Teaching your sixteen year old child to drive is an enlightening and life-altering event. I had the honor of teaching both of our sons to drive, because, quite simply, my husband didn’t have the guts. Let me rectify that statement. He did take the eldest out driving once. As I heard from my son George later, my husband had his left hand on the emergency brake and his right hand clutched on the door handle during the entire trip. He sucked in so much air during the ride that he had hiccups for two hours afterwards. It took a little longer for the nausea to disappear.
My husband told me later that the right side of his face was scraped by tree bark and speed limit signs, because George hadn’t developed that all-important distance judgment yet. As a result, George tended to drive mere millimeters away from the curb. That was the end of the Dad-and-Son Quality Time in the Car.
The second after George got his learner’s permit, he wanted to drive to a friend’s house in a neighboring town. So we hopped into our Dodge minivan, George in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and Donnie, who was 11 years old at the time, in the very back seat. I felt calm and proud. I was not nervous at all. After all, I reasoned, George is an athlete. His instincts are good and his reaction time on the soccer field is excellent. He has shown maturity and good judgment in the past. Why should driving be any different? Piece of cake. I entertained thoughts of all the leisure time I would have after he got his license. He could drive Donnie to soccer practice, pick him up at his friend’s house, and run errands for me. This will be great.
The drive down the main road in our town wasn’t too bad. Going down another road to the highway, however, was a tad frightening. When did this road shrink? Why hadn’t I noticed how narrow this road is? When we got onto 95, my heartbeat accelerated to three times its normal speed. It resembled a parking lot! Cars were winging by in all three lanes, at high speed, with no consideration whatsoever for us. My shoulders crept up to my earlobes and I clutched the door strap a little tighter, thinking, “George is only a baby, scarcely out of diapers! How can he be expected to operate a motor vehicle? What is wrong with this country?” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Donnie sitting motionless on the back bench of the van, feet barely touching the floor, hands clutching the upholstered sea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The child was paralyzed by fear.
We made it to the friend’s house, but only after I sweated off about 5 pounds, dug red half-moons into my palms, and bit my lips dry. I had a stiff neck for four days afterwards. Donnie refused to get in a car with George for approximately six months. George actually did fine behind the wheel. It was Donnie and I who didn’t do so well.
He finally got his license, which is a whole other story in itself. We, he and I, were at the DMV from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM on the day of his road test. We were there longer than the employees. It was not the fault of the DMV; it was our fault. But that’s a tale for another day.
Then, before we knew it, Donnie turned sixteen. Time for another learner’s permit. My husband again refused to drive with Donnie, saying that he was still picking splinters out of his right cheek from four and a half years ago. So it fell to Mother to man it up and put on her teacher’s hat once again. This child was very different from the elder son. This one was supremely confident, and he truly believed that he knew everything there was to know about driving. Donnie actually did okay behind the wheel but that confidence, bordering on cocky, was a little scary at times.
I am ashamed to say that, while he was driving down a street near the city, I actually grabbed the wheel; I was convinced he was going to sideswipe every car that was parked on the side of the road. Apparently his friend Adam, cowering in the back seat, agreed with me, as evidenced by his unholy and piercing shout of terror. This almost caused an accident, but I digress. Donnie took his road test while sick with a fever of 102 and an infected throat. He passed, and wonder of wonders! We made it out of the DMV this time in less than three hours.
So George has been driving for 10 years and Donnie has had his license for a little over five years. I have been driving for 34 years. Yes, 34. I find it ironic that now, on the rare occasion when my sons drive with me, they suck wind, clutch the door straps, and say things like, ‘You SEE that Toyota pulling out, right?” or “Aren’t you a little close to the curb, Mom?”
Whoever said revenge is sweet obviously taught teenagers to drive at some point in his/her life.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Gray And Still Graceful
(Written two years ago)
I will turn 50 on my next birthday. 50. A half-century. Half of one hundred. Most likely ten years past middle age. The downward slope, the other side of the mountain, the slow skid. 50, for crying out loud. 5-freaking-zero.
When I was a kid in grade school, 50 meant old, decrepit, wrinkled and annoying. In my teens, 50 translated into, “Your life is over.” Raising my kids during my twenties and thirties, I barely had time to think about my own age, let alone an upcoming birthday like 50. When my family-rearing slowed down in my forties, 50 meant the Empty Nest, maybe finally having time and money to do cool things and go to cool places. Nowadays, I am amazed at how small the number 50 actually looks close-up.
The glaringly obvious and occasionally disheartening physical signs of near-50 are keeping me in a constant state of “You have GOT to be kidding me,” or “Well, that’s just wrong.” Gravity is my enemy, and my long boobs can attest to that. The cute little smile lines alongside my mouth that I started to get in my early forties now deeply parenthesize my confused frown. Important documents or illegal drugs can be safely tucked away in my Caesarean scar and the tops of my thighs haven’t seen the light of day since 1993. We won’t even discuss my ass.
Dimples are cute, but not when they are on one’s legs. Can you say “Wide-skirted bathing suits?” I noticed that my upper arms were kind of loose when I was shaking a can of whipped cream the other day. I heard this odd sound, like someone throwing a wad of Silly Putty against a wall. Imagine my despair when I realized that it was the flesh of my upper arms actually flapping, yes, flapping, against my sides. Even my feet have betrayed me by becoming wider and flatter. Walking barefoot across a tile floor, I sound like a duck-billed platypus.
The mental changes that I have gone through are profound. I find I can’t remember the name of the person who got me my first job when I was sixteen. Oh, wait. I just remembered. It was my father. My mind wanders a lot more than it ever did. I need an adding machine to add more than two numbers, including single-digit ones. I call my kids by every name besides their own, causing my youngest to introduce himself to me on an almost daily basis. “Hi, I’m Donnie. Have we met?”
I am skipping periods like a defective typewriter. I only get periods nowadays on special occasions, such as every summer holiday weekend, Christmas Eve, or our twenty-fifth anniversary cruise, and then they last for two weeks. I often have menstrual cramps similar to those I experienced when I was fifteen. Headaches are very common, including the ones I cause my family. My eyesight is changing, making the task of painting my toenails a challenge. I can only see to do the job properly if my nose is a half-inch away from my toenails. The physical contortions required for me to do a halfway neat job of applying the polish are enough to have my leg muscles screaming in protest and trembling for an hour afterwards.
The new trend in the United States is that women in their 50s or older are better and more beautiful than they were at age 20. This myth has been perpetuated by 50-something females who have money, have stayed the same one-digit size since their junior high school graduation, and think stretch marks are what happens to one’s high tech spandex workout gear after many washings. You know the ones I mean. Those chic broads who have beautifully cut silver hair and who dress in trim and classic clothes and never look messy or old; they’re the ones giving aging a bad name. The REAL women know that this “better after 50” theory is pure crap. The REAL women are the ones whose gunmetal gray hair is either thinning or frizzing and whose makeup disappears into oblivion around noon every day. They are the wonderfully rumpled and pleasantly rounded near-sighted females who burst into tears with no warning, put melted chocolate on almost everything they eat, or find themselves daydreaming about what it would feel like to randomly run people over with their car.
I normally love birthdays and anticipate them with all the eagerness of an eight year old. But this one coming up, the Big One, is a bit intimidating. The only way I’ll get through it successfully is if I am given a huge surprise party and everyone who attends gives me money or expensive gifts and tells me how good I look without including the phrase, “…for your age.”
I will turn 50 on my next birthday. 50. A half-century. Half of one hundred. Most likely ten years past middle age. The downward slope, the other side of the mountain, the slow skid. 50, for crying out loud. 5-freaking-zero.
When I was a kid in grade school, 50 meant old, decrepit, wrinkled and annoying. In my teens, 50 translated into, “Your life is over.” Raising my kids during my twenties and thirties, I barely had time to think about my own age, let alone an upcoming birthday like 50. When my family-rearing slowed down in my forties, 50 meant the Empty Nest, maybe finally having time and money to do cool things and go to cool places. Nowadays, I am amazed at how small the number 50 actually looks close-up.
The glaringly obvious and occasionally disheartening physical signs of near-50 are keeping me in a constant state of “You have GOT to be kidding me,” or “Well, that’s just wrong.” Gravity is my enemy, and my long boobs can attest to that. The cute little smile lines alongside my mouth that I started to get in my early forties now deeply parenthesize my confused frown. Important documents or illegal drugs can be safely tucked away in my Caesarean scar and the tops of my thighs haven’t seen the light of day since 1993. We won’t even discuss my ass.
Dimples are cute, but not when they are on one’s legs. Can you say “Wide-skirted bathing suits?” I noticed that my upper arms were kind of loose when I was shaking a can of whipped cream the other day. I heard this odd sound, like someone throwing a wad of Silly Putty against a wall. Imagine my despair when I realized that it was the flesh of my upper arms actually flapping, yes, flapping, against my sides. Even my feet have betrayed me by becoming wider and flatter. Walking barefoot across a tile floor, I sound like a duck-billed platypus.
The mental changes that I have gone through are profound. I find I can’t remember the name of the person who got me my first job when I was sixteen. Oh, wait. I just remembered. It was my father. My mind wanders a lot more than it ever did. I need an adding machine to add more than two numbers, including single-digit ones. I call my kids by every name besides their own, causing my youngest to introduce himself to me on an almost daily basis. “Hi, I’m Donnie. Have we met?”
I am skipping periods like a defective typewriter. I only get periods nowadays on special occasions, such as every summer holiday weekend, Christmas Eve, or our twenty-fifth anniversary cruise, and then they last for two weeks. I often have menstrual cramps similar to those I experienced when I was fifteen. Headaches are very common, including the ones I cause my family. My eyesight is changing, making the task of painting my toenails a challenge. I can only see to do the job properly if my nose is a half-inch away from my toenails. The physical contortions required for me to do a halfway neat job of applying the polish are enough to have my leg muscles screaming in protest and trembling for an hour afterwards.
The new trend in the United States is that women in their 50s or older are better and more beautiful than they were at age 20. This myth has been perpetuated by 50-something females who have money, have stayed the same one-digit size since their junior high school graduation, and think stretch marks are what happens to one’s high tech spandex workout gear after many washings. You know the ones I mean. Those chic broads who have beautifully cut silver hair and who dress in trim and classic clothes and never look messy or old; they’re the ones giving aging a bad name. The REAL women know that this “better after 50” theory is pure crap. The REAL women are the ones whose gunmetal gray hair is either thinning or frizzing and whose makeup disappears into oblivion around noon every day. They are the wonderfully rumpled and pleasantly rounded near-sighted females who burst into tears with no warning, put melted chocolate on almost everything they eat, or find themselves daydreaming about what it would feel like to randomly run people over with their car.
I normally love birthdays and anticipate them with all the eagerness of an eight year old. But this one coming up, the Big One, is a bit intimidating. The only way I’ll get through it successfully is if I am given a huge surprise party and everyone who attends gives me money or expensive gifts and tells me how good I look without including the phrase, “…for your age.”
Bumper Stickers
They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. I don’t need eyes to tell me almost everything I need to know about a person. All I have to do is look at their car, or more specifically, what they put on their car. These days, people plaster their cars with every imaginable kind of bumper sticker, sign and license plate. These decorated cars make for interesting reading when stuck in a traffic jam. They also provide vital information about the person so that when you yell insults at them, chances are you’ll hit their Achilles Heel.
The stickers range from where they vacation, who their favorite politician is, where their kids go to school and what grades they get, professional, college, high school and travel sports teams affiliations, their place of employment, their hobbies, their military branch, and their marital status. They also proclaim how the car owner feels about the current government, human sexuality, their pets, the opposite sex, children, their favorite food and drink, their religious affiliation, their nationality, the environment, and the way they drive.
Some of the stickers give actual advice or warnings to any driver behind them, such as “Are you as close to Jesus as you are to my bumper?” “Am I driving too slow? To report me, Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT,” or “I Swerve to Hit Random Pedestrians.” Others ask vital questions, such as “If someone was addicted to therapy, how would you cure them?” “Why is bra singular and panties plural?” and “Are you trying to sniff my butt?”
The honor student ones are the most obnoxious, if you ask me. The “Proud Parent of an Honor Student at Haughty High” is sickening. I always wanted to put “My kid is more popular and better-looking than your homely honor student” on my car. Or “My kid had sex with your honor student.” Or “My kid doesn’t have time to be on the honor roll. He’s too busy taking nude photographs of your honor roll daughter.”
I would like to go to a mall with an armload of the following bumper stickers: “Your kid may be an honor roll student, but you’re ugly,” “Your kid is on the honor roll because she slept with the principal,” or “My daughter turned down your honor roll student.”
The stickers range from where they vacation, who their favorite politician is, where their kids go to school and what grades they get, professional, college, high school and travel sports teams affiliations, their place of employment, their hobbies, their military branch, and their marital status. They also proclaim how the car owner feels about the current government, human sexuality, their pets, the opposite sex, children, their favorite food and drink, their religious affiliation, their nationality, the environment, and the way they drive.
Some of the stickers give actual advice or warnings to any driver behind them, such as “Are you as close to Jesus as you are to my bumper?” “Am I driving too slow? To report me, Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT,” or “I Swerve to Hit Random Pedestrians.” Others ask vital questions, such as “If someone was addicted to therapy, how would you cure them?” “Why is bra singular and panties plural?” and “Are you trying to sniff my butt?”
The honor student ones are the most obnoxious, if you ask me. The “Proud Parent of an Honor Student at Haughty High” is sickening. I always wanted to put “My kid is more popular and better-looking than your homely honor student” on my car. Or “My kid had sex with your honor student.” Or “My kid doesn’t have time to be on the honor roll. He’s too busy taking nude photographs of your honor roll daughter.”
I would like to go to a mall with an armload of the following bumper stickers: “Your kid may be an honor roll student, but you’re ugly,” “Your kid is on the honor roll because she slept with the principal,” or “My daughter turned down your honor roll student.”
