This really needs to be presented to you as a video. It came to me that way and I hope to be able to show it to you also, but not today.
Today, I just need to tell the world that kids of all ages can be good, creative and caring. I am taking the term kids to its extended limit because I am referring to college "kids" in this story. We seem to hear only about the drugs, the rapes, the car wrecks, the frat/sorority parties gone wrong, the fixation with clothes carrying certain labels or the drinking. These are realities, but do not pertain to all.
I just spent two weeks on a state university about 30 minutes from my home. One week was to prepare for the second week. The crowds from previous years were discribed, the tension caused by the high costs of the textbooks and the other teaching materials required, the anxiety of the students beginning a new semester and the 9 to 12 hour days required to handle all of that.
I worked in a textbook store where most of the texts are sold for the university's ever-increasing number of students both pre and post graduate. There may have been more strain this semester because of the economy. Many of these students came from homes both average and affluent where sacrifices had to be made for education. The cost of a backpack inspired creativity in book toting and I saw some clever renovations of purses and book bags and camping packs. No matter, the student is the important element.
This university's student union is the largest in the nation and will begin renovations very soon which will improve and update an already effective structure. It is big....really big. Students had trouble finding the right rooms or service areas or the post office or computer study areas. They did not, it seemed, have trouble finding the food areas. They asked for instructions to locate every conceivable room in that huge building, but there was never a questions, not one, about where to find food.
The energy level reached an almost visible point about mid-day each day. The students were excited and nervous and some were scared. They had expectations which allowed no time for negatives. They had a schedule and everything had to be made available to them so that schedule would be met. Please don't tell them that a book is unavailable or a class closed. Whatever their motives, they were ready to go and knew where they were going.
There was also an amazing lack of presence in their surroundings. They were on their phones either talking or texting; they were plugged into their pods; they were entering data into their notebooks and laptops. They needed to be brought into the physical world on occasion and looked surprised when their name was called or a request was made for ID or credit cards.
I thought some students were going to pass out when the register totalled their charges, some seemed about to cry, some looked at the parent with them to determine the parent's reaction before releasing their own and some were almost giddy with relief when the total was less than expected. However, not one student was rude, snotty, crude, flip, uncontrolled, etc. They were great! Each one was courteous, pleasant and helpful. They signed and checked whatever and whenever required. They walked away with bags equalling 25% of their own weight without complaint. They stood for 30 minutes or more without aggravation being noticeable. They smiled and made jokes and offered help to others and were patient almost without exception. Parents would have been very proud.
I came home the last day of campus work to see a video on NPR reflecting the same kindness and concern for others that I had just seen on our local campus. The video was from UCLA and involved an unknown number of students as only three played an active role.
The subjects were a mother squirrel and her adolescent-size child. She casually jumped a 4' solid concrete wall which was in their path. The child squirrel sat by the wall for a while seeming to estimate his chances of having the same success. He seemed to think they were....not so good. He tried, however. The wall gave him no way to get traction and no spot for taking a hold on anything. He tried again and slammed into the wall again. The mother jumped down and began coaxing quietly. She was obviously agitated, but refused to leave her offspring. He tried yet again and again. The mom jumped back up and called encouragement from the top of the wall. All of this was to no avail.
A tall male figure appeared from the edge of the video, slowly placed a backpack again the wall and then backed away off screen. It was an obvious effort at steps. The squirrel immediately began to evaluate its use and made an effort by running up the pack. The pack was, unfortunately, just short of the needed height so the young squirrel couldn't quite make the jump.
Another figure moved slowly toward the wall with a gigantic backpack which seemed to almost touch the top of the wall. The little squirrel needed no encouragement, took a run and scaled the pack straight to his mom. I didn't hear them, but I feel certain that there was applause and yelling from the unseen students.
We may be leaving this world in the hands of a generation of thoughtful, creative and caring people. They just may do a better job than we have.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Grandparents
Are you a grandparent yet? Have you only just become a parent so give you some time? Are you a parent who is so exhausted and stressed that you cannot believe you will live long enough to ever be a grandparent? Well, if you are already a grandparent, I cannot tell you anything because you already know how wonderful it is.....at least most of the time. If you are not yet, the best will just get better.
Grandparenting was always more of an age category than an experience to be anticipated when I was younger. To think of myself as being called a grandmother was just not reality to me. I had but one child and she waited until after 30 for children so most of my life "grandmother" was not a considered definition for me. I just didn't believe that I could fill the shoes of my grandmothers....not that I would ever wear the shoes my grandmothers wore.
First of all, my grandmothers were the old-fashioned stereotype grandmothers. They were not very tall, had hugely developed mammary glands, carried at least 50 pounds of extra weight and cooked so well and so often that the weight was understandable. They also dressed rather grandmotherly. They wore those Dexter-type shoes that tied, never wore jeans or pants of any type and you could smell them about 10 minutes before they arrived. It wasn't a bad smell, but just a strong essence. One grandmother would put sugar in her mashed potatoes and the other grandmother would let us eat peaches until our teeth hurt. She would make the world's best cobblers from whatever peaches remained. I loved my grandmothers dearly.
They spoiled us in every way possible, but there were unquestionable rules of behavior. We must do the Captain Kangaroo please and thank you without reminders, we used "inside" voices inside anything including park pavilions, beach umbrellas, stadiums (most of the time) or outdoor concert shelters. They did not participate in corporal punishment child control, but they could make your legs fold with their eyes. All and all I had only pleasant experiences of grandparents, but I was in no hurry to actually be one.
Remember, for me, it was an age category.
My sister became a grandmother first and warmed to it like a kitten to a dish of milk. She is a natural. It is difficult for her as a grandmother because her 4(four) grandchildren live about 5 states away from her. She makes geography less of an obstacle by constant use of the cell phone and texting. Fed-EX and UPS must have declared a dividend when she began her constant present shipping. She lives in Las Vegas where you can find anything so her shopping list is always rather long. She is a great role model as a grandmother and I planned to follow her lead......but there was no hurry.
My kids (daughter and son-in-law) had substitute grandkids for me to spoil in the form of 3 little dogs. They are bichon frissee which roughly translated are white, curly haired, little animals with tongues. They show affection by licking with special target being the face. They are well-trained and will respond to my requests without too much complaint or delay. In general, they are delightful and I have watched them grow up with pleasure. These were my grandchildren. There was no hurry for others.
You know what is coming, don't you? Well, almost. I have two grandsons, but, as his dad says, one is a lot quieter than the other. The only way to live with the physical loss of a grandson has been to accept that there is a reason for everything that happens in our lives. I would really appreciate being privy to the bigger picture. I have needed to know reasons. Pain becomes almost unbearable when in the eyes of your child.
My grandson was born 3 years and has been in perpetual motion most of that time. He had been pretty comfortable before birth and the outside world was a bit of an aggravation to him for a few months. His parents became aware of terms such as sleep deprivation and stress in an entirely new context. The entire world could be held in one receiving blanket. His early difficulties are far behind us and the present child is more than could have been imagined. OK, here goes the grandmother, but I speak only truth. He IS the smartest and most beautiful baby boy in this or any world. He counts almost to 20, knows his alphabet, can sing many little songs and plays air guitar. His energy level is so high he could power jets and his inquisitive mind makes everyone stay alert and, hopefully, prepared. He is SO beautiful. His lashes shade his cheeks and his smile makes the worst day a delight. We are so very grateful for him.
