who come into the grocery store are just exasperated by the sight of me.
One look at me and their faces contort into some sort of grimace. The look says “I know your kind lady, back off.” I’m not gonna lie, it’s a little slap to the ego when someone doesn’t want to give me a chance. Luckily, I can handle a touch of rejection here and there. In fact I’ve come to enjoy some of the more clever avoidance techniques.
a. The cell phone call—Upon seeing me, the guilty party lifts his phone to his
ear and begins to babble away. I know this is a fake because 1. He is usually holding the phone upside down and 2. Talking on the phone rather than texting is sooooo 2008.
b. The sudden interest in your mate-You can see the couple approaching through the parking lot, she’s got her arms folded tightly across the chest and he is fumbling with the zipper on his coat. There’s about a city block’s worth of distance between the two of them before they see me. Then right on cue we make eye contact and she starts fawning all over him, high-pitched giggle, hand on his arm. For his part, he stands there like a deer in the headlights, as he has no idea why after 22 years of marriage she has decided to actually speak to him. She usually then digs her nails into his arm, grits her teeth and then says something inaudible, but effective. They quickly walk away from me.
c. The Ooh I forgot something in the car- These people who don’t typically wander around town making loud blanket statements, suddenly decide to announce to the entire front end of the store that they have forgotten something in the car. They pivot around, leave and then either use the entrance at the other end of the store, or they come back in a minute gabbing away on their upside down phone.
There are more avoiders, too. The people who think the floor is suddenly so interesting they can’t keep their eyes off of it; the people who wait for a crowd to walk in and then quickly follow behind; or the people who have a sudden urge to pick up the nearest ketchup bottle and read it word for word. There are people who try to wait me out, too. They stand by the carts and the hand sanitizer taking as long as they possibly can in the entryway in hopes they will outlast me. These people, the avoiders, are likely good generous people. They might even be interested in helping out the local food bank. I’ll never know because they won’t let me get within a football field of their personal space.
Even so, the avoiders are preferable to the uninformed rejecters. These are the people who look you right in the eye and say “No Thanks,” or “Not Interested,” Before you can even tell them what you are up to. And even these people are, of course, preferable to the people who do listen and then follow up with some sort of cutting remark, rather than a polite “Not today”. I am talking about the ones who have lines such as “Oh you’re collecting for the food bank, good for you.” Or “Sorry, I don’t believe in charities”. My personal favorite was when someone stopped on his way out and made a point to say, “Who could say no to you?” he then left without giving anything. Ouch.
I’m sure many people have their reasons for saying no, but after several “No thank yous,” and” Not interesteds” I begin to wonder why they can’t just take the paper from me and pretend to show some enthusiasm. Then when they walk by me later they can say something coy like “Oh I forgot, catch you next time.” No harm done, no feelings hurt. I mean that’s what I’d do. Then I’d open my purse, pull out one of the several phones I purchased from the mall, put it to my ear, and pretend to give someone a call.
And it’s not just the mall. Grocery stores are bad, too. Do you know how many petitions I’ve signed? Do you know how many tubs of popcorn I’ve purchased from the Boy Scouts? And don’t even get me started on those adorable little girls peddling their sinister Thin Mints. It’s enough to drive a nice girl crazy.
Well, here’s a little irony for you, I’ve been known to stand in the grocery store aggravating customers, too. Yep, I do this once a month for a local charity. There I stand, just inside the grocery store, papers in hand, waiting for someone to make eye contact and then I make my move.
I approach with a smile, look into their eyes and explain that I am collecting groceries for a local food bank. I then hand them the paper, which happens to be a list of items the food bank needs most. Yes, I’m just there to do something good with no ulterior motive. I’m not selling anything and not trying to give away prizes, raffle tickets, or even trying to get petitions signed. However, the truth is at least 40% of the people who come into the grocery store are just exasperated by the sight of me.
One look at me and their faces contort into some sort of grimace. The look says “I know your kind lady, back off.” I’m not gonna lie, it’s a little slap to the ego when someone doesn’t want to give me a chance. Luckily, I can handle a touch of rejection here and there. In fact I’ve come to enjoy some of the more clever avoidance techniques.
a. The cell phone call—Upon seeing me, the guilty party lifts his phone to his
ear and begins to babble away. I know this is a fake because 1. He is usually holding the phone upside down and 2. Talking on the phone rather than texting is sooooo 2008.
b. The sudden interest in your mate-You can see the couple approaching through the parking lot, she’s got her arms folded tightly across the chest and he is fumbling with the zipper on his coat. There’s about a city block’s worth of distance between the two of them before they see me. Then right on cue we make eye contact and she starts fawning all over him, high-pitched giggle, hand on his arm. For his part, he stands there like a deer in the headlights, as he has no idea why after 22 years of marriage she has decided to actually speak to him. She usually then digs her nails into his arm, grits her teeth and then says something inaudible, but effective. They quickly walk away from me.
c. The Ooh I forgot something in the car- These people who don’t typically wander around town making loud blanket statements, suddenly decide to announce to the entire front end of the store that they have forgotten something in the car. They pivot around, leave and then either use the entrance at the other end of the store, or they come back in a minute gabbing away on their upside down phone.