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Elastic Waistband Society
There is an official club that women of a certain age can join. It's called The Red Hat Society. Their website states, "The Red Hat Society calls itself a "dis-organization," and we are proud of our lack of rules and by-laws. We are all helping to develop an enormous nurturing network or women over 50 (and under), by joining red-gloved hands and spreading the joy and companionship we are finding within and among the chapters. We have also discovered a "mission" of sorts: to gain higher visibility for women in our age group and to reshape the way we are viewed by today's culture " (http://www.redhatsociety.com/). These ladies wear red or purple hats and they get together for various chapter meetings and events to celebrate being a middle-aged woman. What an awesome idea!
There is a slight problem, though. I look really terrible in hats. No matter what kind of hat it is, it makes me look like a furtive hound dog, a bank robber, or a drunk. I don't have the face for a hat. Some women look jaunty, cute and stylish wearing a hat. Not me. I look stiff-necked and uncomfortable. So, armed with that knowledge, I am going to start my own society. The Elastic Waistband Society.
In order to become a member of the Elastic Waistband Society (EWS for short), you must be a woman age 50 or over. You have to be one of two things: at least two sizes larger than you were when you were in your twenties, or your waistline must be at least three inches bigger. You can join the EWS if you cannot recall the last time you tucked a shirt in, if you can rest a book on your stomach while reclining in the tub, or if you get out of breath leaning over trying to paint your toenails. If you catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and you are shocked at your silhouette, if you resemble a Buddha statue from the side, or if you get dizzy trying to suck your gut in, then you can sign up for the EWS.
And if you're like me, waging a constant battle with bulge, constantly power-walking, working out with weights, doing situps and crunches and twists and lunges and lifts, and denying yourself all your favorite foods, then you qualify to be President of a chapter. I myself plan to assume the title "Grand Wizardess of the Entire Universe."
One of the first events that my EWS chapter will sponsor is an ice-cream eating contest. At our monthly meeting every month, we'll get guest speakers, maybe someone like Richard Simmons, and we'll hand out Oreos to throw at him if he tries to make us exercise. We'll take shopping excursions to Lane Bryant, and immediately following we'll have an Apple-tini Drink-Off. We will picket the "5-7-9" (referring to size) clothing shops and we'll have contests to see whose waistline sports the deepest red marks from too-tight clothing. It'll be fun!
There is a slight problem, though. I look really terrible in hats. No matter what kind of hat it is, it makes me look like a furtive hound dog, a bank robber, or a drunk. I don't have the face for a hat. Some women look jaunty, cute and stylish wearing a hat. Not me. I look stiff-necked and uncomfortable. So, armed with that knowledge, I am going to start my own society. The Elastic Waistband Society.
In order to become a member of the Elastic Waistband Society (EWS for short), you must be a woman age 50 or over. You have to be one of two things: at least two sizes larger than you were when you were in your twenties, or your waistline must be at least three inches bigger. You can join the EWS if you cannot recall the last time you tucked a shirt in, if you can rest a book on your stomach while reclining in the tub, or if you get out of breath leaning over trying to paint your toenails. If you catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and you are shocked at your silhouette, if you resemble a Buddha statue from the side, or if you get dizzy trying to suck your gut in, then you can sign up for the EWS.
And if you're like me, waging a constant battle with bulge, constantly power-walking, working out with weights, doing situps and crunches and twists and lunges and lifts, and denying yourself all your favorite foods, then you qualify to be President of a chapter. I myself plan to assume the title "Grand Wizardess of the Entire Universe."
One of the first events that my EWS chapter will sponsor is an ice-cream eating contest. At our monthly meeting every month, we'll get guest speakers, maybe someone like Richard Simmons, and we'll hand out Oreos to throw at him if he tries to make us exercise. We'll take shopping excursions to Lane Bryant, and immediately following we'll have an Apple-tini Drink-Off. We will picket the "5-7-9" (referring to size) clothing shops and we'll have contests to see whose waistline sports the deepest red marks from too-tight clothing. It'll be fun!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
For Whom Will You Vote?
Have you made up your mind yet? Are you one of those die-hard party people who vote strictly with your party and never deviate, no matter what smacked ass happens to be representing it? Or are you like me, unsure of which of the two evils is lesser?
Here's what I want from a Presidential candidate:
Here's what I want from a Presidential candidate:
- someone who will bring my son's best friend and his younger brother (both Army National Guard), and all of our military for that matter, home for good and not deploy them overseas in the fall
- someone who will lower the freaking gas prices!
- someone who will lower the price of everything under the sun so that we can shop for groceries without taking out a home equity loan
- someone who will work for peace in the world and erase our country's rep of being the bully in the playground
- someone who will take care of our military vets and their families
- someone who will pass realistic gun laws that actually get guns out of the hands of lunatics, or better yet....
- ...someone who sends the gun-wielding lunatics overseas in place of our beloved military, so they can shoot to their hearts' content. They can even bring their own guns.
- someone who cares about our environment and its future
- someone who believes in "one nation under GOD"
- someone who gives a shit about the "little people" and not lobbyists, special interest groups, mistresses, or personal bank accounts.
I am not asking for much. Just some honesty, integrity, compassion, flexibility, honor and respect.
Good Lord. I guess I AM asking for alot.
The only person I can think of who meets these criteria is...wait, give me a minute. I'm thinking. It's on the tip of my tongue....ahhhhh, I got it......
No one.
We're screwed.
Verify This!
What is up with verification codes? Every time I want to order something online, or ask someone to be my friend on Facebook, or post to a website, or vote for Pat Burrell for the MLB All-Star team, I have to type in a verification code. What exactly am I verifying, can someone please tell me?
EBay explains their use of verification codes as follows: "As an additional security check, or if your password is identified as not being secure enough, eBay may occasionally ask you to enter a verification code. This extra security check helps eBay prevent automated registrations and inappropriate use of the site. The verification code is not your password or any other personal information."
The MLB website tells me, when I try and order tickets to a game, that "this additional step in your purchase process assures us that seats are being requested by a legitimate ticket customer, and not an automated seat request placed by web robots. This word verification technology is often used to prevent spoofing of order confirmation processes and presents a 'problem' that is quite easy for humans to solve but is difficult for machines to solve using current technologies. Automated programs put an extra load on the system by tying up the inventory. This not only impacts the performance of our website but also reduces the quality of your online experience. Once you identify the word correctly, we will proceed with finding the best available seats for you. " Wait - a web robot? What the hell is a WEB ROBOT??? I picture R2D2 at a laptop, drinking a latte, surfing porn sites and ordering metal polish from a True Value hardware store.
I don't believe a word of any of those explanations. Being a cranky, menopausal, constantly sweating woman in my fifties, I distrust mostly everything these days. I think that the verification code is a way for the Web Robot to delve deeply into my online activities and send me porno spam about penis enlargement and oddly colored lubricants. I firmly believe that by typing the verification code into the little box, I am allowing the Web Robot into my computer, where he can find my resume', my Christmas card labels, and personal letters to my son's friend who is in the military.
Let's discuss the people who design the verification codes. They must be Coke-Bottle-Thick Eyeglass Wearing geeks who are wreaking revenge for the years of wedgies and ridicule they have withstood from people over the years. Or perhaps heavy crack smokers who are on a work-release program. Who can read these codes? They are typed in weirdly slanted font over a grid of thick black lines. It's like the hallucinogenic version of "Where's Waldo?" I literally cannnot read 99% of the verification codes that I encounter. Ticketmaster has timed me out of my ordering session many many times because I am trying to decipher the damned verification code! The instructions always say to hit the Refresh button if you cannot read the verification code. I do as they say, and the code is worse than the original. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen the message "Incorrect verification code. Please try again."
Our reliance on computers to do our communicating, thinking, and entertaining is a frightening thing. I am guilty of it, as are most people with whom I associate. By blindly accepting what we are told about the ins and outs of computers, including verification codes, I feel that we are in danger of becoming like the Web Robot. My suggestion to combat this impending peril is to type anything you want into the verification code box. The next time you are asked to type a verification code, try typing in "Make me," or "I'll fight you," or "Sod off." See what happens. Let me know.
EBay explains their use of verification codes as follows: "As an additional security check, or if your password is identified as not being secure enough, eBay may occasionally ask you to enter a verification code. This extra security check helps eBay prevent automated registrations and inappropriate use of the site. The verification code is not your password or any other personal information."
The MLB website tells me, when I try and order tickets to a game, that "this additional step in your purchase process assures us that seats are being requested by a legitimate ticket customer, and not an automated seat request placed by web robots. This word verification technology is often used to prevent spoofing of order confirmation processes and presents a 'problem' that is quite easy for humans to solve but is difficult for machines to solve using current technologies. Automated programs put an extra load on the system by tying up the inventory. This not only impacts the performance of our website but also reduces the quality of your online experience. Once you identify the word correctly, we will proceed with finding the best available seats for you. " Wait - a web robot? What the hell is a WEB ROBOT??? I picture R2D2 at a laptop, drinking a latte, surfing porn sites and ordering metal polish from a True Value hardware store.
I don't believe a word of any of those explanations. Being a cranky, menopausal, constantly sweating woman in my fifties, I distrust mostly everything these days. I think that the verification code is a way for the Web Robot to delve deeply into my online activities and send me porno spam about penis enlargement and oddly colored lubricants. I firmly believe that by typing the verification code into the little box, I am allowing the Web Robot into my computer, where he can find my resume', my Christmas card labels, and personal letters to my son's friend who is in the military.
Let's discuss the people who design the verification codes. They must be Coke-Bottle-Thick Eyeglass Wearing geeks who are wreaking revenge for the years of wedgies and ridicule they have withstood from people over the years. Or perhaps heavy crack smokers who are on a work-release program. Who can read these codes? They are typed in weirdly slanted font over a grid of thick black lines. It's like the hallucinogenic version of "Where's Waldo?" I literally cannnot read 99% of the verification codes that I encounter. Ticketmaster has timed me out of my ordering session many many times because I am trying to decipher the damned verification code! The instructions always say to hit the Refresh button if you cannot read the verification code. I do as they say, and the code is worse than the original. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen the message "Incorrect verification code. Please try again."
Our reliance on computers to do our communicating, thinking, and entertaining is a frightening thing. I am guilty of it, as are most people with whom I associate. By blindly accepting what we are told about the ins and outs of computers, including verification codes, I feel that we are in danger of becoming like the Web Robot. My suggestion to combat this impending peril is to type anything you want into the verification code box. The next time you are asked to type a verification code, try typing in "Make me," or "I'll fight you," or "Sod off." See what happens. Let me know.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Yield to Pedestrians and Rock Stars
Summer has come to Ewing. The grass has gone through the typical change from winter brown to verdant green to summer brown. The sounds of lawnmowers and weed-whackers have replaced the harsh echo of snow shovels and ice scrapers. Thoughts of warm sun, air-conditioning, and flip-flops are beginning to surface.
The frequently perfect days in April and May were interspersed with the usual fickle Ewing early summer weather of 40 degree days and 80 degree days. The first 70+ degree days forced people to notice a few extra pounds that were conveniently hidden by bulky sweaters for the past few months. Uh oh. Shorts and bathing suit season is upon us again!
I can always tell when this realization hits, because the foot traffic at the Municipal complex track gets heavy all of a sudden. The Municipal track is located on Upper Ferry Road next to the Municipal Building. It is convenient, well-lit and well-maintained. One lap is roughly a half-mile, and there are gradual inclines that a fifty-something woman like me can navigate without needing an oxygen tank.
I walk five or six days a week at that track and I am usually the only walker there between November and the beginning of April. In April and May, one needs traffic lights and a crossing guard to control the pedestrians on the track. More and more people emerge into the sunlight to hike around the track trying to get into shape. So, instead of plodding along in my usual solo trancelike state, I feel as though I have to smile and give the cool head nod to my fellow walkers.
As the weather heats up in June, the number of walkers decreases again. We few faithful plodders drag around the track drenched in sweat and make frequent stops at the water fountains, gulping water and gasping for air. The thick Jersey humidity in July and August virtually guarantees an almost-empty track most days. So as I slog along leaving drip marks on the asphalt, I can pant like an asthmatic locomotive without fear of startling people into calling 911.
There are unspoken rules of etiquette at the track. For example, if you arrive at the track for your daily constitutional and there are already other walkers/runners out there, you must yield to them. If the other walker is trodding the outside of the path and you are too, then you, being the late arrival, must step to the inside of the path to let them go. If you pass another walker, you must do so without giving them a condescending smile, as if to say, “Tortoise, meet Hare.”
If you are walking in a group of more than two people, you must not stretch yourselves across the path, thereby forcing other walkers to trudge off the path and into the grass. Move to a single-file line until the other walker has passed. Then you may regroup and make snide comments about the person who just passed you.
If you are bringing your children to the track with you, you must instruct them not to ride their Big Wheels, skateboards, scooters, bikes, heelies or rollerblades into other walkers, thus forcing them off the path and into ankle-deep puddles of muddy water. If you choose to walk your dog while walking, please make sure said dog is leashed, has all its shots, and doesn’t show a proclivity to jump, chase, snarl at, bite, or otherwise harass strangers, especially sweating, grunting, half-dizzy-from-exertion older women who are too exhausted to make a run for safety.
Some days it’s more difficult than others to make it around the track four or five times. I pass the time and ignore the pain by listening to my mp3 player and pretending I am performing the songs I have downloaded on it. Some days I am in concert at the PNC Bank Arena. I am often appearing down the shore, and most frequently I can be seen at any of the numerous Philadelphia concert venues. I perform Heart, The Pretenders, The Eurythmics, and even Michael Buble’. I am always greeted by standing ovations, and on occasion I have guest performers such as John Bon Jovi. I like to call this art of concentration “Mind over Talent.”
So if you venture to the Municipal track weekdays between 4 and 5 PM or weekend mornings and you see a chubby woman clad in frayed shorts and Reeboks limping along listening to her music and moving her mouth to the words of a song, don’t ask her for her autograph. She is in the zone!