Is grandmothering still an age thing? Probably, but who cares.
.
My son-in-law calls grandparents " big old wrinkled bags of love." Guess you need to know my son-in-law, but that is intended to be an expression of great love. He was very close to his grandparents and still has his grandmothers for whom he has great love and appreciation. My daughter has grandfathers who think she is almost perfect as well as her husband's grandmothers who have always been very loving and accepting of her.
Guess I am one of those bags now. Well, I choose to emphasize the love part and overlook the big, old, wrinkled and bag parts. I have things todo to get ready for my grandson's next visit.
Grandparenting was always more of an age category than an experience to be anticipated when I was younger. To think of myself as being called a grandmother was just not reality to me. I had but one child and she waited until after 30 for children so most of my life "grandmother" was not a considered definition for me. I just didn't believe that I could fill the shoes of my grandmothers....not that I would ever wear the shoes my grandmothers wore.
First of all, my grandmothers were the old-fashioned stereotype grandmothers. They were not very tall, had hugely developed mammary glands, carried at least 50 pounds of extra weight and cooked so well and so often that the weight was understandable. They also dressed rather grandmotherly. They wore those Dexter-type shoes that tied, never wore jeans or pants of any type and you could smell them about 10 minutes before they arrived. It wasn't a bad smell, but just a strong essence. One grandmother would put sugar in her mashed potatoes and the other grandmother would let us eat peaches until our teeth hurt. She would make the world's best cobblers from whatever peaches remained. I loved my grandmothers dearly.
They spoiled us in every way possible, but there were unquestionable rules of behavior. We must do the Captain Kangaroo please and thank you without reminders, we used "inside" voices inside anything including park pavilions, beach umbrellas, stadiums (most of the time) or outdoor concert shelters. They did not participate in corporal punishment child control, but they could make your legs fold with their eyes. All and all I had only pleasant experiences of grandparents, but I was in no hurry to actually be one.
Remember, for me, it was an age category.
My sister became a grandmother first and warmed to it like a kitten to a dish of milk. She is a natural. It is difficult for her as a grandmother because her 4(four) grandchildren live about 5 states away from her. She makes geography less of an obstacle by constant use of the cell phone and texting. Fed-EX and UPS must have declared a dividend when she began her constant present shipping. She lives in Las Vegas where you can find anything so her shopping list is always rather long. She is a great role model as a grandmother and I planned to follow her lead......but there was no hurry.
My kids (daughter and son-in-law) had substitute grandkids for me to spoil in the form of 3 little dogs. They are bichon frissee which roughly translated are white, curly haired, little animals with tongues. They show affection by licking with special target being the face. They are well-trained and will respond to my requests without too much complaint or delay. In general, they are delightful and I have watched them grow up with pleasure. These were my grandchildren. There was no hurry for others.
You know what is coming, don't you? Well, almost. I have two grandsons, but, as his dad says, one is a lot quieter than the other. The only way to live with the physical loss of a grandson has been to accept that there is a reason for everything that happens in our lives. I would really appreciate being privy to the bigger picture. I have needed to know reasons. Pain becomes almost unbearable when in the eyes of your child.
My grandson was born 3 years and has been in perpetual motion most of that time. He had been pretty comfortable before birth and the outside world was a bit of an aggravation to him for a few months. His parents became aware of terms such as sleep deprivation and stress in an entirely new context. The entire world could be held in one receiving blanket. His early difficulties are far behind us and the present child is more than could have been imagined. OK, here goes the grandmother, but I speak only truth. He IS the smartest and most beautiful baby boy in this or any world. He counts almost to 20, knows his alphabet, can sing many little songs and plays air guitar. His energy level is so high he could power jets and his inquisitive mind makes everyone stay alert and, hopefully, prepared. He is SO beautiful. His lashes shade his cheeks and his smile makes the worst day a delight. We are so very grateful for him.
Is grandmothering still an age thing? Probably, but who cares.
.
My son-in-law calls grandparents " big old wrinkled bags of love." Guess you need to know my son-in-law, but that is intended to be an expression of great love. He was very close to his grandparents and still has his grandmothers for whom he has great love and appreciation. My daughter has grandfathers who think she is almost perfect as well as her husband's grandmothers who have always been very loving and accepting of her.
Guess I am one of those bags now. Well, I choose to emphasize the love part and overlook the big, old, wrinkled and bag parts. I have things todo to get ready for my grandson's next visit.
Position/Order
Does it really matter what birth position you hold? Were you an only child, firstborn, middle, or youngest? Does it matter? Does it influence the person you become as an adult?
I had always thought it did. I was firstborn and felt that position held responsibility which caused a person to grow-up faster. I considered myself an adult at age 12. That was also the year that I became a real member of my church and that seemed to me an adult behavior. I had a lot of psychology in college and there were strong views expressed that birth order was an indisputed influence. Our family heads, parents, both worked outside the home and my two sisters and I had a series of housekeepers or nannies or sitters or whatevers which was OK with all of us.
My just younger sister, however, felt that, as the middle child, she was fighting for a voice most of the time. Even experts seem to all feel that, if birth order does mean anything, it means the most to the middle child.
My sister grew into an extremely successful teacher with a great mind for facts and an ability to interact with just about anyone.
The youngest of us may be the most likely to prove the birth order influence. She was extremely opposed to authority when very young and continued to question authority throughout her life. She lives a unique life, but appears to be very satisfied with it.
I look back on the last few paragraphs and see that I do believe in the birth order influence. Isn't it interesting that just "talking" with you clarifies so much? Well, I suggest that you consider experts rather than my opinions. I have two with opposing views which, I hope, will help you to reach your own decision.
Mr. Frank Sulloway feels that your birth order influences as much as your gender. He wrote "Born to Rebel: Birth Order, Family Dynamics and Creative Lives". He briefly outlines the traits of the basic positions as: first born identifies with parents and are more conformist as adults. The younger are prone to challenge authority as a ploy to gain attention and this continues into adulthood.
The other side of this question is Mr. Dalton Conley who wrote "The Pecking Order" and says "birth order makes about as much sense as astrology, which is almost none." He feels that other factors such as a death in the family, financial difficulties, gender expectations, family roles and other random events are much more influential.
Ok, we have two authority figures if we want to go into a research situation. There are Many researchers available for both views, but, here are general traits of each birth position. You can decide for yourself.
The following are my summary of the generally accepted traits of each position.
Only children: Great deal like the first born, but on turbo. They are extremely responsible and like to do everything perfectly. They usually get along with people who are older. Some names we know who were only children are Robert de Niro, Elton John and Robin Williams.
First Born: These are goal setters, usually the most successful of the siblings, perfectionists and worriers. Some presidents were first born Truman, Johnson, Carter and George W. Bush. Several news anchors Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Ted Koppel.
Middle Children: Tend to rebel, be competitive, are flexible, peacemakers and highly social. We will recognize two rather prominent and successful middle children in David Letterman and Donald Trump.
Youngest: Feel they can do no wrong because they are usually spoiled by family, are risk takers , love attention, they are creative and usually have a good sense of humor. They can also be manipulative, persistent and frequently have problems with substance abuse and psychiatric disorders. Some well-known last borns are Ross Perot, Goldie Hawn, Jim Carrey, Jay Leno and Steve Martin.
The people who strongly feel birth order is key to personality analysis have some caveats they feel will alter order rules:
If there are several years between siblings, the birth order starts over.