There are more avoiders, too. The people who think the floor is suddenly so interesting they can’t keep their eyes off of it; the people who wait for a crowd to walk in and then quickly follow behind; or the people who have a sudden urge to pick up the nearest ketchup bottle and read it word for word. There are people who try to wait me out, too. They stand by the carts and the hand sanitizer taking as long as they possibly can in the entryway in hopes they will outlast me. These people, the avoiders, are likely good generous people. They might even be interested in helping out the local food bank. I’ll never know because they won’t let me get within a football field of their personal space.
Even so, the avoiders are preferable to the uninformed rejecters. These are the people who look you right in the eye and say “No Thanks,” or “Not Interested,” Before you can even tell them what you are up to. And even these people are, of course, preferable to the people who do listen and then follow up with some sort of cutting remark, rather than a polite “Not today”. I am talking about the ones who have lines such as “Oh you’re collecting for the food bank, good for you.” Or “Sorry, I don’t believe in charities”. My personal favorite was when someone stopped on his way out and made a point to say, “Who could say no to you?” he then left without giving anything. Ouch.
I’m sure many people have their reasons for saying no, but after several “No thank yous,” and” Not interesteds” I begin to wonder why they can’t just take the paper from me and pretend to show some enthusiasm. Then when they walk by me later they can say something coy like “Oh I forgot, catch you next time.” No harm done, no feelings hurt. I mean that’s what I’d do. Then I’d open my purse, pull out one of the several phones I purchased from the mall, put it to my ear, and pretend to give someone a call.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The Professional
This summer I spent a couple of weeks with my family in Massachusetts. Though on most visits we pile into my mom’ car like a bunch of clowns, this year I decided to splurge on a rental. One morning, following a shopping trip to Barnes and Noble, I headed over to the car. After setting my iphone in the passenger seat of my rental car, locking the doors and organizing some bags in the trunk, I realized the keys to the rental were not in my hands, nor were they in my purse. Upon further investigation they were not on the ground, not visibly in the car and not back in the bookstore. Yes, that leaves one place only-securely shut in the trunk.
What’s a damsel in distress to do? Call her daddy, of course. So in I went to Barnes and Noble to borrow the phone, remember my own phone was locked tightly in the car. I asked my dad if he’d swing by Hertz and get me a spare key. Unfortunately, when I called Hertz they said they didn’t keep extra keys in the office, but I could use their roadside service. You know that service they offer you when you pick up your rental car, the one that will cost you more than you originally planned to spend, and the one that, if you are like me, you refuse, because you won’t need it anyway? Let’s cut to the chase, I didn’t get the driver road side assistance from Hertz, I don’t have AAA, and neither do my parents. I had an inkling that we had some sort of roadside service through our insurance company, but never cared much to jot that info down. So now I’ve called my dad, called Hertz, called their roadside assistance for a price check, but the words “up to $200 to break into your trunk if you didn't purchase our insurance,” gave me pause. My next call was to Mike who was 3,000 miles away (if Barnes and Noble is the next to file for bankruptcy it’s probably due to my long distance calls). I knew he would have the insurance info, but guess who wasn’t answering his phone.
I wandered out to the parking lot and saw a familiar white car approaching. It was my mom and my aunt in the front; and in the back seat, with an amused little smirk on her face was one of the most organized people I know-my daughter (the smile read this would never have happened if you invited me along). No offense to this trio, but I couldn’t help but wonder why my dad sent them and what help they were going to provide. Then I saw my mom’s phone glimmering in the sunlight. I borrowed it to call Mike again and this time he answered. He hung up to call the insurance company. Mom and Maddee frolicked into Starbucks without a care in the world, while Auntie Sue decided to stake out a car with a firefighter sticker in the back. “If he’s on the fire department, he’ll have a Slim Jim,” she declared knowingly through puffs on her Marlboros. As for me, I just leaned on the rental and waited.