The frequently perfect days in April and May were interspersed with the usual fickle Ewing early summer weather of 40 degree days and 80 degree days. The first 70+ degree days forced people to notice a few extra pounds that were conveniently hidden by bulky sweaters for the past few months. Uh oh. Shorts and bathing suit season is upon us again!
I can always tell when this realization hits, because the foot traffic at the Municipal complex track gets heavy all of a sudden. The Municipal track is located on Upper Ferry Road next to the Municipal Building. It is convenient, well-lit and well-maintained. One lap is roughly a half-mile, and there are gradual inclines that a fifty-something woman like me can navigate without needing an oxygen tank.
I walk five or six days a week at that track and I am usually the only walker there between November and the beginning of April. In April and May, one needs traffic lights and a crossing guard to control the pedestrians on the track. More and more people emerge into the sunlight to hike around the track trying to get into shape. So, instead of plodding along in my usual solo trancelike state, I feel as though I have to smile and give the cool head nod to my fellow walkers.
As the weather heats up in June, the number of walkers decreases again. We few faithful plodders drag around the track drenched in sweat and make frequent stops at the water fountains, gulping water and gasping for air. The thick Jersey humidity in July and August virtually guarantees an almost-empty track most days. So as I slog along leaving drip marks on the asphalt, I can pant like an asthmatic locomotive without fear of startling people into calling 911.
There are unspoken rules of etiquette at the track. For example, if you arrive at the track for your daily constitutional and there are already other walkers/runners out there, you must yield to them. If the other walker is trodding the outside of the path and you are too, then you, being the late arrival, must step to the inside of the path to let them go. If you pass another walker, you must do so without giving them a condescending smile, as if to say, “Tortoise, meet Hare.”
If you are walking in a group of more than two people, you must not stretch yourselves across the path, thereby forcing other walkers to trudge off the path and into the grass. Move to a single-file line until the other walker has passed. Then you may regroup and make snide comments about the person who just passed you.
If you are bringing your children to the track with you, you must instruct them not to ride their Big Wheels, skateboards, scooters, bikes, heelies or rollerblades into other walkers, thus forcing them off the path and into ankle-deep puddles of muddy water. If you choose to walk your dog while walking, please make sure said dog is leashed, has all its shots, and doesn’t show a proclivity to jump, chase, snarl at, bite, or otherwise harass strangers, especially sweating, grunting, half-dizzy-from-exertion older women who are too exhausted to make a run for safety.
Some days it’s more difficult than others to make it around the track four or five times. I pass the time and ignore the pain by listening to my mp3 player and pretending I am performing the songs I have downloaded on it. Some days I am in concert at the PNC Bank Arena. I am often appearing down the shore, and most frequently I can be seen at any of the numerous Philadelphia concert venues. I perform Heart, The Pretenders, The Eurythmics, and even Michael Buble’. I am always greeted by standing ovations, and on occasion I have guest performers such as John Bon Jovi. I like to call this art of concentration “Mind over Talent.”
So if you venture to the Municipal track weekdays between 4 and 5 PM or weekend mornings and you see a chubby woman clad in frayed shorts and Reeboks limping along listening to her music and moving her mouth to the words of a song, don’t ask her for her autograph. She is in the zone!
How Hot Will It Get?
One day over 90 degrees is enough to make me want to shave my head and stand chin-deep in ice water. It also prompts me to want to strap a knife to my thigh, thus enabling me to slash at anyone who pisses me off. But three days over 90? Come on. We are not in the Gobi Desert. We are not in the Caribbean. We are not straddling the freaking equator. We are in NJ. WHY is it so godawful hot?
"The hot weather is being caused by a ridge in the jet stream. The stream is funneling in warm, steamy air from a Bermuda high parked over the Southeast," some forecasters say. Really?
"...it is difficult to predict what the climate system has in store for our state over the coming decades. However due in large measure to human impacts on the global climate system, it appears as if NJ will continue to warm. This is shown well in climate models, though the future Garden State precipitation regime is more uncertain. There is no consensus amongst models regarding annual totals, but most suggest that annual and seasonal precipitation variability will be greater than in the past. It is too soon to declare that the notable recent variability is associated with this future outlook; however it may serve as an example of what might be expected," states the Office of the NJ State Climatologist. Excuse me? WTF are you babbling about?
When I was younger, the heat didn't seem so bad. I'm sure my tolerance has decreased as I have aged, as have my patience, my mental acuity, and my bank account. As a matter of fact, the only things that have INcreased over the years are my waistline and my list of things that piss me off. And I know about global warming, the selfish consumption by we humanoids and the careless misuse of our planet's natural resources. But still. Man, it's freaking HOT!
I feel like there is a thin green moldy film under my boobs from the perennial sweat. I have little red bumps under my arms, my thighs are chafed, and my ankles have been swollen since June. I know I should be more concerned with the environment than my own petty complaints, but I find it hard to concentrate on anything when sweat drips into my eyes and my sunglasses slide off my face.
Does anyone have an explanation for the intense heat in the Mid-Atlantic states other than the drivel in the 3rd paragraph?
Gotta run and pack myself in ice.
"The hot weather is being caused by a ridge in the jet stream. The stream is funneling in warm, steamy air from a Bermuda high parked over the Southeast," some forecasters say. Really?
"...it is difficult to predict what the climate system has in store for our state over the coming decades. However due in large measure to human impacts on the global climate system, it appears as if NJ will continue to warm. This is shown well in climate models, though the future Garden State precipitation regime is more uncertain. There is no consensus amongst models regarding annual totals, but most suggest that annual and seasonal precipitation variability will be greater than in the past. It is too soon to declare that the notable recent variability is associated with this future outlook; however it may serve as an example of what might be expected," states the Office of the NJ State Climatologist. Excuse me? WTF are you babbling about?
When I was younger, the heat didn't seem so bad. I'm sure my tolerance has decreased as I have aged, as have my patience, my mental acuity, and my bank account. As a matter of fact, the only things that have INcreased over the years are my waistline and my list of things that piss me off. And I know about global warming, the selfish consumption by we humanoids and the careless misuse of our planet's natural resources. But still. Man, it's freaking HOT!
I feel like there is a thin green moldy film under my boobs from the perennial sweat. I have little red bumps under my arms, my thighs are chafed, and my ankles have been swollen since June. I know I should be more concerned with the environment than my own petty complaints, but I find it hard to concentrate on anything when sweat drips into my eyes and my sunglasses slide off my face.
Does anyone have an explanation for the intense heat in the Mid-Atlantic states other than the drivel in the 3rd paragraph?
Gotta run and pack myself in ice.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
"Y" Not Chromosome
“Mom, if you were a girl, would you think I was good-looking?” How does a woman respond to that? Does she say, 1) I AM a girl. Note the long fingernails, 2) You’re ravishing. You look like me, 3) It doesn’t matter what you look like. The only thing that matters is the size of your income, or 4) Go ask your father? This type of question accurately demonstrates the fact that I am up to my nostrils in Y Chromosomes every single stinking day of my life.
Living in an all-male house, my femininity gets lost in the shuffle. It is me vs. them, one against three. So my chances of getting the remote control to the biggest and best TV in the house are slim to none. As a result, I routinely watch programs like World Wrestling Federation matches, MLS games, MLB games, NBA games, NFL games, and ESPN twenty-four hours, seven days a week. I would kill for the opportunity to watch Lifetime Television for Women or actually anything that does not include a ball, a field or court, sweaty men, and an announcer who sounds like he is on crack. I want to pop in my “Steel Magnolias” DVD or choose “The Notebook” on On-Demand without my men making gagging sounds and muttering “Chick Flick” under their breath.
My men don’t have the same housekeeping philosophies that I do, either. I ask them to dust the living room and they flick a pair of dirty sweat socks across the tables. To them, vacuuming the rugs means scuffing their feet across highly-traveled areas to raise the nap. Wiping down the bathroom vanity is done with a clean washcloth, which is then hung in the shower so that I may use it to wash my face later that same day. Cleaning bedrooms consist of shoving all clothes, clean or dirty, in the closet, nudging under the TV cabinet with one’s foot the video games and DVDs that are strewn across the carpet, and tossing the bedspread over the bed, which is covered with clothes that didn’t make the closet. For a year I thought that Donnie slept with two pillows until I changed his sheets and discovered buried under his one pillow a college sweatshirt, several pairs of clean boxers and socks, and a Fat Tuesdays tee shirt from Cancun.
Some of my best, most meaningful chats with my family have been through the closed bathroom door. I like to relax in a hot tub at night before I go to bed. It is my quiet time to unwind and read and relax. Lately, the second I lie back in the water and open my book, IT begins. They’re knocking on the door, asking me where their “Viva La Bam Season One” DVD is. Or where their black soccer socks are. Or what there is to eat. (I’m good, I grant you that, but I do not have X-Ray vision which would enable me to see through walls into the fridge.) I am being asked advice on everything from how much money they should bring to Canada for a four-day trip with their friends, to how to iron a tee shirt that has a big silk-screened mountain on the front. My husband asks me what we are doing three weeks from this Friday because his aunt would like to meet us for dinner. So much for the spa-like relaxation I so desperately need.
There are rare occasions that all four of us go out together, to the same place, in the same car. On these occasions, I try to allow myself ample time to get ready so that the guys are not pacing up and down the hall waiting for me. If we need to leave the house by, say, 6:30, I begin getting ready at 5:00. It takes me 30 minutes tops to shower, do my hair, get dressed, put on makeup, so I figure I have a good cushion of time. For some reason, regardless of when I begin preparations, I am always the last one ready to go! My husband will jump in the shower at 6:25 and be ready before me.
What happens as a result is that I have an audience while I try to slap makeup on quickly. They are fascinated by this process. They stare intently as if I am Michelangelo putting the finishing touches on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. My husband, watching me apply foundation with a sponge, remarks casually that it reminds him of spackling a wall. From these educated critics, I get helpful comments like, “Are eyelids supposed to be wrinkly like that?” or “Put more of that beige stuff on. You look tense.”
It’s difficult not having another woman’s opinion on clothes. Unsure of purchases at times, I bring them home and model them for the guys. The opinions range from, “Is it supposed to look like that?” (from my sons) to “My grandmother had a dress like that” (from my husband). In desperation, I ask my mother’s opinion. I get, “Oh, isn’t that darling? Now if we let down the hem, take off the sleeves, cut all that busy lace off, and dye it black, won’t it be perfect for you?” or “You know, I think your grandmother had a dress like that.”
Being the only female in a houseful of men has its rewards too. They are affectionate, doting, and sweet most days, and they can reach things on the top shelf in my cabinets.
Living in an all-male house, my femininity gets lost in the shuffle. It is me vs. them, one against three. So my chances of getting the remote control to the biggest and best TV in the house are slim to none. As a result, I routinely watch programs like World Wrestling Federation matches, MLS games, MLB games, NBA games, NFL games, and ESPN twenty-four hours, seven days a week. I would kill for the opportunity to watch Lifetime Television for Women or actually anything that does not include a ball, a field or court, sweaty men, and an announcer who sounds like he is on crack. I want to pop in my “Steel Magnolias” DVD or choose “The Notebook” on On-Demand without my men making gagging sounds and muttering “Chick Flick” under their breath.
My men don’t have the same housekeeping philosophies that I do, either. I ask them to dust the living room and they flick a pair of dirty sweat socks across the tables. To them, vacuuming the rugs means scuffing their feet across highly-traveled areas to raise the nap. Wiping down the bathroom vanity is done with a clean washcloth, which is then hung in the shower so that I may use it to wash my face later that same day. Cleaning bedrooms consist of shoving all clothes, clean or dirty, in the closet, nudging under the TV cabinet with one’s foot the video games and DVDs that are strewn across the carpet, and tossing the bedspread over the bed, which is covered with clothes that didn’t make the closet. For a year I thought that Donnie slept with two pillows until I changed his sheets and discovered buried under his one pillow a college sweatshirt, several pairs of clean boxers and socks, and a Fat Tuesdays tee shirt from Cancun.
Some of my best, most meaningful chats with my family have been through the closed bathroom door. I like to relax in a hot tub at night before I go to bed. It is my quiet time to unwind and read and relax. Lately, the second I lie back in the water and open my book, IT begins. They’re knocking on the door, asking me where their “Viva La Bam Season One” DVD is. Or where their black soccer socks are. Or what there is to eat. (I’m good, I grant you that, but I do not have X-Ray vision which would enable me to see through walls into the fridge.) I am being asked advice on everything from how much money they should bring to Canada for a four-day trip with their friends, to how to iron a tee shirt that has a big silk-screened mountain on the front. My husband asks me what we are doing three weeks from this Friday because his aunt would like to meet us for dinner. So much for the spa-like relaxation I so desperately need.
There are rare occasions that all four of us go out together, to the same place, in the same car. On these occasions, I try to allow myself ample time to get ready so that the guys are not pacing up and down the hall waiting for me. If we need to leave the house by, say, 6:30, I begin getting ready at 5:00. It takes me 30 minutes tops to shower, do my hair, get dressed, put on makeup, so I figure I have a good cushion of time. For some reason, regardless of when I begin preparations, I am always the last one ready to go! My husband will jump in the shower at 6:25 and be ready before me.
What happens as a result is that I have an audience while I try to slap makeup on quickly. They are fascinated by this process. They stare intently as if I am Michelangelo putting the finishing touches on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. My husband, watching me apply foundation with a sponge, remarks casually that it reminds him of spackling a wall. From these educated critics, I get helpful comments like, “Are eyelids supposed to be wrinkly like that?” or “Put more of that beige stuff on. You look tense.”