A difference in gender causes the 1st born of the next gender to have traits of first born
Deaths of siblings, adoptions, step-siblings and divorce which causes siblings to live separately will influence order traits.
I cannot give much experience-driven information. I had one child and the attempt to help her grow with as few traits of the "only" is the hardest and most wonderful work I have ever done. It is work to raise a child.
It is exhausting, stressful, uncertain, thrilling and frequently indescribably frightening, but the rewards last a life time. Please enjoy your life....every day. It is what you make it!
I had always thought it did. I was firstborn and felt that position held responsibility which caused a person to grow-up faster. I considered myself an adult at age 12. That was also the year that I became a real member of my church and that seemed to me an adult behavior. I had a lot of psychology in college and there were strong views expressed that birth order was an indisputed influence. Our family heads, parents, both worked outside the home and my two sisters and I had a series of housekeepers or nannies or sitters or whatevers which was OK with all of us.
My just younger sister, however, felt that, as the middle child, she was fighting for a voice most of the time. Even experts seem to all feel that, if birth order does mean anything, it means the most to the middle child.
My sister grew into an extremely successful teacher with a great mind for facts and an ability to interact with just about anyone.
The youngest of us may be the most likely to prove the birth order influence. She was extremely opposed to authority when very young and continued to question authority throughout her life. She lives a unique life, but appears to be very satisfied with it.
I look back on the last few paragraphs and see that I do believe in the birth order influence. Isn't it interesting that just "talking" with you clarifies so much? Well, I suggest that you consider experts rather than my opinions. I have two with opposing views which, I hope, will help you to reach your own decision.
Mr. Frank Sulloway feels that your birth order influences as much as your gender. He wrote "Born to Rebel: Birth Order, Family Dynamics and Creative Lives". He briefly outlines the traits of the basic positions as: first born identifies with parents and are more conformist as adults. The younger are prone to challenge authority as a ploy to gain attention and this continues into adulthood.
The other side of this question is Mr. Dalton Conley who wrote "The Pecking Order" and says "birth order makes about as much sense as astrology, which is almost none." He feels that other factors such as a death in the family, financial difficulties, gender expectations, family roles and other random events are much more influential.
Ok, we have two authority figures if we want to go into a research situation. There are Many researchers available for both views, but, here are general traits of each birth position. You can decide for yourself.
The following are my summary of the generally accepted traits of each position.
Only children: Great deal like the first born, but on turbo. They are extremely responsible and like to do everything perfectly. They usually get along with people who are older. Some names we know who were only children are Robert de Niro, Elton John and Robin Williams.
First Born: These are goal setters, usually the most successful of the siblings, perfectionists and worriers. Some presidents were first born Truman, Johnson, Carter and George W. Bush. Several news anchors Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Ted Koppel.
Middle Children: Tend to rebel, be competitive, are flexible, peacemakers and highly social. We will recognize two rather prominent and successful middle children in David Letterman and Donald Trump.
Youngest: Feel they can do no wrong because they are usually spoiled by family, are risk takers , love attention, they are creative and usually have a good sense of humor. They can also be manipulative, persistent and frequently have problems with substance abuse and psychiatric disorders. Some well-known last borns are Ross Perot, Goldie Hawn, Jim Carrey, Jay Leno and Steve Martin.
The people who strongly feel birth order is key to personality analysis have some caveats they feel will alter order rules:
If there are several years between siblings, the birth order starts over.
A difference in gender causes the 1st born of the next gender to have traits of first born
Deaths of siblings, adoptions, step-siblings and divorce which causes siblings to live separately will influence order traits.
I cannot give much experience-driven information. I had one child and the attempt to help her grow with as few traits of the "only" is the hardest and most wonderful work I have ever done. It is work to raise a child.
It is exhausting, stressful, uncertain, thrilling and frequently indescribably frightening, but the rewards last a life time. Please enjoy your life....every day. It is what you make it!
Friday, August 28, 2009
An Optimistic Mind, Big Nerdy Heart
My husband is a goof. He's beautiful and adorable and smart and goofy. Often he creates words, he exaggerates at every opportunity, and he has a dream world in that cranium of his that sounds glorious and highly improbably.
Lately we have been looking at properties, so that we can escape the city and get a bit rural, get a little dirty and see how it feels. I just hope I don't see a snake, but that's an entirely different topic.
Anyway, when I've searched for homes with the realtors while my husband is working I must consider carefully if I could see myself living in the home. Is it really worthy of a return trip with my hubby, Oliver, to show him the place? Because if it isn't, I'm in trouble.
Oliver sees a home and envisions himself living there within the time it takes the realtor to walk to the lockbox on the door. My dear sweet Oliver is inspecting the landscape and mentally building a new brick mailbox before he steps over the threshold.
I think he could be at home in an igloo if it could just have a fireplace inside. A mud hut would be as attractive to him as a mansion because no matter the situation, in his mind everything is doable. Oh, a hole in the ceiling from a previous rainstorm? That's what tarps are for. Soft floors underneath the carpet? Fine. He doesn't like carpet, and isn't the dirt under the subfloor much less maintenance? I mean, it's dirt! Entirely liveable because he doesn't even know if we own a vacuum cleaner, much less in which closet it could be kept.
The last piece of acreage that we inspected we visited initially together. This is a dangerous proposition because if it is entirely horrible I have to think of ways for him to see that. Subtlety always works best with men of course. And in this case I was right to be nervous.
We couldn't go inside, as the owner was out of town, and needed to "straighten up" the place. Which left us the option of leaving or window shopping. We chose the latter.
The home was infested with animals who had been left to their own devices -- feces everywhere, the smell of cat urine floating out through the glass of the windows -- and we're terribly allergic to animals. The bathroom plumbing runs to a lagoon, which is a big puddle of crap, to put it bluntly. (And here we had thought, "Oh, what a pretty little pond!! (Long pause as smiles fade) Hmm. Do you smell something?") The kitchen was indescribable, literally, because every horizontal space was covered over with something moldy or gooey, probably permanently adhered.
But then I walked in the back yard, and saw the view from the hill. I'll take it!
And the kicker: Oliver loved everything about the place, pustules and all, except the color of the rotting hardi-board. "I can't live in a pink house. I'll paint it first thing."
He's never painted in his life.
And I feel tired.
Lately we have been looking at properties, so that we can escape the city and get a bit rural, get a little dirty and see how it feels. I just hope I don't see a snake, but that's an entirely different topic.
Anyway, when I've searched for homes with the realtors while my husband is working I must consider carefully if I could see myself living in the home. Is it really worthy of a return trip with my hubby, Oliver, to show him the place? Because if it isn't, I'm in trouble.
Oliver sees a home and envisions himself living there within the time it takes the realtor to walk to the lockbox on the door. My dear sweet Oliver is inspecting the landscape and mentally building a new brick mailbox before he steps over the threshold.
I think he could be at home in an igloo if it could just have a fireplace inside. A mud hut would be as attractive to him as a mansion because no matter the situation, in his mind everything is doable. Oh, a hole in the ceiling from a previous rainstorm? That's what tarps are for. Soft floors underneath the carpet? Fine. He doesn't like carpet, and isn't the dirt under the subfloor much less maintenance? I mean, it's dirt! Entirely liveable because he doesn't even know if we own a vacuum cleaner, much less in which closet it could be kept.