I wasn’t standing there long when in rolled my dad with a wire snake in hand. He got out of his car, waved to my aunt (who was still on her mission to find the off duty firefighter) and got down to business. He proceeded to feed the wire through the driver side window trying to somehow grab the latch, unlock the door and then, of course, pop the trunk. If I thought it was a weak plan, my dad thought it genius. I kept my mouth shut. In no time a nicely dressed man with slicked back hair, too much cologne and a huge gold watch was by my dad’s side. “I think I can help you,” he assured my dad and put his hand out for my dad to hand over the snake. The two of them took turns working the wire. Though cooperating, they were more like adversaries than friends, each trying to prove to the other their skills in, well, in breaking locks I guess. My self-appointed job was to chime in every now and again about how this was actually a rental car and the fact that they were scratching the paint off the driver side door was not really all that helpful. They responded to my nagging by ignoring me entirely. After several minutes and a bloody knuckle, our new friend tossed the snake back to my dad, shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
As my dad continued to work the lock on his own, Maddee and mom came to report that Mike called on my mom’s phone. He wanted to let me know that someone was dispatched to help us, but they didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive. Mike, wasn’t thinking and gave them my number-yes on my phone I had no access to-and they were going to call that phone when they were on their way. As I took in Mike’s message, I noticed an older gentleman approach my dad. This guy was all Townie with his white hair, blue eyes and thick, thick, Boston accent.* “Oh let me help yous,” he offered. I could envision him in the days of his youth, breaking locks and hotwiring cars to take on joyrides through the neighborhood. “Listen, let me run home and I’ll get a wire hangah. I helped some lady about a year back unlock her cah.” “Don’t bother,” answers my dad and just as I think he’s going to brush this guy off, he continues, “I brought a hanger, too, it’s in my Explorer.” My dad hands the guy the drain snake and heads to his Explorer. This guy works twice as well as the first guy in scraping paint off the door, but his accuracy at grabbing the latch is just as poor. It doesn’t take long before he bails, too.
Around this time my aunt leaves her post at the firefighter’s car and heads into Starbucks. She comes back to report that Mike has straightened out the phone number situation and that help should be here in about twenty minutes. I tried to call my dad off, but it’s as if the twenty minute window made him work twice as hard. And just as he hits his groove, another man approaches. I couldn’t help but wonder if Barnes and Noble parking lot was a secret meeting spot for recovering car thieves. This guy, in his early twenties, has a slim jim in his hand. My dad says something about “Never trust a guy who carries his own slim jim,” but steps aside, nonetheless. Like I said, each man that approaches is a genuine car thief in my active imagination, but this guy makes me think I’m not imagining a thing. “Okay, first thing we gutta do is find out if she [meaning the car] has side airbags.” I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know it’s a rental.” He peers in the window for a moment and then looks at me, “Sorry, can’t do it. She’s got side airbags. If I hit the airbag release instead of the lock while I’m leaning over, the airbags are going to come up at me, break my neck and kill me.” I must have had a strange look on my face. “It happened to my buddy,” he casually stated as he put the slim jim in his back pocket, scoped out the parking lot and walked away.
Having had his share of excitement for the day, my dad packed in the wire snakes and hangers and went home for a nap. My mother and Madison went into Staples to do some shopping and my aunt sat on the curb outside of Barnes and Noble, keeping a vigil for that elusive firefighter. Soon a vehicle with the words Search and Rescue printed on the side pulled up. The driver with clipboard in hand approached me. With his icy green eyes and his tight shirt, this guy looked more like the lead singer of the next best boy band, than he did a locksmith. However, I am not joking when I say he had the car unlocked in under a minute. “Wow, that was fast,” I noted. “Well,” he replied with what I am sure was a wink, “I have had a lot of practice jimmying locks; after all, I’m a professional.”
*If you are not from the Greater Boston area, Please, I beg of you, do not attempt to read this passage aloud with a fake Boston accent. Thank you.
What’s a damsel in distress to do? Call her daddy, of course. So in I went to Barnes and Noble to borrow the phone, remember my own phone was locked tightly in the car. I asked my dad if he’d swing by Hertz and get me a spare key. Unfortunately, when I called Hertz they said they didn’t keep extra keys in the office, but I could use their roadside service. You know that service they offer you when you pick up your rental car, the one that will cost you more than you originally planned to spend, and the one that, if you are like me, you refuse, because you won’t need it anyway? Let’s cut to the chase, I didn’t get the driver road side assistance from Hertz, I don’t have AAA, and neither do my parents. I had an inkling that we had some sort of roadside service through our insurance company, but never cared much to jot that info down. So now I’ve called my dad, called Hertz, called their roadside assistance for a price check, but the words “up to $200 to break into your trunk if you didn't purchase our insurance,” gave me pause. My next call was to Mike who was 3,000 miles away (if Barnes and Noble is the next to file for bankruptcy it’s probably due to my long distance calls). I knew he would have the insurance info, but guess who wasn’t answering his phone.