It’s difficult not having another woman’s opinion on clothes. Unsure of purchases at times, I bring them home and model them for the guys. The opinions range from, “Is it supposed to look like that?” (from my sons) to “My grandmother had a dress like that” (from my husband). In desperation, I ask my mother’s opinion. I get, “Oh, isn’t that darling? Now if we let down the hem, take off the sleeves, cut all that busy lace off, and dye it black, won’t it be perfect for you?” or “You know, I think your grandmother had a dress like that.”
Being the only female in a houseful of men has its rewards too. They are affectionate, doting, and sweet most days, and they can reach things on the top shelf in my cabinets.
Doggone Days of Summer
The exuberance and anticipation of summer that steals over me in April begins to wind down a bit in August. Light tee shirts, sandals, and shorts start to lose their appeal and yes, even get annoying after 14 weeks of solid heat. The smell of suntan lotion that was so refreshing in June gags me two weeks before Labor Day. My air conditioner, which provided such cool, comfortable air in June and July, is now sending up white flags of surrender. It’s time for autumn!
How does one describe a NJ summer? The three H’s (hazy, hot and humid) are apt but they don’t really draw a clear enough picture. How about phrases like, “marinating in my own sweat,” “heat rash,” and “I hate everyone”? It seems like everything is sweating! My family, my coworkers and even my refrigerator. I mean, we live in Ewing. New Jersey. The continental U.S. of A.! We are not on top of the Equator, after all. Summers lately have left me limp as a soggy noodle with pores permanently clogged with baby powder. I have taken to wearing a bathing suit around the house because I can’t stand more than one layer of clothing on my slippery skin.
I yearn for crisp, breezy October evenings with the smell of wood smoke in the air. Instead, we have tropical, still summer nights with the smell of moldering earth, towels, and carpets. Mushrooms grow rampantly on my formerly green lawn. Weirdly shaped and colored fungi appear at bases of trees and my potted New Guinea Impatiens shoot me a dirty look as I stagger past them into the house to change into my bathing suit.
It is unfortunate that my inner thermostat has always run a bit higher than my family’s. It is more unfortunate that, due to my gender and my current age, the same thermostat has changed its settings this summer and is recording record highs. My personal dew point has been 237 since May. My humidity number almost matches my annual salary, and I am only truly comfortable when I am immersed in cool water up to my ear lobes.
I want to shovel snow. I want to lie against the bathtub like our dog used to do. I want to whip down a snow-covered mountain with the bracing air freezing my face off, preferably on skis. I want it to be so cold that the hair inside my nostrils ices up. I want the ice cream man to put his truck up on blocks for another winter because I swear, if I hear the tinkling rendition of “It’s A Small World” one more time, things will get ugly.
There are a few things that I’ll miss about the summer. I’ll miss my swim club buddies, who I look forward to seeing every weekend and who are all like family. I’ll miss having a tan so that I don’t have to wear makeup or stockings. I’ll miss the college kids who flock home for the summer and hang out at our house. I’ll miss the delicious fresh fruit and vegetables that NJ provides us in the summer. I’ll miss being barefoot 99% of the time. But I won’t miss the 3 H’s that make me long for a blizzard.
How does one describe a NJ summer? The three H’s (hazy, hot and humid) are apt but they don’t really draw a clear enough picture. How about phrases like, “marinating in my own sweat,” “heat rash,” and “I hate everyone”? It seems like everything is sweating! My family, my coworkers and even my refrigerator. I mean, we live in Ewing. New Jersey. The continental U.S. of A.! We are not on top of the Equator, after all. Summers lately have left me limp as a soggy noodle with pores permanently clogged with baby powder. I have taken to wearing a bathing suit around the house because I can’t stand more than one layer of clothing on my slippery skin.
I yearn for crisp, breezy October evenings with the smell of wood smoke in the air. Instead, we have tropical, still summer nights with the smell of moldering earth, towels, and carpets. Mushrooms grow rampantly on my formerly green lawn. Weirdly shaped and colored fungi appear at bases of trees and my potted New Guinea Impatiens shoot me a dirty look as I stagger past them into the house to change into my bathing suit.
It is unfortunate that my inner thermostat has always run a bit higher than my family’s. It is more unfortunate that, due to my gender and my current age, the same thermostat has changed its settings this summer and is recording record highs. My personal dew point has been 237 since May. My humidity number almost matches my annual salary, and I am only truly comfortable when I am immersed in cool water up to my ear lobes.
I want to shovel snow. I want to lie against the bathtub like our dog used to do. I want to whip down a snow-covered mountain with the bracing air freezing my face off, preferably on skis. I want it to be so cold that the hair inside my nostrils ices up. I want the ice cream man to put his truck up on blocks for another winter because I swear, if I hear the tinkling rendition of “It’s A Small World” one more time, things will get ugly.
There are a few things that I’ll miss about the summer. I’ll miss my swim club buddies, who I look forward to seeing every weekend and who are all like family. I’ll miss having a tan so that I don’t have to wear makeup or stockings. I’ll miss the college kids who flock home for the summer and hang out at our house. I’ll miss the delicious fresh fruit and vegetables that NJ provides us in the summer. I’ll miss being barefoot 99% of the time. But I won’t miss the 3 H’s that make me long for a blizzard.
Skin Deep
In eager anticipation of the Memorial Day opening of our pool club, I visited an area drugstore to buy suntan lotion. My shopping trip occurred in early May, during a cold snap that had everyone walking around dressed in winter clothes and saying to each other, “Is summer EVER gonna get here?” I figured if I bought suntan lotion, the weather would get warmer.
I find the suntan lotion section easily enough. I am greeted by the sight of a million different bottles and cans, in vivid, tropical colors. We have foams, lotions, gels, oils, spray-ons and roll-ons. What happened to plain old Coppertone? I unclench my frozen fingers and wade in, grabbing a saucy yellowish bottle. Its label tells me that it is a self-tanner. I flash back to senior year of high school, right before my prom. We had a chilly May that year, too, and I was desperate to have a tan for my prom. I bought a bottle of the only available self-tanner in 1975, and used it liberally for a day or two before my prom. Thirty years later, I wonder why I did not notice that I looked like I had crawled out of a bag of Cheese Doodles. I hastily put the self-tanner back on the shelf with a small shiver.
The next bottle, a soft, restful blue, looks promising. It has a decent SPF rating and it isn’t too expensive. I flip it over and read the label. This one informs me that it is most effective when used with another product. I locate the other product on the next shelf and continue reading. This necessary product is a buffing lotion. Apparently I have a ton of dead skin cells that make me look very dull and in order to properly enjoy summer, I must rid myself of these cells. I must buff my dead skin. The ingredients in this buffing lotion include crushed seashells, natural rock which is extracted from some famous valley, Echinacea, Ginkgo Biloba, and Green Tea, along with aloe. Crushed seashells? Natural Rock? Not to mention Echinacea and green tea? So, what they’re saying is that if I use this lotion, I will reduce my risk of high blood pressure, improve my mental alertness, prevent a head cold, and take the first three layers of skin off my body with the seashells and the rock. Really, all I want is a healthy glow so I don’t have to wear pantyhose to work in the summer. The buffing lotion got replaced on the shelf next to the self-tanner.
I pick up another bottle and flip it over. This product is a basic white lotion with an SPF of 4. Fry city. Next. I scan shelf after shelf of suntan products, sulking the whole time because I can’t simply slather on baby oil and marinate myself like I used to do in high school. I read labels that proclaim All-Over, All-Day, Won’t Be Sweated Off, Wash-On, Unscented, Dry Oil, Ultra Sheer, Amplifier, Hypoallergenic, Cooling, Waterproof, High Frequency Sunblock, Suntan, Sunscreen. Ingredients range from aloe and cocoa butter to dandelion, carrot oil, copper, and yeast extract. Locations are mentioned: Australia, Africa, Florida, Hawaii, California. I note, no NJ. At this point, I am feeling dizzy. All I want to do is sit safely by the pool, reading my book and chatting with other sun worshippers and not sauté’ myself so badly that I glow in the dark later that night. This should not be so hard.
At this point, I have been lurking in the suntan lotion aisle for 20 minutes and the employees are covertly watching me. I have to choose something quick before security approaches me and arrests me for loitering. I grab a bottle with a picture of a bikini-clad female stretched out on white sand and head to the cashier. On my way, I notice the moisturizer section. Hmmm, I say to myself, with all this sun I’ll be getting, I’ll need to moisturize, won’t I? The first bottle I pick up suggests that before I use this cream, I’ll need to exfoliate. (Synonym for exfoliate: buff.) Crushed seashells and natural rock again? Seriously? All I want to do is come home from the pool, shower, and slap some cool lotion on my glowing skin. I learn from browsing through this section that pearly microbeads can reduce my facial appearance by ten years, that there is such a thing as de-crinkling, and that, if I follow the directions, I can prevent and yes, even correct, any sagging of skin that may be occurring.
Forget it. Give me the good, old-fashioned bottle of Jergens and let’s get the heck out of here. I pay for my two bottles of beauty and leave the store, fighting the wind as I cross the parking lot to my car.
I hope everyone enjoys the warm weather. Maybe I’ll see you around the township this summer, or by the pool. For those of you who don’t know me, I will be the woman with abraded skin and crushed seashells embedded in my flesh.
I find the suntan lotion section easily enough. I am greeted by the sight of a million different bottles and cans, in vivid, tropical colors. We have foams, lotions, gels, oils, spray-ons and roll-ons. What happened to plain old Coppertone? I unclench my frozen fingers and wade in, grabbing a saucy yellowish bottle. Its label tells me that it is a self-tanner. I flash back to senior year of high school, right before my prom. We had a chilly May that year, too, and I was desperate to have a tan for my prom. I bought a bottle of the only available self-tanner in 1975, and used it liberally for a day or two before my prom. Thirty years later, I wonder why I did not notice that I looked like I had crawled out of a bag of Cheese Doodles. I hastily put the self-tanner back on the shelf with a small shiver.
The next bottle, a soft, restful blue, looks promising. It has a decent SPF rating and it isn’t too expensive. I flip it over and read the label. This one informs me that it is most effective when used with another product. I locate the other product on the next shelf and continue reading. This necessary product is a buffing lotion. Apparently I have a ton of dead skin cells that make me look very dull and in order to properly enjoy summer, I must rid myself of these cells. I must buff my dead skin. The ingredients in this buffing lotion include crushed seashells, natural rock which is extracted from some famous valley, Echinacea, Ginkgo Biloba, and Green Tea, along with aloe. Crushed seashells? Natural Rock? Not to mention Echinacea and green tea? So, what they’re saying is that if I use this lotion, I will reduce my risk of high blood pressure, improve my mental alertness, prevent a head cold, and take the first three layers of skin off my body with the seashells and the rock. Really, all I want is a healthy glow so I don’t have to wear pantyhose to work in the summer. The buffing lotion got replaced on the shelf next to the self-tanner.
I pick up another bottle and flip it over. This product is a basic white lotion with an SPF of 4. Fry city. Next. I scan shelf after shelf of suntan products, sulking the whole time because I can’t simply slather on baby oil and marinate myself like I used to do in high school. I read labels that proclaim All-Over, All-Day, Won’t Be Sweated Off, Wash-On, Unscented, Dry Oil, Ultra Sheer, Amplifier, Hypoallergenic, Cooling, Waterproof, High Frequency Sunblock, Suntan, Sunscreen. Ingredients range from aloe and cocoa butter to dandelion, carrot oil, copper, and yeast extract. Locations are mentioned: Australia, Africa, Florida, Hawaii, California. I note, no NJ. At this point, I am feeling dizzy. All I want to do is sit safely by the pool, reading my book and chatting with other sun worshippers and not sauté’ myself so badly that I glow in the dark later that night. This should not be so hard.
At this point, I have been lurking in the suntan lotion aisle for 20 minutes and the employees are covertly watching me. I have to choose something quick before security approaches me and arrests me for loitering. I grab a bottle with a picture of a bikini-clad female stretched out on white sand and head to the cashier. On my way, I notice the moisturizer section. Hmmm, I say to myself, with all this sun I’ll be getting, I’ll need to moisturize, won’t I? The first bottle I pick up suggests that before I use this cream, I’ll need to exfoliate. (Synonym for exfoliate: buff.) Crushed seashells and natural rock again? Seriously? All I want to do is come home from the pool, shower, and slap some cool lotion on my glowing skin. I learn from browsing through this section that pearly microbeads can reduce my facial appearance by ten years, that there is such a thing as de-crinkling, and that, if I follow the directions, I can prevent and yes, even correct, any sagging of skin that may be occurring.
Forget it. Give me the good, old-fashioned bottle of Jergens and let’s get the heck out of here. I pay for my two bottles of beauty and leave the store, fighting the wind as I cross the parking lot to my car.
I hope everyone enjoys the warm weather. Maybe I’ll see you around the township this summer, or by the pool. For those of you who don’t know me, I will be the woman with abraded skin and crushed seashells embedded in my flesh.
A Weighty Issue
What is the big deal about being skinny? I am sick and tired of hearing about the Atkins Diet, the South Beach Diet, the gym, or power-walking. I am not fat. I am pleasingly plump and it looks like I will be pleasingly plump for the rest of my days. I buy clothes that look almost stylish. According to my mother, I am not terrible-looking. But I don’t have an ass you can bounce a quarter off of nor do I have abs like a washboard. And I don’t want those things.
I want to be able to eat reasonably well. I want to be able to dine on meals that are appetizing, well-seasoned, and nicely prepared. I don’t want to feel guilty every time I put a spoonful of sugar in my coffee. I don’t want to leave skid marks running from anything chocolate. I want a handful of potato chips with my sandwich, which by the way is made with low fat mayo on low carb bread.
I have avoided corduroy since 1981, after my first child was born. I had paranoid visions of walking in corduroy pants and causing friction sparks to shoot all over the place, setting myself and possibly my surrounding area on fire. Explain THAT one to the firemen. “Yeah, hi. Thanks for coming so quickly. Yeah, there was a fire. How did it start? Well, see this charred and smoldering heap? Those were my Dockers corduroys. Oh yeah, that mass of burnt foam and cloth? That was the couch.”