The last piece of acreage that we inspected we visited initially together. This is a dangerous proposition because if it is entirely horrible I have to think of ways for him to see that. Subtlety always works best with men of course. And in this case I was right to be nervous.
We couldn't go inside, as the owner was out of town, and needed to "straighten up" the place. Which left us the option of leaving or window shopping. We chose the latter.
The home was infested with animals who had been left to their own devices -- feces everywhere, the smell of cat urine floating out through the glass of the windows -- and we're terribly allergic to animals. The bathroom plumbing runs to a lagoon, which is a big puddle of crap, to put it bluntly. (And here we had thought, "Oh, what a pretty little pond!! (Long pause as smiles fade) Hmm. Do you smell something?") The kitchen was indescribable, literally, because every horizontal space was covered over with something moldy or gooey, probably permanently adhered.
But then I walked in the back yard, and saw the view from the hill. I'll take it!
And the kicker: Oliver loved everything about the place, pustules and all, except the color of the rotting hardi-board. "I can't live in a pink house. I'll paint it first thing."
He's never painted in his life.
And I feel tired.
A Treatise on a Woman's Wings
It's been joked about so often that people don't listen anymore: upper arm fat on women. It appears seemingly overnight. One day you're tight as a drum and the next day you're brushing your hair and think you may be having a sudden epileptic seizure because your arm won't stop moving.
My arms jiggle more than the first waterbed, the one created before they decided to include a baffle to squelch the waves.
I often think of my triceps as sails, beautiful billowing sails, aloft in the slightest breeze. Then reality comes back and I want to wash the sail with a soft cloth and fabric cleaner and tack that bad boy back to the boom. I've thought Velcro would work, just attach the fuzzy end to the lower flap and the sticky end up around the deltoid somewhere -- if I flip both of my arms forward at once I think I can create enough velocity that the skin will swing up and automatically reattach. Kind of like loading up my weapons, a new kind of "gun show!" It's that ripping sound that seems most disturbing, so I probably wouldn't take them down and let them air out often enough.
I briefly thought of a hook-and-eye contraption, but attaching the actual "eye" would require stitches of some sort and I'm desperately afraid of needles. Besides, it might rust should I perspire or get caught in a rain storm. (If my arms are securely positioned I might reconsider sleeveless tops and therefore be caught out in any sudden moisture. Gotta think of every angle, you see.)
Then there is the button and buttonhole thought, and I could even change the buttons to match latest trends! A simple pearl button for evenings out or a little wooden number for casual picnics with the family. But the buttonhole, the buttonhole is the catch, pardon the pun. A hole in my arm? That just sounds so unsightly.
When I'm at the newsracks I read all the latest magazines attesting to the idea that they have finally figured out the cure for bat flaps, but every single one of the exercises seems to boil down to tricep kick-backs and dips. (Check any of the latest women's fitness issues if you don't have the visual of these exercises. Trust me, they're printed in there somewhere.)
I've wrenched both elbows and broken the legs of two chairs trying those little exercise wonders. I'm done now. My furniture can't hack it any more.
I need to sign off now. I keep my elbows pinned to my sides whenever I write, type, drive, virtually anything, and sweat is starting to roll. It's not ideal, but at least with my arms pinned down I'm not going to flap myself off of the chair. Be glad you're not here, it's ugly.
My arms jiggle more than the first waterbed, the one created before they decided to include a baffle to squelch the waves.
I often think of my triceps as sails, beautiful billowing sails, aloft in the slightest breeze. Then reality comes back and I want to wash the sail with a soft cloth and fabric cleaner and tack that bad boy back to the boom. I've thought Velcro would work, just attach the fuzzy end to the lower flap and the sticky end up around the deltoid somewhere -- if I flip both of my arms forward at once I think I can create enough velocity that the skin will swing up and automatically reattach. Kind of like loading up my weapons, a new kind of "gun show!" It's that ripping sound that seems most disturbing, so I probably wouldn't take them down and let them air out often enough.
I briefly thought of a hook-and-eye contraption, but attaching the actual "eye" would require stitches of some sort and I'm desperately afraid of needles. Besides, it might rust should I perspire or get caught in a rain storm. (If my arms are securely positioned I might reconsider sleeveless tops and therefore be caught out in any sudden moisture. Gotta think of every angle, you see.)
Then there is the button and buttonhole thought, and I could even change the buttons to match latest trends! A simple pearl button for evenings out or a little wooden number for casual picnics with the family. But the buttonhole, the buttonhole is the catch, pardon the pun. A hole in my arm? That just sounds so unsightly.
When I'm at the newsracks I read all the latest magazines attesting to the idea that they have finally figured out the cure for bat flaps, but every single one of the exercises seems to boil down to tricep kick-backs and dips. (Check any of the latest women's fitness issues if you don't have the visual of these exercises. Trust me, they're printed in there somewhere.)
I've wrenched both elbows and broken the legs of two chairs trying those little exercise wonders. I'm done now. My furniture can't hack it any more.
I need to sign off now. I keep my elbows pinned to my sides whenever I write, type, drive, virtually anything, and sweat is starting to roll. It's not ideal, but at least with my arms pinned down I'm not going to flap myself off of the chair. Be glad you're not here, it's ugly.
Goodbye "Rainbow"
We assume that all things have a "life" expectancy; ourselves, our loved ones, our pets, our flowers...everything. It is often most difficult to say goodbye when we had not seriously considered the loss or the life time of something valuable to us. We were told today that a "goodbye" is necessary to the NPR program "Reading Rainbow". It has been a popular childrens' show for 26 years, hosted by LeVar Burton, famous for this gig as well as the role of Jordy in "Star Trek, The Next Generation." (I believe that's the proper Star Trek format, I need to refer to my geeky husband for confirmation.)
Facebook carried the NPR story about 1:00 CST today. In less than an hour 936 comments of protest appeared on the site. Each comment related the value of the show to their childhood and to their accomplishments as adults. A good point was made by many of those who were upset by the loss of this program. They felt that anyone can do or learn just about anything if there is a real drive or desire created for it, and Rainbow gave them that urge to learn.
The key to learning is creating the desire to learn. There are already hundreds of instruction sites, schools, videos, books, tutors, et cetera to teach a child to read, but all those learning sources will be limited in success if the student doesn't really want to read.
LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow made children want to learn to read. He made them see how they could use reading to be a part of the world, to travel anywhere they want at any time with just a book, to escape whatever is negative at that moment and make that moment one of discovery and fun. NPR is cancelling the show because they want shows that teach kids to read rather than shows that teach kids to want to read.
This sounds like a cyclical logic concocted to rid themselves of a program they no longer find relevant, no matter the public opinion. Someone wants funds to go elsewhere, and this is a quick fix. Otherwise, this move makes no sense. My son literally runs into the living room when he hears Burton's voice. He's even gone so far as to respond when he hears Burton playing Jordy as my husband flips the television channels searching for something decent to watch. Burton has created an excitement in my son -- he's shown my kid new worlds, new societies, new adventures every day. He has spoken of genealogy, Indian culture, oceanic life, as well as desert secrets in the Saguaro cactus.
I have gone to the library and deliberately found many of the books that Burton and the kids on the show introduce to viewers, and we've enjoyed every one. My son remembers the pictures on the covers of the books as the ones LeVar showed him.
This is a shame. It is reminiscent of the effort to make Dora the Explorer a Tweener. Whether canceling a show or suddenly changing it up, neither one is the right thing to do.