I wandered out to the parking lot and saw a familiar white car approaching. It was my mom and my aunt in the front; and in the back seat, with an amused little smirk on her face was one of the most organized people I know-my daughter (the smile read this would never have happened if you invited me along). No offense to this trio, but I couldn’t help but wonder why my dad sent them and what help they were going to provide. Then I saw my mom’s phone glimmering in the sunlight. I borrowed it to call Mike again and this time he answered. He hung up to call the insurance company. Mom and Maddee frolicked into Starbucks without a care in the world, while Auntie Sue decided to stake out a car with a firefighter sticker in the back. “If he’s on the fire department, he’ll have a Slim Jim,” she declared knowingly through puffs on her Marlboros. As for me, I just leaned on the rental and waited.
I wasn’t standing there long when in rolled my dad with a wire snake in hand. He got out of his car, waved to my aunt (who was still on her mission to find the off duty firefighter) and got down to business. He proceeded to feed the wire through the driver side window trying to somehow grab the latch, unlock the door and then, of course, pop the trunk. If I thought it was a weak plan, my dad thought it genius. I kept my mouth shut. In no time a nicely dressed man with slicked back hair, too much cologne and a huge gold watch was by my dad’s side. “I think I can help you,” he assured my dad and put his hand out for my dad to hand over the snake. The two of them took turns working the wire. Though cooperating, they were more like adversaries than friends, each trying to prove to the other their skills in, well, in breaking locks I guess. My self-appointed job was to chime in every now and again about how this was actually a rental car and the fact that they were scratching the paint off the driver side door was not really all that helpful. They responded to my nagging by ignoring me entirely. After several minutes and a bloody knuckle, our new friend tossed the snake back to my dad, shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
As my dad continued to work the lock on his own, Maddee and mom came to report that Mike called on my mom’s phone. He wanted to let me know that someone was dispatched to help us, but they didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive. Mike, wasn’t thinking and gave them my number-yes on my phone I had no access to-and they were going to call that phone when they were on their way. As I took in Mike’s message, I noticed an older gentleman approach my dad. This guy was all Townie with his white hair, blue eyes and thick, thick, Boston accent.* “Oh let me help yous,” he offered. I could envision him in the days of his youth, breaking locks and hotwiring cars to take on joyrides through the neighborhood. “Listen, let me run home and I’ll get a wire hangah. I helped some lady about a year back unlock her cah.” “Don’t bother,” answers my dad and just as I think he’s going to brush this guy off, he continues, “I brought a hanger, too, it’s in my Explorer.” My dad hands the guy the drain snake and heads to his Explorer. This guy works twice as well as the first guy in scraping paint off the door, but his accuracy at grabbing the latch is just as poor. It doesn’t take long before he bails, too.
Around this time my aunt leaves her post at the firefighter’s car and heads into Starbucks. She comes back to report that Mike has straightened out the phone number situation and that help should be here in about twenty minutes. I tried to call my dad off, but it’s as if the twenty minute window made him work twice as hard. And just as he hits his groove, another man approaches. I couldn’t help but wonder if Barnes and Noble parking lot was a secret meeting spot for recovering car thieves. This guy, in his early twenties, has a slim jim in his hand. My dad says something about “Never trust a guy who carries his own slim jim,” but steps aside, nonetheless. Like I said, each man that approaches is a genuine car thief in my active imagination, but this guy makes me think I’m not imagining a thing. “Okay, first thing we gutta do is find out if she [meaning the car] has side airbags.” I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know it’s a rental.” He peers in the window for a moment and then looks at me, “Sorry, can’t do it. She’s got side airbags. If I hit the airbag release instead of the lock while I’m leaning over, the airbags are going to come up at me, break my neck and kill me.” I must have had a strange look on my face. “It happened to my buddy,” he casually stated as he put the slim jim in his back pocket, scoped out the parking lot and walked away.
Having had his share of excitement for the day, my dad packed in the wire snakes and hangers and went home for a nap. My mother and Madison went into Staples to do some shopping and my aunt sat on the curb outside of Barnes and Noble, keeping a vigil for that elusive firefighter. Soon a vehicle with the words Search and Rescue printed on the side pulled up. The driver with clipboard in hand approached me. With his icy green eyes and his tight shirt, this guy looked more like the lead singer of the next best boy band, than he did a locksmith. However, I am not joking when I say he had the car unlocked in under a minute. “Wow, that was fast,” I noted. “Well,” he replied with what I am sure was a wink, “I have had a lot of practice jimmying locks; after all, I’m a professional.”
*If you are not from the Greater Boston area, Please, I beg of you, do not attempt to read this passage aloud with a fake Boston accent. Thank you.
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