So I began walking. Great way to stay in shape, except for the fact that you actually have to, well, get out and walk. I go after work. I change into ratty clothes after work and haul my old self around the track at Ewing Township Municipal Complex for 2 – 3 miles. I am 51 years old. I am TIRED after work. The last thing I want to do is walk in 20 or 90 degree weather at 4:30PM. I could be lying on my couch watching Oprah, who by the way has had her own trouble with weight. So I tried changing my walking schedule. Every workday morning, my alarm went off at 5:57 AM. Every workday morning, I slam the snooze button at 5:57 AM, and again at 6:02 AM, and yet again at 6:07 AM. During that 10 minute period, I wage an internal war with myself. Head buried in my pillow, I am rationalizing. “Do I really need to walk this morning? After all, my pants still fit. I can still see my feet. Isn’t it supposed to rain this morning? I am tired and I deserve to sleep another hour. What sadist had the bright idea to do this before-work walk anyway?”
I have to be at the office by 8:30AM. It takes me approximately 30 minutes to get ready for work. This includes showering, drying my hair, applying makeup (most days), making the bed, straightening up the living room and kitchen, and getting dressed. Add 2 minutes to the original 30 if I have to decide what to have for dinner that night. So in reality I can get up at 7:54AM and still not be late for work, since the drive takes all of about 4 minutes and that’s if I get stuck at all six traffic lights on my way. Basically, I am getting up almost 2 hours early to walk. This ensures that by noon I am so stiff I can barely stagger to the ladies’ room and by 3PM, I am dozing while sitting at my computer.
To rationalize my guilt and frustration, I have a mental litany, which goes something like this: “I am a happily married woman with two relatively normal kids. One of them even has a college degree. I hold down a fulltime job, have lots of friends, maintain our home, and manage to scribble a line or two when inspiration strikes. I am a nice person. Children don’t burst into tears and run from me. Adults usually like me. My parents haven’t cut me out of their lives yet. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.” This usually helps ease some of the guilt. Until I try to slip into a pair of shorts that used to fit and now leaves a permanent red indentation at my waist. Then the rationalization is shot to hell and we’re back at Square One.
I will never be skinny. I will always have a pleasant roundness. I have come to terms with that. I just want two simple things: 1) a waistline that is easily identifiable, and 2) permission to indulge in stuff that tastes good without having to go to confession. Not too much to ask, would you agree?
Here’s a message to all the beautiful women out there, size 4 or size 24. I have come to a conclusion: Guilt only makes you crazy and when you’re crazy, you eat more. So don’t feel guilty. Just eat, and bag the guilt!
I want to be able to eat reasonably well. I want to be able to dine on meals that are appetizing, well-seasoned, and nicely prepared. I don’t want to feel guilty every time I put a spoonful of sugar in my coffee. I don’t want to leave skid marks running from anything chocolate. I want a handful of potato chips with my sandwich, which by the way is made with low fat mayo on low carb bread.
I have avoided corduroy since 1981, after my first child was born. I had paranoid visions of walking in corduroy pants and causing friction sparks to shoot all over the place, setting myself and possibly my surrounding area on fire. Explain THAT one to the firemen. “Yeah, hi. Thanks for coming so quickly. Yeah, there was a fire. How did it start? Well, see this charred and smoldering heap? Those were my Dockers corduroys. Oh yeah, that mass of burnt foam and cloth? That was the couch.”
So I began walking. Great way to stay in shape, except for the fact that you actually have to, well, get out and walk. I go after work. I change into ratty clothes after work and haul my old self around the track at Ewing Township Municipal Complex for 2 – 3 miles. I am 51 years old. I am TIRED after work. The last thing I want to do is walk in 20 or 90 degree weather at 4:30PM. I could be lying on my couch watching Oprah, who by the way has had her own trouble with weight. So I tried changing my walking schedule. Every workday morning, my alarm went off at 5:57 AM. Every workday morning, I slam the snooze button at 5:57 AM, and again at 6:02 AM, and yet again at 6:07 AM. During that 10 minute period, I wage an internal war with myself. Head buried in my pillow, I am rationalizing. “Do I really need to walk this morning? After all, my pants still fit. I can still see my feet. Isn’t it supposed to rain this morning? I am tired and I deserve to sleep another hour. What sadist had the bright idea to do this before-work walk anyway?”
I have to be at the office by 8:30AM. It takes me approximately 30 minutes to get ready for work. This includes showering, drying my hair, applying makeup (most days), making the bed, straightening up the living room and kitchen, and getting dressed. Add 2 minutes to the original 30 if I have to decide what to have for dinner that night. So in reality I can get up at 7:54AM and still not be late for work, since the drive takes all of about 4 minutes and that’s if I get stuck at all six traffic lights on my way. Basically, I am getting up almost 2 hours early to walk. This ensures that by noon I am so stiff I can barely stagger to the ladies’ room and by 3PM, I am dozing while sitting at my computer.
To rationalize my guilt and frustration, I have a mental litany, which goes something like this: “I am a happily married woman with two relatively normal kids. One of them even has a college degree. I hold down a fulltime job, have lots of friends, maintain our home, and manage to scribble a line or two when inspiration strikes. I am a nice person. Children don’t burst into tears and run from me. Adults usually like me. My parents haven’t cut me out of their lives yet. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad person.” This usually helps ease some of the guilt. Until I try to slip into a pair of shorts that used to fit and now leaves a permanent red indentation at my waist. Then the rationalization is shot to hell and we’re back at Square One.
I will never be skinny. I will always have a pleasant roundness. I have come to terms with that. I just want two simple things: 1) a waistline that is easily identifiable, and 2) permission to indulge in stuff that tastes good without having to go to confession. Not too much to ask, would you agree?
Here’s a message to all the beautiful women out there, size 4 or size 24. I have come to a conclusion: Guilt only makes you crazy and when you’re crazy, you eat more. So don’t feel guilty. Just eat, and bag the guilt!
Mommish
Language is our prime communicator. Without it, we would still be grunting at each other and drawing on cave walls. There is one language, however, that will not be found in any college course catalog. This language is called “Mommish.”
Mommish is not to be confused with “motherese,” the cooing nonsense used on infants and small animals. Mommish is an older relation of motherese . Mommish is used on children, usually beginning when the child is two years old and continuing until the child is old and gray.
When a child is two, they are subjected to Mommish favorites such as, “Please don’t write on your baby brother,” and “Don’t make that face. Do you want it to freeze like that?” Mommish changes as the child ages. A six-year old might hear, “Now if Jimmy jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you be a follower and jump in after him, or would you be smart and just hold his jacket while he dove?”
A nine-year old male child will begin the universal eye-rolling response to Mommish, a reaction that will stay with him until long after he is married. This Mommish contains things like, “I somehow doubt that your teacher said you were exempt from math homework because you are cute.” An eleven-year old, upon hearing, “I would prefer it if you and your friends stop videoing each other snowboarding off of our roof into the hedges” will begin to emit breathing noises similar to the ones you made giving birth to him. A cocky thirteen year old reacts to Mommish such as, “Please get the cereal bowl, empty Fritos bag, six soda cans, and the milk-stained glass out of your room, unless of course you PREFER roommates with four legs and antennae” by stalking down the hall muttering unintelligible sounds. (This is Teenish, another widely used language.)
The Mommish changes a bit when the child turns seventeen and obtains the coveted drivers’ license. The sight of a gangly teenager, who can barely walk through the living room without knocking the Lenox vases off the coffee tables, behind the wheel of a car causes the Mommish to become garbled, loud, high-pitched and sometimes illogical. It is often accompanied by gestures such as foot-stomping, arm grabbing, vein-popping, and profuse sweating. Mommish consists of ditties like, “Avoid main roads. Don’t play the radio. Don’t pass anyone. No passengers. No hitchhikers. Don’t speed. No drinking. No smoking. No eating in the car. Under no circumstances do you talk on the cell phone,” and also, “Call me on the cell phone if you need me.”
Mommish is known, in some parts of the world, as nagging. Come to think of it, that’s what they call it in my house. But I believe in the power of Mommish. How else would my two grown sons and my husband know how to get through their days? They need Mommish! It’s instructional! It’s helpful! Why, you ask? “Because I said so!”
Mommish is not to be confused with “motherese,” the cooing nonsense used on infants and small animals. Mommish is an older relation of motherese . Mommish is used on children, usually beginning when the child is two years old and continuing until the child is old and gray.
When a child is two, they are subjected to Mommish favorites such as, “Please don’t write on your baby brother,” and “Don’t make that face. Do you want it to freeze like that?” Mommish changes as the child ages. A six-year old might hear, “Now if Jimmy jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you be a follower and jump in after him, or would you be smart and just hold his jacket while he dove?”
A nine-year old male child will begin the universal eye-rolling response to Mommish, a reaction that will stay with him until long after he is married. This Mommish contains things like, “I somehow doubt that your teacher said you were exempt from math homework because you are cute.” An eleven-year old, upon hearing, “I would prefer it if you and your friends stop videoing each other snowboarding off of our roof into the hedges” will begin to emit breathing noises similar to the ones you made giving birth to him. A cocky thirteen year old reacts to Mommish such as, “Please get the cereal bowl, empty Fritos bag, six soda cans, and the milk-stained glass out of your room, unless of course you PREFER roommates with four legs and antennae” by stalking down the hall muttering unintelligible sounds. (This is Teenish, another widely used language.)
The Mommish changes a bit when the child turns seventeen and obtains the coveted drivers’ license. The sight of a gangly teenager, who can barely walk through the living room without knocking the Lenox vases off the coffee tables, behind the wheel of a car causes the Mommish to become garbled, loud, high-pitched and sometimes illogical. It is often accompanied by gestures such as foot-stomping, arm grabbing, vein-popping, and profuse sweating. Mommish consists of ditties like, “Avoid main roads. Don’t play the radio. Don’t pass anyone. No passengers. No hitchhikers. Don’t speed. No drinking. No smoking. No eating in the car. Under no circumstances do you talk on the cell phone,” and also, “Call me on the cell phone if you need me.”
Mommish is known, in some parts of the world, as nagging. Come to think of it, that’s what they call it in my house. But I believe in the power of Mommish. How else would my two grown sons and my husband know how to get through their days? They need Mommish! It’s instructional! It’s helpful! Why, you ask? “Because I said so!”
Cool by Degrees
I’m not cool anymore. I used to be cool. I used to dress cool, talk cool, act cool, think cool. I Was Cool. Not anymore. I’m not cool now. I’m just “Mom.” And that’s not cool.
I am 51 years old. I’m not ancient. But to anyone under the age of twenty-five, I was born in an era where females were named “Woman” and males wore animal skins, played with their wheel, and drew stick figures on cave walls.
The music of this decade confuses me. It also assaults every nerve ending in my body at times. Rhyming poetry recited to instrumental remakes of songs from MY era is all the rage with my kids. Granted, some of it I do like. Some of that lyrical poetry is beautiful, meaningful, and moving. So, okay, I may be a little cool. But some of it…..scary stuff. Violent, bloody, everyone has a gun, everyone is smoking weed, everyone hates everyone else. My Cool-O-Meter drops to zero with those songs.
Clothes are a mystery. When I was growing up, and actually to this day, we wore clothes that fit. Baggy clothes meant that a) congratulations, you lost weight , b) you were wearing hand-me-downs, or c) everything else you owned was dirty. Now, kids buy pants two sizes too big, so that nothing rests on waistlines and hems drag under shoes. That is very cool. When my kids were younger, I was always hiking up their pants. I hiked up the pants of George’s best friend Paul, too. I guess it embarrassed Georgie when I did this, but I know Paul’s mom would thank me for it. She’s not cool, either.
Language has changed, too. Note the following examples:
Cool word & meaning: phat, means cool
My uncool meaning: misspelled for overweight
Cool word and meaning: clutch, means cool
My uncool meaning: a type of purse; what you use to shift gears; what you do to
the door handle when you are teaching your kid to drive.
Cool word and meaning: fresh, means cool
My uncool meaning: a kid with a smart mouth
Cool: down - means ready or prepared
Uncool: how I feel when I try on bathing suits; direction my boobs are heading
Cool: “sup”, mean “What’s going on?”
Uncool: what you do at the dinner table
Cool: slammin’, means gorgeous, or sexy
Uncool: what doors do when kids are pissed off at uncool parents
Cool: jet, means hurry
Uncool: a very fast airplane
Cool: bounce, means leave
Uncool: a fabric softener; what kids do on trampolines; what my boobs used to do
when I was slammin’
A large amount of cool that I may have retained from my earlier cool years evaporated when my kids started driving. I became the least cool person on the planet. Litanies began spouting from my mouth every time I heard their car keys jingle. Lists of things that they should and should not do while driving tumbled from my lips. And when they went off to college? Any small trace, any last vestige of cool that may have been lurking in the farthest corner of my body disappeared forever. I was lower than the least cool person on the planet. I was the amoeba of cool. Panic does that to a grown-up.
Dancing is another Cool Indicator. How you dance and what you call your style of dancing are immediate Cool Identifiers. Now, I have heard of break dancing. I know people spin on their heads, do the robot, and move around on the floor. But that was the extent of my knowledge. I had never heard of Breaking, Popping and Locking. For example, did you know that Hitting was a form of Popping? And that Hitting has many styles, such as boogaloo, bopping, puppet, struts, boogie, robotic, and let’s not forget freestyle? Didn’t know that, did you? I guess I am way cooler than you. (Okay, I looked it up on the Internet.) I would not even be able to remember the names of the tons of dance styles there are today, much less actually perform them! In my younger days, we had disco. One style. That’s it. Easy to remember. We spun around the dance floor in four inch heels and Qiana knit and big hair and we looked cool as hell. My kids laugh their heads off when they see us dance. My kids are not cool.