Facebook carried the NPR story about 1:00 CST today. In less than an hour 936 comments of protest appeared on the site. Each comment related the value of the show to their childhood and to their accomplishments as adults. A good point was made by many of those who were upset by the loss of this program. They felt that anyone can do or learn just about anything if there is a real drive or desire created for it, and Rainbow gave them that urge to learn.
The key to learning is creating the desire to learn. There are already hundreds of instruction sites, schools, videos, books, tutors, et cetera to teach a child to read, but all those learning sources will be limited in success if the student doesn't really want to read.
LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow made children want to learn to read. He made them see how they could use reading to be a part of the world, to travel anywhere they want at any time with just a book, to escape whatever is negative at that moment and make that moment one of discovery and fun. NPR is cancelling the show because they want shows that teach kids to read rather than shows that teach kids to want to read.
This sounds like a cyclical logic concocted to rid themselves of a program they no longer find relevant, no matter the public opinion. Someone wants funds to go elsewhere, and this is a quick fix. Otherwise, this move makes no sense. My son literally runs into the living room when he hears Burton's voice. He's even gone so far as to respond when he hears Burton playing Jordy as my husband flips the television channels searching for something decent to watch. Burton has created an excitement in my son -- he's shown my kid new worlds, new societies, new adventures every day. He has spoken of genealogy, Indian culture, oceanic life, as well as desert secrets in the Saguaro cactus.
I have gone to the library and deliberately found many of the books that Burton and the kids on the show introduce to viewers, and we've enjoyed every one. My son remembers the pictures on the covers of the books as the ones LeVar showed him.
This is a shame. It is reminiscent of the effort to make Dora the Explorer a Tweener. Whether canceling a show or suddenly changing it up, neither one is the right thing to do.
Canning is more than being fired
I find it serendipitous that the very same week I go to my cousin Fern's house to learn the fine art of pickling my favorite blog on the net features a story about canning strawberry jam (www.thepioneerwoman.com ) with complete descriptions and beautiful photography. She even referenced the same Ball book of canning that I had used only days ago.
This Ball book must be a jillion years old, more or less. Who knows how many printings this manuscript has undergone? It seems to be in every farm kitchen on the planet, replete with its own photos of the Olden Tymes. (My mother will reel when she sees that reference!!) I would have sworn I saw a few cows moseying into a few frames of film, a delightful backdrop to the steaming jars and studious, gingham-kerchiefed farm woman faces. Cows "moseyed" back then, you know, because they could go where they wanted without cars hitting them. It was a covered wagon fiesta! (Again, just kidding, Mom!)
The copy Fern uses is worn, tattered, splattered, and different shades of weathered oatmeal, handed down from her aunt. Actually Fern isn't sure that the book was a gift, or was it a loan, but she has assumed custody until something is said... And this crazy old book is still relevant! It is its own Bible of information about how to get started with preserving food, which foods may be put into jars and steamed or pressurized into the long wait for consumption, the concepts behind the procedures, why it's so important for every element of the process to be sterile and dust-free, and even how many years food can stay safely tucked into its own Mason jar. My mother-in-law seemed to think the shelf life was more than 25 years for some jars of peaches she had "preserved" in high school. She had to actually tell me that those nasty gelatinous blobs were peaches. Eew.
I'm sure one of my grandparents somewhere has their own copy. I should ask. I want to see just how "loved" -- I use that term facetiously, because of course canning wasn't about fun and trend, it was the way of life -- and worn their copy is. That would tell me volumes about how they lived their nutritional lives, and it would tell me a bit about their childhoods. I'm sure that the storing of food was not done solely by the matriarch of the family. That's what kids are for! Free labor. I'm sure some Saturday morning the children were lazily, stubbornly dragging their unwilling butts into the kitchen, dreading the day of hot steamy kitchen air rather than the numerous other glorious wide-open places kids would rather be. And if my grandparent tells it right, they'll give me lots of descriptors to really make me feel that heat and steam and anger and despair that lingered around the kids' heads...it'll be a great story.
This Ball book must be a jillion years old, more or less. Who knows how many printings this manuscript has undergone? It seems to be in every farm kitchen on the planet, replete with its own photos of the Olden Tymes. (My mother will reel when she sees that reference!!) I would have sworn I saw a few cows moseying into a few frames of film, a delightful backdrop to the steaming jars and studious, gingham-kerchiefed farm woman faces. Cows "moseyed" back then, you know, because they could go where they wanted without cars hitting them. It was a covered wagon fiesta! (Again, just kidding, Mom!)
The copy Fern uses is worn, tattered, splattered, and different shades of weathered oatmeal, handed down from her aunt. Actually Fern isn't sure that the book was a gift, or was it a loan, but she has assumed custody until something is said... And this crazy old book is still relevant! It is its own Bible of information about how to get started with preserving food, which foods may be put into jars and steamed or pressurized into the long wait for consumption, the concepts behind the procedures, why it's so important for every element of the process to be sterile and dust-free, and even how many years food can stay safely tucked into its own Mason jar. My mother-in-law seemed to think the shelf life was more than 25 years for some jars of peaches she had "preserved" in high school. She had to actually tell me that those nasty gelatinous blobs were peaches. Eew.
I'm sure one of my grandparents somewhere has their own copy. I should ask. I want to see just how "loved" -- I use that term facetiously, because of course canning wasn't about fun and trend, it was the way of life -- and worn their copy is. That would tell me volumes about how they lived their nutritional lives, and it would tell me a bit about their childhoods. I'm sure that the storing of food was not done solely by the matriarch of the family. That's what kids are for! Free labor. I'm sure some Saturday morning the children were lazily, stubbornly dragging their unwilling butts into the kitchen, dreading the day of hot steamy kitchen air rather than the numerous other glorious wide-open places kids would rather be. And if my grandparent tells it right, they'll give me lots of descriptors to really make me feel that heat and steam and anger and despair that lingered around the kids' heads...it'll be a great story.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Ice Cream is Evil
Today he had orange sherbet ice cream on a sugar cone, the kind with the dangerously pointy end. Usually my kiddo bites the crunchy point allowing passage for melted sugary milk to drip onto everything nearby. Today I was especially proud because he did not opt to destroy the cone first! He was properly consuming the ice cream from top to bottom. What a glorious day for homemakers everywhere, but not so much for the paper towel companies who are routinely utilized for the heavy cleaning duties.
I asked for a bite, took one, and was quickly reproached with, "No, Mommy, tongue." He then proceeded to show me the proper method for ice cream consumption -- to lick, not to bite.
He licked that ice cream from only one side, the stack of dessert leaning dangerously toward the opposite edge of the cone. I would methodically push the mess upright every so often, hoping he would occasionally turn the cone, pivot it to reach the other side and even things up a little.
All too soon he grew tired of the typical licking method, ran to the kichen drawer and found a kid-sized spoon. With it, he ate one bite; tiny, barely denting the food. So the next scoop was aggressive, going for mass, and the forceful plunge ran under the ice cream and into the tender gridwork of cone, splintering it. Orange ooze gushed under the weight of creamy glob and down onto the carpet.
"Son!" I said, perhaps forcefully, in my most feared maternal voice as I grabbed for the nearest roll of aforementioned paper towels.