Driving with one’s seat tilted almost parallel to the road and one’s wrist draped coolly over the steering wheel is cool. Wearing ripped-up, faded and frayed shorts that cost $80 is cool. Wearing the same type of tee shirts that we wore in the 70s is cool. Baseball hats that have names of businesses or R-Rated metaphors on them are cool. Carrying a bottle of water everywhere is cool. Laptops are cool, desktops are not cool. Wireless is cool. Tiny little digital cameras that are also camcorders, voice recorders and MP3 players are way cool. Saying “hi” is not cool; saying “hey” or “sup” is cool.
Too many rules are required to be cool today. Too many fads come and go for me to be cool and follow them. It is too damn much work to be cool. I am too old and too tired to be cool. I would rather be uncool and well-rested.
I am 51 years old. I’m not ancient. But to anyone under the age of twenty-five, I was born in an era where females were named “Woman” and males wore animal skins, played with their wheel, and drew stick figures on cave walls.
The music of this decade confuses me. It also assaults every nerve ending in my body at times. Rhyming poetry recited to instrumental remakes of songs from MY era is all the rage with my kids. Granted, some of it I do like. Some of that lyrical poetry is beautiful, meaningful, and moving. So, okay, I may be a little cool. But some of it…..scary stuff. Violent, bloody, everyone has a gun, everyone is smoking weed, everyone hates everyone else. My Cool-O-Meter drops to zero with those songs.
Clothes are a mystery. When I was growing up, and actually to this day, we wore clothes that fit. Baggy clothes meant that a) congratulations, you lost weight , b) you were wearing hand-me-downs, or c) everything else you owned was dirty. Now, kids buy pants two sizes too big, so that nothing rests on waistlines and hems drag under shoes. That is very cool. When my kids were younger, I was always hiking up their pants. I hiked up the pants of George’s best friend Paul, too. I guess it embarrassed Georgie when I did this, but I know Paul’s mom would thank me for it. She’s not cool, either.
Language has changed, too. Note the following examples:
Cool word & meaning: phat, means cool
My uncool meaning: misspelled for overweight
Cool word and meaning: clutch, means cool
My uncool meaning: a type of purse; what you use to shift gears; what you do to
the door handle when you are teaching your kid to drive.
Cool word and meaning: fresh, means cool
My uncool meaning: a kid with a smart mouth
Cool: down - means ready or prepared
Uncool: how I feel when I try on bathing suits; direction my boobs are heading
Cool: “sup”, mean “What’s going on?”
Uncool: what you do at the dinner table
Cool: slammin’, means gorgeous, or sexy
Uncool: what doors do when kids are pissed off at uncool parents
Cool: jet, means hurry
Uncool: a very fast airplane
Cool: bounce, means leave
Uncool: a fabric softener; what kids do on trampolines; what my boobs used to do
when I was slammin’
A large amount of cool that I may have retained from my earlier cool years evaporated when my kids started driving. I became the least cool person on the planet. Litanies began spouting from my mouth every time I heard their car keys jingle. Lists of things that they should and should not do while driving tumbled from my lips. And when they went off to college? Any small trace, any last vestige of cool that may have been lurking in the farthest corner of my body disappeared forever. I was lower than the least cool person on the planet. I was the amoeba of cool. Panic does that to a grown-up.
Dancing is another Cool Indicator. How you dance and what you call your style of dancing are immediate Cool Identifiers. Now, I have heard of break dancing. I know people spin on their heads, do the robot, and move around on the floor. But that was the extent of my knowledge. I had never heard of Breaking, Popping and Locking. For example, did you know that Hitting was a form of Popping? And that Hitting has many styles, such as boogaloo, bopping, puppet, struts, boogie, robotic, and let’s not forget freestyle? Didn’t know that, did you? I guess I am way cooler than you. (Okay, I looked it up on the Internet.) I would not even be able to remember the names of the tons of dance styles there are today, much less actually perform them! In my younger days, we had disco. One style. That’s it. Easy to remember. We spun around the dance floor in four inch heels and Qiana knit and big hair and we looked cool as hell. My kids laugh their heads off when they see us dance. My kids are not cool.
Driving with one’s seat tilted almost parallel to the road and one’s wrist draped coolly over the steering wheel is cool. Wearing ripped-up, faded and frayed shorts that cost $80 is cool. Wearing the same type of tee shirts that we wore in the 70s is cool. Baseball hats that have names of businesses or R-Rated metaphors on them are cool. Carrying a bottle of water everywhere is cool. Laptops are cool, desktops are not cool. Wireless is cool. Tiny little digital cameras that are also camcorders, voice recorders and MP3 players are way cool. Saying “hi” is not cool; saying “hey” or “sup” is cool.
Too many rules are required to be cool today. Too many fads come and go for me to be cool and follow them. It is too damn much work to be cool. I am too old and too tired to be cool. I would rather be uncool and well-rested.
All Ears
Selective Hearing is defined in Mom’s Dictionary as: 1. behavior by which sound is perceived only when one chooses to perceive it; 2. the act or process of perceiving sound once in a while, or when one feels like it, or of perceiving only portions of verbal information and virtually ignoring the rest. In that same Dictionary, Constant Nagging is defined as, 1. talking incessantly about the same thing until the end of time; 2. going over and over the same information to the same people until the cows come home; and 3. directing or informing others of tasks or necessary details on an hourly, or more frequent, basis.
There is no cure for Selective Hearing. Doctors cannot treat this malady. No machine, surgery, or auditory aid can rid a sufferer of this condition. One is not born with Selective Hearing. One acquires Selective Hearing as one gets older. Statistics show that most cases of Selective Hearing begin at age 5 and worsen over the years, until at age 50 and above, virtually no sound is heard other than key words or phrases like “Dinner is ready” or “Do you want to fool around?” 99.95% of Selective Hearing sufferers are male, and the disease is definitely hereditary.
Selective Hearing can come and go. It comes on very suddenly to the males in my house when talk turns to yard work. The mere mention of rakes, shovels, mulch, and lawnmowers brings on an epidemic of Selective Hearing. Yet the very same patients display an amazing range of auditory ability when food, money, sports, or sleeping are spoken aloud.
Selective Hearing is usually accompanied by facial contortions and odd sounds. Sometimes I can predict a bout of Selective Hearing just by watching the face of my husband or sons. The mouth falls open a bit, all facial lines are erased, and blank eyes dart from side to side. At times, a guttural sound is emitted by the sufferer, one which sounds very much like someone being punched in the stomach. It goes something like this: “Huhhhhhh?”
I have witnessed Selective Hearing striking a sufferer in the middle of a conversation. While holding forth to Donnie about how he needs to pick up another class for the fall semester, his face goes slack and his eyes glaze over. When I finish my discourse about available courses and ask him what he will register for, I get the stomach-punching sound: “Huhhhhh?”
My husband looks intently at me as I speak. He appears to be listening, but in reality he is thinking about work, or vacation, or having a glass of wine, or Jessica Simpson. His face is carefully schooled in the “Fake Listener” expression. The “Fake Listener” expression is similar to the Selective Hearing expression except for the erasing of facial lines. The “Fake Listener” expression includes frown lines, which are meant to indicate concentration. The eyes still dart, and the mouth is open, but the frown is designed to reassure the speaker that, yes, honey, I am hanging on your every word and no, honey, I am not employing Selective Hearing.
When the kids were younger, before the advent of cordless telephones, the ring of the phone triggered Selective Hearing. I would be giving instructions about no TV or snacks till homework is done and commands for cleaning up bedrooms when the phone would ring. Snap! Severe Selective Hearing. While I answered the phone, the TV went on, the All-You-Can-Eat Snack Buffet opened up, and the school books slammed closed. I used to try and get their attention without interrupting the person on the other end of the phone. I snapped my fingers and pointed threateningly. I stamped my feet. I tossed small objects in their paths. I wrote menacing things in the dust on the coffee table. To no avail. As I picked up that ringing phone, their Selective Hearing kicked into “on” mode. The words that were heard were: TV and snacks. Selective Hearing, that devastating condition, erased the words “no,” ‘homework,” and cleaning.”
Research is being done to find a cause for this awful disease. Please help wipe out Selective Hearing. Call 1-800-H-U-H-H-H-H-H with your pledge. You’ll be helping millions of women keep their sanity intact.
There is no cure for Selective Hearing. Doctors cannot treat this malady. No machine, surgery, or auditory aid can rid a sufferer of this condition. One is not born with Selective Hearing. One acquires Selective Hearing as one gets older. Statistics show that most cases of Selective Hearing begin at age 5 and worsen over the years, until at age 50 and above, virtually no sound is heard other than key words or phrases like “Dinner is ready” or “Do you want to fool around?” 99.95% of Selective Hearing sufferers are male, and the disease is definitely hereditary.
Selective Hearing can come and go. It comes on very suddenly to the males in my house when talk turns to yard work. The mere mention of rakes, shovels, mulch, and lawnmowers brings on an epidemic of Selective Hearing. Yet the very same patients display an amazing range of auditory ability when food, money, sports, or sleeping are spoken aloud.
Selective Hearing is usually accompanied by facial contortions and odd sounds. Sometimes I can predict a bout of Selective Hearing just by watching the face of my husband or sons. The mouth falls open a bit, all facial lines are erased, and blank eyes dart from side to side. At times, a guttural sound is emitted by the sufferer, one which sounds very much like someone being punched in the stomach. It goes something like this: “Huhhhhhh?”
I have witnessed Selective Hearing striking a sufferer in the middle of a conversation. While holding forth to Donnie about how he needs to pick up another class for the fall semester, his face goes slack and his eyes glaze over. When I finish my discourse about available courses and ask him what he will register for, I get the stomach-punching sound: “Huhhhhh?”
My husband looks intently at me as I speak. He appears to be listening, but in reality he is thinking about work, or vacation, or having a glass of wine, or Jessica Simpson. His face is carefully schooled in the “Fake Listener” expression. The “Fake Listener” expression is similar to the Selective Hearing expression except for the erasing of facial lines. The “Fake Listener” expression includes frown lines, which are meant to indicate concentration. The eyes still dart, and the mouth is open, but the frown is designed to reassure the speaker that, yes, honey, I am hanging on your every word and no, honey, I am not employing Selective Hearing.
When the kids were younger, before the advent of cordless telephones, the ring of the phone triggered Selective Hearing. I would be giving instructions about no TV or snacks till homework is done and commands for cleaning up bedrooms when the phone would ring. Snap! Severe Selective Hearing. While I answered the phone, the TV went on, the All-You-Can-Eat Snack Buffet opened up, and the school books slammed closed. I used to try and get their attention without interrupting the person on the other end of the phone. I snapped my fingers and pointed threateningly. I stamped my feet. I tossed small objects in their paths. I wrote menacing things in the dust on the coffee table. To no avail. As I picked up that ringing phone, their Selective Hearing kicked into “on” mode. The words that were heard were: TV and snacks. Selective Hearing, that devastating condition, erased the words “no,” ‘homework,” and cleaning.”
Research is being done to find a cause for this awful disease. Please help wipe out Selective Hearing. Call 1-800-H-U-H-H-H-H-H with your pledge. You’ll be helping millions of women keep their sanity intact.
A Fitting End
Some time ago, I had to get a gown for a formal wedding. This was a project of enormous magnitude, because on the list of things I hate, Number Two is trying on clothes. Number One is actually wearing them. I tend to buy clothes without trying them on and wait till I get home, where there is comfort food and Coors Light available to take the edge off the horror as I see if my selections fit. Why do I do this? Simply put, because fitting rooms are terrifying places. Fitting rooms are a rare blend of fun houses and torture chambers. The designers of fitting rooms are sick and twisted individuals who were a) males who, as children, were made to wear shorts outfits with knee socks and a matching plaid tam, b) architect school dropouts, or c) people who had their knuckles hit with a ruler once too often as children. When I was younger and had a waistline, I used to worry that someone was secretly filming me in the fitting room. Nowadays, I feel that the punishment fits the crime.
I dragged my husband to the mall one evening after dinner, when his stomach was full and he was relatively content. On the way there, I kept up a constant stream of whining.
“Why do people think that we actually want to go to their wedding?” I asked George.
George grunted. I continued. “And who came up with the brilliant idea to make it a formal wedding? What is that about? Do these people think they’re Rockefellers? Hiltons? A gown, for Chrissakes. A dress is painful enough. I have to wear a gown? A foo-foo gown with all the trimmings?”
George grunted. I continued. “And if they think we’re giving them a big wedding check after this dress code bullshit, they have another thing coming. I’ll probably have to shell out at least $400 for a damn foo-foo gown that I’ll never wear again. I hate foo-foo gowns worse than I hate weddings.”
George grunted. I sighed. We got to the mall and made our way into a well-known department store.
I stopped dead in the entrance of the Women’s Department, staring in horror at the Evening Dresses section. The department was so tightly crammed with rack upon rack of dresses, suits, pants, and gowns that it resembled a rolling and pitching ocean of taffeta, silk and satin. I was seasick just looking at it. One look at the department was all it took for George to take off to God knows where, mumbling something about getting the hell out of there.
Taking a deep breath, I dove in. I quickly found that, in order to move through the department from rack to rack, I had to turn sideways, moving in a shuffle and holding my purse over my head like I was wading through an actual ocean with my life savings in a paper bag. With my one free hand, I grabbed anything on a hanger that looked big enough for me and draped it over my shoulders. Finally, with hangers hitting me in the ass and straps choking me, I plowed through the racks until I burst through. I was sweating and breathing heavily, with a strapless dress still on its hanger wrapped around my ankle. I kicked the little number off my leg and spotted George lazily leaning up against a wall near the fitting room. I handed my purse to George and dragged myself to the fitting room.
The fitting rooms were lit with 150 watt floodlights, which magnify every dimple on one’s ass and thighs and every chicken pox and/or acne scar one might have. I think that we should think about applying SPF 40 before entering fitting rooms. There was a little alarm system rigged up at the doorway to the dressing room, which chimed every time someone passed through it. Chimed loudly.