Looking straight into my eyes, one hand hidden under pumpkin colored rivulets of liquid, the other hand gripping that wet messy spoon, he opened the hand holding the cone. It fell to the floor as my beautiful, delightful son continued to hold eye contact with me.
He was finished with his snack.
All that I can guess is that that ice cream was filled with high fructose corn syrup, the ingredient which makes people fat without ever feeling full, thus they consume it in great quantities because it tastes so good. And inside of the sugary goodness, someone had squirted some evil, probably in a liquid form but perhaps inside crystallized sugar of orange hue. Right? I mean that is the only way my perfect child could have done something so rotten.
Mothers can justify anything.
Let It ALL Hang Out
Every Saturday morning, up at 7:00 (I seriously felt this was child labor but could find no adult who would support my view) and the search began. We had to go through the house to pickup all clothes, bedding, kitchen towels, bathroom stuff, etc. and put them in a huge (there were 5 of us) pile in the kitchen. Then, the sorting began: this was not an exact science and became more casual as the day wore on and on and on. The next decision was to bleach or not to bleach. This may seem obvious, but, not so in my childhood home. That major separation complete, we went into the act of getting the stuff wet. This was a timed operation because there was no pre-determined cycle....it washed until mother determined it had been long enough. The next step was wringing from wash to rinse. This part was actually fun unless you were sleepy and let a finger get into the wringer.....that really woke a person quickly! The wringer was electric, but had to be fed each item by hand. Here is yet another decision: some items went into the rinse tub containing blueing while the others went into clear water (the blueing was a gentler form of bleach). The clothes were manually "agitated" until soap was removed and then fed into the wringer again. Are you exhausted yet?
The next step is what started me on this laundry tirade in the first place: hanging it on the clothesline.
We took the wet laundry up an incline to a plateau just the right size to direct all attention to our clothesline.
I need to mention here that I was living in a very small town and our house was on the only road to school.
My technique was to hang the underwear on the back line which offered the smallest viewing area. My mother; however, always hung it on the front line because "it dried faster there." Sure.....
I will spare you the rest of the story because the "new" thing I have learned regarding laundry is that it is now considered a green option to hang laundry instead of using the dryer. It probably does save a little tiny bit of electricity so here are the instructions I was given for creating a line-drying laundry operation:
2 Heavy posts, preferably steel, pounded 3' into the earth with concrete poured around bases
Place posts 30' apart
2 Cross-pieces screwed in place horizontally on the posts
Drill 4 evenly spaced holes in cross pieces to accommodate the knots in the clothesline
4 30' long lines of cotton-covered nylon clothesline
Additional equipment needed is a clothespin bag and spring-loaded clothespins.
There is obviously an art to hanging items on the line which must take into consideration the wind, the specific piece of laundry, the temperament of your dog and the purpose of the item in relation to your skin.
I felt that classes were needed to hone my simple abilities into such an intricate skill. However, I did not completely lose interest until the instructor admitted that she used an electric dryer to dry her socks.
She really lost me then and I have not called Home Depot for those heavy posts or clothespins.
The next step is what started me on this laundry tirade in the first place: hanging it on the clothesline.
We took the wet laundry up an incline to a plateau just the right size to direct all attention to our clothesline.
I need to mention here that I was living in a very small town and our house was on the only road to school.
My technique was to hang the underwear on the back line which offered the smallest viewing area. My mother; however, always hung it on the front line because "it dried faster there." Sure.....
I will spare you the rest of the story because the "new" thing I have learned regarding laundry is that it is now considered a green option to hang laundry instead of using the dryer. It probably does save a little tiny bit of electricity so here are the instructions I was given for creating a line-drying laundry operation:
2 Heavy posts, preferably steel, pounded 3' into the earth with concrete poured around bases
Place posts 30' apart
2 Cross-pieces screwed in place horizontally on the posts
Drill 4 evenly spaced holes in cross pieces to accommodate the knots in the clothesline
4 30' long lines of cotton-covered nylon clothesline
Additional equipment needed is a clothespin bag and spring-loaded clothespins.
There is obviously an art to hanging items on the line which must take into consideration the wind, the specific piece of laundry, the temperament of your dog and the purpose of the item in relation to your skin.
I felt that classes were needed to hone my simple abilities into such an intricate skill. However, I did not completely lose interest until the instructor admitted that she used an electric dryer to dry her socks.
She really lost me then and I have not called Home Depot for those heavy posts or clothespins.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
13 and Going Strong
13 years ago I remember tiny balls of fluff: one yellow and the other silver. They played constantly with anything that moved. They chased their own shadows or sunshine coming through the patio doors or leaves moving outside. They were fascinated by the squirrels and dogs also outside but ready to play. They were adorable and we couldn't bring ourselves to give them away even to family.
Today, what a deal I would make you on those cats!! Free!! Not only free, but, with every cat item you can imagine ever needing. They have every shot the vet knows for cats. They have brushes, combs, nail clippers, toothbrushes, a scratching log, climbing walls, self-watering and self-feeding dishes, and toys (lots of toys). They have carriers as comfortable as First Class in any 747. They have beds with bedding Martha Stewart would approve. They have window seats to allow them a view while still being in air conditioning.
They don't have fleas, ticks, matted coats or any other negative features. They also don't have ...... An Exit Strategy. Why should they?
The vet tells us they could easily live another 10 years as they are in perfect health. Of course they are in perfect health! They are almost hermetically sealed in our house under temperature control at all times with a constant supply of easily accessed food and cool water. They sleep on our Queen size pillow topped mattress and 600 ct. Egyptian cotton sheets. They sleep there almost all day. They would sleep there at night also, but we run a fan whose breeze they cannot tolerate.
You might think that these domestic pets would be grateful. We thought they would at least be appreciative enough to let us do our things in what was once our home. We were wrong.....very, very wrong.
They express displeasure when we are gone to work or off for a weekend by urinating at the front door. What a joy it is... welcomed home by such an odor. We immediately forget about dinner or unpacking and start frantically searching for anything to clear the air. We clean the parquet with a special product, we spray the air with yet another product and we search the house for solid tokens of their displeasure.
Should we ever be so stupid as to bring members of another species into their house, we suffer similar treatments on an hourly presentation.
Why, you ask, do you put up with this? Why don't you just open the door and show them out .... right now? Are you crazy? I would never tolerate such creatures...not even for a few minutes.
Well, yes, we must be crazy. We still remember those sweet tiny fur balls. We loved them then and we still love them as adults. We love that Lumpy is more like a dog than a cat. He responds to a whistle and "begs" for food at the table. We love that Pepa wants to get her water from the bathtub faucet after the water runs long enough to be cool to her taste. We appreciate the rare, but thoroughly trashed, mouse whose tail may appear in the carpet or even on bed or couch. We appreciate that they are independent and don't need to be taken to kennels or require cat sitters.
Looking back on this, I am more certain than ever that we are crazy. We will be even crazier when we cry and are saddened by their deaths.......if We live that long.
Today, what a deal I would make you on those cats!! Free!! Not only free, but, with every cat item you can imagine ever needing. They have every shot the vet knows for cats. They have brushes, combs, nail clippers, toothbrushes, a scratching log, climbing walls, self-watering and self-feeding dishes, and toys (lots of toys). They have carriers as comfortable as First Class in any 747. They have beds with bedding Martha Stewart would approve. They have window seats to allow them a view while still being in air conditioning.
They don't have fleas, ticks, matted coats or any other negative features. They also don't have ...... An Exit Strategy. Why should they?
The vet tells us they could easily live another 10 years as they are in perfect health. Of course they are in perfect health! They are almost hermetically sealed in our house under temperature control at all times with a constant supply of easily accessed food and cool water. They sleep on our Queen size pillow topped mattress and 600 ct. Egyptian cotton sheets. They sleep there almost all day. They would sleep there at night also, but we run a fan whose breeze they cannot tolerate.
You might think that these domestic pets would be grateful. We thought they would at least be appreciative enough to let us do our things in what was once our home. We were wrong.....very, very wrong.
They express displeasure when we are gone to work or off for a weekend by urinating at the front door. What a joy it is... welcomed home by such an odor. We immediately forget about dinner or unpacking and start frantically searching for anything to clear the air. We clean the parquet with a special product, we spray the air with yet another product and we search the house for solid tokens of their displeasure.
Should we ever be so stupid as to bring members of another species into their house, we suffer similar treatments on an hourly presentation.
Why, you ask, do you put up with this? Why don't you just open the door and show them out .... right now? Are you crazy? I would never tolerate such creatures...not even for a few minutes.
Well, yes, we must be crazy. We still remember those sweet tiny fur balls. We loved them then and we still love them as adults. We love that Lumpy is more like a dog than a cat. He responds to a whistle and "begs" for food at the table. We love that Pepa wants to get her water from the bathtub faucet after the water runs long enough to be cool to her taste. We appreciate the rare, but thoroughly trashed, mouse whose tail may appear in the carpet or even on bed or couch. We appreciate that they are independent and don't need to be taken to kennels or require cat sitters.
Looking back on this, I am more certain than ever that we are crazy. We will be even crazier when we cry and are saddened by their deaths.......if We live that long.
A Pickling Pickle
In my ongoing quest to move to the country and take on the lifestyle of ancestors before remote control televisions and world wide web, I need to take lessons on how to do this. Today my lesson was in pickling.
That's right, no trip down the grocery store aisle for me, I'm ignoring the Vlasic -- either whole dill or relish -- and venturing into doing it on my own! So I enlisted the help of my cousin who does this pickling thing on a regular basis. A regular basis! While I'm struggling to move one load of laundry from the washer to, gasp, a foot away where the electric dryer stands, she is strapping her six-month-old baby to her chest and heaving a bucket of wet clothes outside to the clothesline! And I complain about my one foot of movement -- I even gasp and wheeze in an effort to pull sympathy from my hubby and child. (No, it doesn't work.)
I thought for sure that this pickling thing was easy. I thought I would make a pictorial study of the process, record every step, glisten occasionally with effort, and emerge at the end with a sweet batch of quart after quart of hearty pickles to enjoy this evening! Ha!! Ignorance IS bliss!
We had four children between us, scattered throughout the house, all upset and needing attention, an enormous farm dog named Daisy who was literally constantly sticking her nose into our business, and three burners of the stove going on a ninety-plus degree day.
First lesson: there are special cucumbers called "pickling cucumbers." Several varieties in fact. Had no idea.
Second lesson: every aspect of the process involves hot things -- hot water, hot steam, hot jars, hot jar lids, hot people doing the canning. I might have reconsidered if I'd known I would be sweating. (It's ugly. I'm a woman who goes from frozen to sweating-like-a-racehorse quicker than a racehorse can break into a sweat.)
Third lesson: patience and humility.
I escaped with one quart of pickles, an exhausted child, a couple of steam burns, no pictures, swollen eyes from an allergy to the farm dog, and an hour-and-a-half drive to get home. Once I got home I took a picture of the pickles, nothing artistic like I had planned, just a frickin' picture to show that I actually did the thing. It's a minimalistic journalistic approach that I prefer when I am exhausted and need only a shower and a long, long nap.
Oh, and the most beautiful part: I can't eat the pickles for three months. They have to pickle or something.
I think I'll get pickled myself. Anybody have any vodka? Beer? Where's the rest of that pickling brine, that'll work...
That's right, no trip down the grocery store aisle for me, I'm ignoring the Vlasic -- either whole dill or relish -- and venturing into doing it on my own! So I enlisted the help of my cousin who does this pickling thing on a regular basis. A regular basis! While I'm struggling to move one load of laundry from the washer to, gasp, a foot away where the electric dryer stands, she is strapping her six-month-old baby to her chest and heaving a bucket of wet clothes outside to the clothesline! And I complain about my one foot of movement -- I even gasp and wheeze in an effort to pull sympathy from my hubby and child. (No, it doesn't work.)
I thought for sure that this pickling thing was easy. I thought I would make a pictorial study of the process, record every step, glisten occasionally with effort, and emerge at the end with a sweet batch of quart after quart of hearty pickles to enjoy this evening! Ha!! Ignorance IS bliss!
We had four children between us, scattered throughout the house, all upset and needing attention, an enormous farm dog named Daisy who was literally constantly sticking her nose into our business, and three burners of the stove going on a ninety-plus degree day.
First lesson: there are special cucumbers called "pickling cucumbers." Several varieties in fact. Had no idea.
Second lesson: every aspect of the process involves hot things -- hot water, hot steam, hot jars, hot jar lids, hot people doing the canning. I might have reconsidered if I'd known I would be sweating. (It's ugly. I'm a woman who goes from frozen to sweating-like-a-racehorse quicker than a racehorse can break into a sweat.)
Third lesson: patience and humility.
I escaped with one quart of pickles, an exhausted child, a couple of steam burns, no pictures, swollen eyes from an allergy to the farm dog, and an hour-and-a-half drive to get home. Once I got home I took a picture of the pickles, nothing artistic like I had planned, just a frickin' picture to show that I actually did the thing. It's a minimalistic journalistic approach that I prefer when I am exhausted and need only a shower and a long, long nap.
Oh, and the most beautiful part: I can't eat the pickles for three months. They have to pickle or something.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Ah, the Age Gap
The other day I got a big ol' taste of the generational gap between my mother and I.
We were at a gas station, around 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. That is probably not the best time to refuel, I suppose, and in addition I had parked under a dim light to refuel. Mom got out of the car with me as added protection. I'm not sure what we would have retaliated with, should the situation have become dicey, but hey, it's always nice to have your mom along.
While I was pumping the gas, a car of young, raucous teenage boys drove by and made whistling sounds, in appreciation of the sight of two ladies --dimly lit --alone in the dark. I was thrilled. It had been a thousand years, roughly, since I had become the object of a catcall. It felt good, like I still had it, if I ever had, and I could still be attractive to a teenager who was probably slightly drunk with the glory of teenagers-in-a-group, a heady flavor only acquired while in adolescence or with a newly gained driver's license. (Or if a really great song is on the radio and you're going just a bit too fast, maybe down a hill, and hey, there's a green light at the bottom, do I feel it turning yellow? So you gun it. You know the feeling.)
I blissfully turn to my mother to share this lovely glow and see that she is staring after the car, eyes glowering, arms crossed, lips pursed. She says, in staccato fashion, "Little punks. They shouldn't be out this late...where are their parents?"
She looks at me and a heavy silence falls between us as we stare at each other. We both blink at least twice. Then I giggle, and she laughs in return, realizing that she sounded like an octogenarian on the front porch of her home ranting after a mysterious and horrible smell arose suddenly.