The carpet was littered with straight pins, pieces of cardboard, tissue paper, and old gum. I have even seen discarded pantyhose in fitting rooms. With my armload of dresses dragging on the floor, I staggered down the pin-covered aisle bent from the waist, looking for feet. When I found a stall with no feet in it, I pushed through the saloon-like louver doors and hefted my prospective items onto the lone hook on the wall, all the while being slammed in the ass by the doors, which never close all the way.
Then I turned and was confronted by dozens of images of myself in a three-way mirror. Great. Now I can view my backside from every wide angle. This in itself was horrifying and I hadn’t even taken off my shoes yet.
I slipped out of only the necessary garments and unraveled the first item from the hanger. Putting it on, I tried very hard not to look into the hundreds of mirrors that were silently mocking me. Struggling to zip the back zipper, I caught a glimpse of myself, and I am reminded of the picture taken of me as my first child passed through the birth canal. I couldn’t reach the damn zipper, so I left it gaping open. Smoothing the dress down over my body, I dared a glance at the mirrors. Eek. I pushed open the saloon doors and minced my way barefoot to the door of the fitting room, where I have instructed my husband George to wait for me. He was not there. However, there were many other people there, none of whom I knew and all of whom were staring at the door of the fitting room. I glimpsed George’s head a couple aisles over from the doorway, smelling men’s cologne at the Fragrance counter.
I leaned out the door and began calling him and waving my arms, and of course, I set off the alarm. All of a sudden, the clanging brings to mind the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral calling the city of Manhattan to Vespers. The attention of everyone in Fragrance, Career Separates, and Intimate Apparel was now on me, in an unzipped powder blue two piece chiffon gown that was slipping off my shoulders. The salesperson in Fragrance, fingers in her ears, alerted my husband who was oblivious to the chiming. He ambled over, holding my purse. George looked me over like I am a prize mare he is thinking of buying at the horse auction, and he gave me the thumbs-down. Sotto voce comments from the onlookers ranged from, “See what happens when you skip going to the gym,” “I didn’t know they made sequined gowns in maternity wear,” or “Wow. That’s downright sad-looking.”
We went through this routine until I tried on every dress I brought in with me and I had a migraine headache. I gathered up the dresses, gave the finger to the ceiling (just in case the plaid tam-wearing architect dropout was still filming), and I staggered out to the attendant who took them, saying, “Have you tried Lane Bryant?”
We returned home, where I took a hot bath and rubbed Icy Hot on my arms, which were aching from holding dresses and my purse above my head for an hour, and my legs, which were cramping due to the strain of pushing through the racks of dresses. It took two days for the muscle cramping to cease and about a year for the nightmares to stop.
I finally got a gown that looks decent on me and has no elastic in it. Unfortunately, the price of said gown had my husband giving me the silent treatment for 2 days. But at least I found a gown. I will never return to a fitting room again, mark my words. Seeing myself reflected in ONE mirror is bad enough, but a couple dozen? Nah. I can’t afford the therapy.
P.S. And the wedding we attended? Would you believe the bastards split up a couple months after the wedding?
I dragged my husband to the mall one evening after dinner, when his stomach was full and he was relatively content. On the way there, I kept up a constant stream of whining.
“Why do people think that we actually want to go to their wedding?” I asked George.
George grunted. I continued. “And who came up with the brilliant idea to make it a formal wedding? What is that about? Do these people think they’re Rockefellers? Hiltons? A gown, for Chrissakes. A dress is painful enough. I have to wear a gown? A foo-foo gown with all the trimmings?”
George grunted. I continued. “And if they think we’re giving them a big wedding check after this dress code bullshit, they have another thing coming. I’ll probably have to shell out at least $400 for a damn foo-foo gown that I’ll never wear again. I hate foo-foo gowns worse than I hate weddings.”
George grunted. I sighed. We got to the mall and made our way into a well-known department store.
I stopped dead in the entrance of the Women’s Department, staring in horror at the Evening Dresses section. The department was so tightly crammed with rack upon rack of dresses, suits, pants, and gowns that it resembled a rolling and pitching ocean of taffeta, silk and satin. I was seasick just looking at it. One look at the department was all it took for George to take off to God knows where, mumbling something about getting the hell out of there.
Taking a deep breath, I dove in. I quickly found that, in order to move through the department from rack to rack, I had to turn sideways, moving in a shuffle and holding my purse over my head like I was wading through an actual ocean with my life savings in a paper bag. With my one free hand, I grabbed anything on a hanger that looked big enough for me and draped it over my shoulders. Finally, with hangers hitting me in the ass and straps choking me, I plowed through the racks until I burst through. I was sweating and breathing heavily, with a strapless dress still on its hanger wrapped around my ankle. I kicked the little number off my leg and spotted George lazily leaning up against a wall near the fitting room. I handed my purse to George and dragged myself to the fitting room.
The fitting rooms were lit with 150 watt floodlights, which magnify every dimple on one’s ass and thighs and every chicken pox and/or acne scar one might have. I think that we should think about applying SPF 40 before entering fitting rooms. There was a little alarm system rigged up at the doorway to the dressing room, which chimed every time someone passed through it. Chimed loudly.
The carpet was littered with straight pins, pieces of cardboard, tissue paper, and old gum. I have even seen discarded pantyhose in fitting rooms. With my armload of dresses dragging on the floor, I staggered down the pin-covered aisle bent from the waist, looking for feet. When I found a stall with no feet in it, I pushed through the saloon-like louver doors and hefted my prospective items onto the lone hook on the wall, all the while being slammed in the ass by the doors, which never close all the way.
Then I turned and was confronted by dozens of images of myself in a three-way mirror. Great. Now I can view my backside from every wide angle. This in itself was horrifying and I hadn’t even taken off my shoes yet.
I slipped out of only the necessary garments and unraveled the first item from the hanger. Putting it on, I tried very hard not to look into the hundreds of mirrors that were silently mocking me. Struggling to zip the back zipper, I caught a glimpse of myself, and I am reminded of the picture taken of me as my first child passed through the birth canal. I couldn’t reach the damn zipper, so I left it gaping open. Smoothing the dress down over my body, I dared a glance at the mirrors. Eek. I pushed open the saloon doors and minced my way barefoot to the door of the fitting room, where I have instructed my husband George to wait for me. He was not there. However, there were many other people there, none of whom I knew and all of whom were staring at the door of the fitting room. I glimpsed George’s head a couple aisles over from the doorway, smelling men’s cologne at the Fragrance counter.
I leaned out the door and began calling him and waving my arms, and of course, I set off the alarm. All of a sudden, the clanging brings to mind the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral calling the city of Manhattan to Vespers. The attention of everyone in Fragrance, Career Separates, and Intimate Apparel was now on me, in an unzipped powder blue two piece chiffon gown that was slipping off my shoulders. The salesperson in Fragrance, fingers in her ears, alerted my husband who was oblivious to the chiming. He ambled over, holding my purse. George looked me over like I am a prize mare he is thinking of buying at the horse auction, and he gave me the thumbs-down. Sotto voce comments from the onlookers ranged from, “See what happens when you skip going to the gym,” “I didn’t know they made sequined gowns in maternity wear,” or “Wow. That’s downright sad-looking.”
We went through this routine until I tried on every dress I brought in with me and I had a migraine headache. I gathered up the dresses, gave the finger to the ceiling (just in case the plaid tam-wearing architect dropout was still filming), and I staggered out to the attendant who took them, saying, “Have you tried Lane Bryant?”
We returned home, where I took a hot bath and rubbed Icy Hot on my arms, which were aching from holding dresses and my purse above my head for an hour, and my legs, which were cramping due to the strain of pushing through the racks of dresses. It took two days for the muscle cramping to cease and about a year for the nightmares to stop.
I finally got a gown that looks decent on me and has no elastic in it. Unfortunately, the price of said gown had my husband giving me the silent treatment for 2 days. But at least I found a gown. I will never return to a fitting room again, mark my words. Seeing myself reflected in ONE mirror is bad enough, but a couple dozen? Nah. I can’t afford the therapy.
P.S. And the wedding we attended? Would you believe the bastards split up a couple months after the wedding?
Woman Law
I am sure you have seen the Miller Light commercials where the Men of the Square Table decide on Man Laws. These Man Laws are unwritten codes of conduct for macho men. After seeing this commercial ad nauseum during the regular NFL season, I have decided to write a few Woman Laws:
Woman Law #1 – It is acceptable and even encouraged for a woman to be expert in NFL knowledge.
Woman Law #2 – It is acceptable for a woman to keep her toenails unpolished during the winter, but as soon as the temperature reaches 65 degrees and stays that way for two weeks, said woman must slap on at least a coat of clear polish.
Woman Law #3 –It is totally unacceptable to wear a spaghetti-strap top and have bra straps showing. This offense is comparable to a man wearing a crew neck undershirt with a V-neck sweater. No one wants to be presented with evidence of the color of another person’s undergarments.
Woman Law #4 – It is acceptable for a flat-chested woman to go braless, but a woman whose bra size exceeds a 34A must always wear a bra. Always. Unbound boobs scare people other than men.
Woman Law #5 –It is unacceptable for a woman to wear ill-fitting shoes, even if they go with her outfit. A woman must wear shoes that fit at all times. The woman who has “pump fat” hanging over her Size 6 Manolo Blahniks should go up a size or three. Same for the heels. If a woman wears a great pair of Via Spiga sandals and her heels hang over the backs and sides, then her feeling of specialness and richness gained by wearing such sandals is cancelled out and she may as well wear Converse High-Tops.
Woman Law #6 – It is unacceptable for any woman to not groom her eyebrows. Every woman must have well-groomed eyebrows, preferably two of them.
Woman Law #7 – (related to Woman law #6) It is unacceptable for a woman to pluck or shave her eyebrows completely off. If a woman wants to draw eyebrows, then take Art 101 at the local community college.
Woman Law #8 – It is acceptable for a woman to blatantly eye another woman up and down if the eyer is admiring clothing. If said eying is followed by verbal references to another woman’s ass, boobs, or other specific body parts, then the eying crosses a line and must be ceased, or pertinent questions must be asked.
Woman Law #9 – It is acceptable for a woman to dance to a fast song with another woman. As soon as the tempo slows down, both women should beat it off the floor as soon as possible without falling.
Woman Law #10 – It is acceptable for women to accompany each other to the ladies’ room. This is a direct contrast to Man Law #10, which states that no man may accompany another man to the men’s room and if they meet in there, no eye contact is to be made.
Woman Law #11 – It is acceptable for a woman to call another woman derogatory names, such as a bitch, if she is asking for it. This is another direct contrast to Man Law, which states that no man is permitted to even think the word bitch as it relates to a specific woman. Said man who does so risks bitch-slapping.
Woman Law #12 – It is not acceptable for a woman to slap another woman on the ass, even in an athletic contest. A pat on the back or shoulder or a quick hug or even an air-kiss conveys happiness, jubilation, or excitement just as well as the ass-slap.
Woman Law #13 – It is acceptable for a woman to use a wireless headset in public, especially at the mall. Shopping and talking on the phone are two very important occupations and to be able to combine the two? Throw in a chocolate bar and you have achieved heaven on earth.
Woman Law #14 – It is acceptable for a woman to coat everything in chocolate. Especially during a significant week or two every month, when it is suggested that she is permitted to do whatever she wants with her chocolate.
Woman Law #15 – It is unacceptable for a woman to flirt with a man who is spoken for, unless the flirter dislikes the man’s woman. In which case, it is strongly encouraged for the flirter to turn on the charm and perhaps, if at a venue with live music, request the song, “Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?” while swaying sinuously in front of the man. Watch your back, though. An attack may come at any time.
Woman Law #16 – It is acceptable for a woman to drink beer out of a can or bottle. If you need a glass to drink beer out of, then you are not woman enough to drink the stuff.
Woman Law #17 – It is acceptable for a woman to wear unmatched bra and panties, unless “action” is on the immediate horizon.
Woman Law #1 – It is acceptable and even encouraged for a woman to be expert in NFL knowledge.
Woman Law #2 – It is acceptable for a woman to keep her toenails unpolished during the winter, but as soon as the temperature reaches 65 degrees and stays that way for two weeks, said woman must slap on at least a coat of clear polish.
Woman Law #3 –It is totally unacceptable to wear a spaghetti-strap top and have bra straps showing. This offense is comparable to a man wearing a crew neck undershirt with a V-neck sweater. No one wants to be presented with evidence of the color of another person’s undergarments.
Woman Law #4 – It is acceptable for a flat-chested woman to go braless, but a woman whose bra size exceeds a 34A must always wear a bra. Always. Unbound boobs scare people other than men.
Woman Law #5 –It is unacceptable for a woman to wear ill-fitting shoes, even if they go with her outfit. A woman must wear shoes that fit at all times. The woman who has “pump fat” hanging over her Size 6 Manolo Blahniks should go up a size or three. Same for the heels. If a woman wears a great pair of Via Spiga sandals and her heels hang over the backs and sides, then her feeling of specialness and richness gained by wearing such sandals is cancelled out and she may as well wear Converse High-Tops.
Woman Law #6 – It is unacceptable for any woman to not groom her eyebrows. Every woman must have well-groomed eyebrows, preferably two of them.
Woman Law #7 – (related to Woman law #6) It is unacceptable for a woman to pluck or shave her eyebrows completely off. If a woman wants to draw eyebrows, then take Art 101 at the local community college.
Woman Law #8 – It is acceptable for a woman to blatantly eye another woman up and down if the eyer is admiring clothing. If said eying is followed by verbal references to another woman’s ass, boobs, or other specific body parts, then the eying crosses a line and must be ceased, or pertinent questions must be asked.
Woman Law #9 – It is acceptable for a woman to dance to a fast song with another woman. As soon as the tempo slows down, both women should beat it off the floor as soon as possible without falling.