We opened the car doors, got back into our seats, and turned to look at the three-year-old little guy sitting in his car seat behind us. I caught a glimpse of him in thirteen years, staring at chicks under a street light somewhere. I'll make sure he has adequate eye correction before he leaves the house.
We were at a gas station, around 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. That is probably not the best time to refuel, I suppose, and in addition I had parked under a dim light to refuel. Mom got out of the car with me as added protection. I'm not sure what we would have retaliated with, should the situation have become dicey, but hey, it's always nice to have your mom along.
While I was pumping the gas, a car of young, raucous teenage boys drove by and made whistling sounds, in appreciation of the sight of two ladies --dimly lit --alone in the dark. I was thrilled. It had been a thousand years, roughly, since I had become the object of a catcall. It felt good, like I still had it, if I ever had, and I could still be attractive to a teenager who was probably slightly drunk with the glory of teenagers-in-a-group, a heady flavor only acquired while in adolescence or with a newly gained driver's license. (Or if a really great song is on the radio and you're going just a bit too fast, maybe down a hill, and hey, there's a green light at the bottom, do I feel it turning yellow? So you gun it. You know the feeling.)
I blissfully turn to my mother to share this lovely glow and see that she is staring after the car, eyes glowering, arms crossed, lips pursed. She says, in staccato fashion, "Little punks. They shouldn't be out this late...where are their parents?"
She looks at me and a heavy silence falls between us as we stare at each other. We both blink at least twice. Then I giggle, and she laughs in return, realizing that she sounded like an octogenarian on the front porch of her home ranting after a mysterious and horrible smell arose suddenly.
We opened the car doors, got back into our seats, and turned to look at the three-year-old little guy sitting in his car seat behind us. I caught a glimpse of him in thirteen years, staring at chicks under a street light somewhere. I'll make sure he has adequate eye correction before he leaves the house.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Puppies
We adopt pets and fall in love with them because they’re cute and cuddly and wriggly and then they grow up and turn out to be pains in the butt. They pee on everything, they poop at will, they love to steal dirty laundry (read this as “underwear”) and run with it waving in the wind, invariably in front of guests. They dig holes in the yard that could engulf a full grown man with one wrong step while simultaneously causing chaos in the neighborhood, inciting other dogs to bark and growl and spit in answer to your pet’s question: “Have you seen my chew toy?”
Pets get fleas and ticks and diseases, they eat too much and work too little. Vet bills are astronomical and groomers put ugly bows on the pet’s ears. Pet food stinks, chewy treats crumble and stick in the carpet, squeaky woobies are chewed until they resemble the insides of a pillow and the parts are strewn from the front door through the house and out the back door and back inside again. Aargh!
Sigh.
And we love them forever.
Pets get fleas and ticks and diseases, they eat too much and work too little. Vet bills are astronomical and groomers put ugly bows on the pet’s ears. Pet food stinks, chewy treats crumble and stick in the carpet, squeaky woobies are chewed until they resemble the insides of a pillow and the parts are strewn from the front door through the house and out the back door and back inside again. Aargh!
Sigh.
And we love them forever.
Prozac and Me
Since my child was born three years ago, I hear a strange inner voice. It sounds like a high-pitched whine, and then I realize that’s not me talking and squealing and making fire engine noises, that’s my kid. Where is my own voice?
Stress and child rearing have created a vacuum in my soul. I plod through the days doing the rote maneuvers I’ve developed to get things done. It’s no fun, and I’ve decided to reclaim whatever is left of my own childlike qualities! (Insert super-hero theme music at this point, let it play like an undercurrent while you read the rest of my story.) I’m going to get back to doing what I like to do, whatever that passion is! (I have to find that too.)
I once considered myself witty and cynical and sarcastic, and you know what happened to that? Prozac. Ahhhh, it’s such an elixir in pill form. Takes the edge off of the stress and the boredom and makes pretty haloes around the faces of people I love, or don’t. Doesn’t really matter who they are. (The haloes are imagined, and only illustrative of the pretty coma-like state that chemistry induces, of course, but it’s such a pretty picture I haven’t tried to adjust the vertical just yet.) I exaggerate, as well. I haven’t lost that ability.
With wit and comedy comes doubt. Cynics are the best comics. They see the sharp edge of every contour and use it to their advantage. Things may still be ugly, but now they are distorted into such funny shapes that we can laugh at them. Of course, it’s a fine, almost invisible line between humor and cruelty. Turning something negative into a positive is fine, but not at anyone’s expense. That’s where I lost interest.
I’ll bet comics aren’t on Prozac.
But in order to get my own edge back, I would need to lay off the anti-depressants and follow the vortex back down into that swirling soup of stress, anxiety, fatigue, insomnia, and hair loss. Ain’t gonna do it. I shall be dull! and find sweetness in baby poo and runny noses! But alas, the world will miss my great comedic adventures. It’s a huge loss, trust me.
End theme music, if it was still playing in your head. I know mine won’t turn off…
Stress and child rearing have created a vacuum in my soul. I plod through the days doing the rote maneuvers I’ve developed to get things done. It’s no fun, and I’ve decided to reclaim whatever is left of my own childlike qualities! (Insert super-hero theme music at this point, let it play like an undercurrent while you read the rest of my story.) I’m going to get back to doing what I like to do, whatever that passion is! (I have to find that too.)
I once considered myself witty and cynical and sarcastic, and you know what happened to that? Prozac. Ahhhh, it’s such an elixir in pill form. Takes the edge off of the stress and the boredom and makes pretty haloes around the faces of people I love, or don’t. Doesn’t really matter who they are. (The haloes are imagined, and only illustrative of the pretty coma-like state that chemistry induces, of course, but it’s such a pretty picture I haven’t tried to adjust the vertical just yet.) I exaggerate, as well. I haven’t lost that ability.
With wit and comedy comes doubt. Cynics are the best comics. They see the sharp edge of every contour and use it to their advantage. Things may still be ugly, but now they are distorted into such funny shapes that we can laugh at them. Of course, it’s a fine, almost invisible line between humor and cruelty. Turning something negative into a positive is fine, but not at anyone’s expense. That’s where I lost interest.
I’ll bet comics aren’t on Prozac.
But in order to get my own edge back, I would need to lay off the anti-depressants and follow the vortex back down into that swirling soup of stress, anxiety, fatigue, insomnia, and hair loss. Ain’t gonna do it. I shall be dull! and find sweetness in baby poo and runny noses! But alas, the world will miss my great comedic adventures. It’s a huge loss, trust me.
End theme music, if it was still playing in your head. I know mine won’t turn off…
So This is How It's Done!
Have you ever been on the phone with your daughter and been told that there is an emergency at her home? The word “emergency” does not bring on pleasant thoughts of flowers blooming or butterflies crawling into the sunlight. It can, however, bring screams of hysterical laughter when the “emergency” is clarified.
In the most recent case, the laughter was mine and only mine. My daughter did not appreciate the humor of the situation and suggested that my distance allowed considerably more amusement than her proximity offered. She gave me a simple and quite literal translation of the situation as a “turd emergency”.
Her little son is learning the delicate controls of potty training. I’m guessing that today was not his most successful effort.
In the most recent case, the laughter was mine and only mine. My daughter did not appreciate the humor of the situation and suggested that my distance allowed considerably more amusement than her proximity offered. She gave me a simple and quite literal translation of the situation as a “turd emergency”.
Her little son is learning the delicate controls of potty training. I’m guessing that today was not his most successful effort.
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