Woman Law #10 – It is acceptable for women to accompany each other to the ladies’ room. This is a direct contrast to Man Law #10, which states that no man may accompany another man to the men’s room and if they meet in there, no eye contact is to be made.
Woman Law #11 – It is acceptable for a woman to call another woman derogatory names, such as a bitch, if she is asking for it. This is another direct contrast to Man Law, which states that no man is permitted to even think the word bitch as it relates to a specific woman. Said man who does so risks bitch-slapping.
Woman Law #12 – It is not acceptable for a woman to slap another woman on the ass, even in an athletic contest. A pat on the back or shoulder or a quick hug or even an air-kiss conveys happiness, jubilation, or excitement just as well as the ass-slap.
Woman Law #13 – It is acceptable for a woman to use a wireless headset in public, especially at the mall. Shopping and talking on the phone are two very important occupations and to be able to combine the two? Throw in a chocolate bar and you have achieved heaven on earth.
Woman Law #14 – It is acceptable for a woman to coat everything in chocolate. Especially during a significant week or two every month, when it is suggested that she is permitted to do whatever she wants with her chocolate.
Woman Law #15 – It is unacceptable for a woman to flirt with a man who is spoken for, unless the flirter dislikes the man’s woman. In which case, it is strongly encouraged for the flirter to turn on the charm and perhaps, if at a venue with live music, request the song, “Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?” while swaying sinuously in front of the man. Watch your back, though. An attack may come at any time.
Woman Law #16 – It is acceptable for a woman to drink beer out of a can or bottle. If you need a glass to drink beer out of, then you are not woman enough to drink the stuff.
Woman Law #17 – It is acceptable for a woman to wear unmatched bra and panties, unless “action” is on the immediate horizon.
The White Stuff
When I was a kid growing up in Ewing, we had real winters. Winters when we got snow. Actual heavy, white, good-for-snowman/snowball-making snow. From December through March there was a blanket of snow on the ground. Cars and trucks had chains on their tires. Sleds, toboggans, and ice skates stood at the ready on porches all over Ewing. Mittens, scarves, parkas, and boots were always drying throughout the house, leaning up against the radiators. Even when my boys were growing up, we could count on snow days, days where all the kids gathered at the hill behind the Municipal Building and sledded for hours. These days, the best we can expect is a watery, weak spatter of snow/sleet/rain/ that makes a mess for a short time and then disappears.
I know about global warming. I know about Al Gore’s movie that talks about the fate of our planet. I understand that our climate is changing. But I miss the snow of my childhood. I get excited when a meteorologist says that there is snow in our forecast. I watch the weather map to see where it is coming from and how much we will get. I go to bed eagerly anticipating a pristine white world when I roll out of bed in the morning. And then I look out the window the next morning and see….rain. Gray, bleak, depressing rain. No winter wonderland.
According to meteorologists, Ewing is on the 95 Corridor. The 95 Corridor must be hemmed in by a huge, hulking, massive wall which blocks us from ever getting anything more than a sugar-coating of snow on the grass and nothing on the roadways. What a rip-off. When did this wall get built? The meteorologists always say things like, “Depending on the track of the storm, the 95 Corridor may either get nothing, all rain, or several inches of snow.” That kind of narrows it down, doesn’t it?
A couple nights ago, they were predicting a few inches of snow for us, to arrive around dinnertime. Points south and the Jersey Shore were supposed to get all rain, and we were going to finally get some of the white stuff. I got excited. In keeping with the forecast, the sky got grayer and grayer as the day went on, and the wind dropped off.
“Here it comes,” I thought gleefully. “Snow! Finally!”
Dinnertime came and went. The 95 Corridor remained dry as a bone. The southern Jersey Shore, however, got pounded with beautiful, fluffy snow. Atlantic City’s boardwalk looked like a winter paradise, Virginia had blizzard conditions, and Delaware had about 5 inches of what was supposed to be OUR snow.
The meteorologists were wrong again. My question to them is, “What really influences the storm track?” I know all about El Nino, the Jet Stream, high and low pressure systems, air masses, fronts, and wind direction. The meteorologists say things like, “If the cold air mass from Canada continues on its current path, given the positioning of the jet stream, and the warm air from the Gulf glides up the coast, stopping off in Atlanta for breakfast, and if the moon is in the second house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then and only then will the 95 Corridor get three and a half seconds of sleet” (partial lyrics from ‘Aquarius’ by the Fifth Dimension.)
I feel badly for today’s schoolkids. They will never know the pure joy that comes from learning that their school is closed for the day due to snow. They may never know what sledding is like, unless they go to the Poconos or Antarctica. They will most likely never ice-skate on an outside pond and enjoy hearing that fabulously loud cracking sound that you hear when you skate too close to the edge. They will never have their hair freeze while they build a snow fort. They won’t ever get their faces shoved into a snow bank by their brothers, or had snow smashed down the neck of their coats. They may never get to experience the exhilarating feeling of toes that are so cold they turn white, and then the excruciating pain when said toes begin to turn pink again.
Hmmmm.
On second thought, maybe the recent Ewing winters aren’t so bad.
I know about global warming. I know about Al Gore’s movie that talks about the fate of our planet. I understand that our climate is changing. But I miss the snow of my childhood. I get excited when a meteorologist says that there is snow in our forecast. I watch the weather map to see where it is coming from and how much we will get. I go to bed eagerly anticipating a pristine white world when I roll out of bed in the morning. And then I look out the window the next morning and see….rain. Gray, bleak, depressing rain. No winter wonderland.
According to meteorologists, Ewing is on the 95 Corridor. The 95 Corridor must be hemmed in by a huge, hulking, massive wall which blocks us from ever getting anything more than a sugar-coating of snow on the grass and nothing on the roadways. What a rip-off. When did this wall get built? The meteorologists always say things like, “Depending on the track of the storm, the 95 Corridor may either get nothing, all rain, or several inches of snow.” That kind of narrows it down, doesn’t it?
A couple nights ago, they were predicting a few inches of snow for us, to arrive around dinnertime. Points south and the Jersey Shore were supposed to get all rain, and we were going to finally get some of the white stuff. I got excited. In keeping with the forecast, the sky got grayer and grayer as the day went on, and the wind dropped off.
“Here it comes,” I thought gleefully. “Snow! Finally!”
Dinnertime came and went. The 95 Corridor remained dry as a bone. The southern Jersey Shore, however, got pounded with beautiful, fluffy snow. Atlantic City’s boardwalk looked like a winter paradise, Virginia had blizzard conditions, and Delaware had about 5 inches of what was supposed to be OUR snow.
The meteorologists were wrong again. My question to them is, “What really influences the storm track?” I know all about El Nino, the Jet Stream, high and low pressure systems, air masses, fronts, and wind direction. The meteorologists say things like, “If the cold air mass from Canada continues on its current path, given the positioning of the jet stream, and the warm air from the Gulf glides up the coast, stopping off in Atlanta for breakfast, and if the moon is in the second house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then and only then will the 95 Corridor get three and a half seconds of sleet” (partial lyrics from ‘Aquarius’ by the Fifth Dimension.)
I feel badly for today’s schoolkids. They will never know the pure joy that comes from learning that their school is closed for the day due to snow. They may never know what sledding is like, unless they go to the Poconos or Antarctica. They will most likely never ice-skate on an outside pond and enjoy hearing that fabulously loud cracking sound that you hear when you skate too close to the edge. They will never have their hair freeze while they build a snow fort. They won’t ever get their faces shoved into a snow bank by their brothers, or had snow smashed down the neck of their coats. They may never get to experience the exhilarating feeling of toes that are so cold they turn white, and then the excruciating pain when said toes begin to turn pink again.
Hmmmm.
On second thought, maybe the recent Ewing winters aren’t so bad.
Sounds and Scents of Summer
A random sound or scent can transport me back to 1960s Ewing summers when, every June, the chalkboard and textbook smells of school were replaced with hot tar, honeysuckle, and chlorine. Back then, we grew up to the summer soundtrack of lawn mowers, splashing water, screen doors banging shut, and radios playing Tommy James and the Shondells or the Monkees. We filled every minute of every summer day with outdoor activities and fell into bed exhausted every night, only to wake up and start again the next day.
Ewing summers were a paradise to the kids in my neighborhood. There was always something to do; whether it was a game of Kick Can Kirby on Steinway Avenue, a swim in our backyard pool, a bike ride to Woolworth’s on Parkway Avenue, or attempting to catch crayfish in the Broad Avenue creek. We played until nightfall when the streetlights came on. Then it was a footrace to get home before our moms started yelling for us. They didn’t need cell phones to call us back then. All our moms did was stick their heads out front or back doors and bellow.
Shortly after school let out for the summer, Incarnation Church held its annual Strawberry Festival. This was an event eagerly anticipated by all of us kids. There were games, music, and of course, strawberries. We gorged on strawberry shortcake, strawberry tarts and strawberries and whipped cream. The Strawberry Festival was replaced in later years by the Incarnation Carnival. Held on the parish grounds, the carnival was a huge event. As kids, we rode all the rides a million times, played all the games, won countless goldfish in plastic bags, and got sick on funnel cakes and ice cream. Good times! When we got a little older, the carnival was a place to see and be seen. Too cool to play the games and ride the rides, we girls sauntered around the grounds dressed in our newest and best summer duds, pointedly ignoring the boys in our class who were doing the same thing.
Trips to the drive-in movies at the Ewing Drive-In on Prospect Street were my favorite summer evening activity as a kid. I remember hot nights, the smell of buttered popcorn, the tinny sound of the speaker that hung on the driver’s side window, and the crisp feel of my summer cotton pajamas as I stretched out on the roof of our station wagon with my younger brothers to watch “That Darn Cat” or “The Love Bug.” Another big treat was going to the McDonald’s on Olden Avenue and getting a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. We ate while sitting on the cold yellow tile benches that lined the sides of the building. A trip to E.J. Korvettes and me begging for $.99 for a 45 RPM Beach Boys or Supremes record was a regular occurrence on a summer evening after dinner.
An infrequent highlight of early summer evenings was the Mosquito Man. The Mosquito Man drove up and down the streets of our neighborhood in a truck that spewed a thick white fog behind him. This fog was supposed to kill the mosquitoes in our township. The cry of “Mosquito Man” from the throat of a neighborhood kid was enough for us to drop whatever we were doing and streak toward the truck. We all ran behind the truck in the white fog for as long as our legs held out and reveled in the invisibility that the thick, probably poisonous cloud afforded us. We never suffered any ill effects from the Mosquito Man’s fog, and the mosquitoes didn’t seem to mind it, either.
The long, hot days of July soon gave way to August, when school loomed on the not-too-distant horizon. My mother would bring us to Grant’s (now C.H. Martin) in the Suburban Square Shopping Center or Cook’s (now Precious Pets) on Pennington Road to get notebooks, pencil cases, rulers and other school supplies. We would go to Young Ages (next to Ewing High) to get fitted for our uniforms and to Dunham’s (now Burlington Coat Factory) in Lawrenceville to get shoes. Needless to say, we were not happy about these chores. We escaped our mothers’ clutches as soon as possible and joined our friends to squeeze every last bit of fun out of what was left of the summer.
I remember lying on my back on the grass in our backyard one August morning. I just lay there, looking up and letting my mind drift like the clouds that scudded across the sky. I tried to identify every sound I heard: the trash men clanging the metal garbage cans out in the street, the screen door banging closed as my brother went into the house, our neighbor’s baby crying, my mother’s radio playing a duet by Frank Sinatra and his daughter Nancy. The song was called “Something Stupid.” As young as I must have been, I remember realizing that life doesn’t get much better than that. I closed my eyes and wished that that moment and that peaceful feeling could last forever. Lately, on a particularly stressful or sad day, I try and evoke my 60s summer memories. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear the echoes of our bikes with baseball cards in the spokes, or our laughter as one of us slipped off the stepping stones and fell in the creek.
I now fully understand the meaning of the old chestnut “Those were the days,” because they truly were the best days ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go out and lie in the grass.
Ewing summers were a paradise to the kids in my neighborhood. There was always something to do; whether it was a game of Kick Can Kirby on Steinway Avenue, a swim in our backyard pool, a bike ride to Woolworth’s on Parkway Avenue, or attempting to catch crayfish in the Broad Avenue creek. We played until nightfall when the streetlights came on. Then it was a footrace to get home before our moms started yelling for us. They didn’t need cell phones to call us back then. All our moms did was stick their heads out front or back doors and bellow.
Shortly after school let out for the summer, Incarnation Church held its annual Strawberry Festival. This was an event eagerly anticipated by all of us kids. There were games, music, and of course, strawberries. We gorged on strawberry shortcake, strawberry tarts and strawberries and whipped cream. The Strawberry Festival was replaced in later years by the Incarnation Carnival. Held on the parish grounds, the carnival was a huge event. As kids, we rode all the rides a million times, played all the games, won countless goldfish in plastic bags, and got sick on funnel cakes and ice cream. Good times! When we got a little older, the carnival was a place to see and be seen. Too cool to play the games and ride the rides, we girls sauntered around the grounds dressed in our newest and best summer duds, pointedly ignoring the boys in our class who were doing the same thing.
Trips to the drive-in movies at the Ewing Drive-In on Prospect Street were my favorite summer evening activity as a kid. I remember hot nights, the smell of buttered popcorn, the tinny sound of the speaker that hung on the driver’s side window, and the crisp feel of my summer cotton pajamas as I stretched out on the roof of our station wagon with my younger brothers to watch “That Darn Cat” or “The Love Bug.” Another big treat was going to the McDonald’s on Olden Avenue and getting a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. We ate while sitting on the cold yellow tile benches that lined the sides of the building. A trip to E.J. Korvettes and me begging for $.99 for a 45 RPM Beach Boys or Supremes record was a regular occurrence on a summer evening after dinner.
An infrequent highlight of early summer evenings was the Mosquito Man. The Mosquito Man drove up and down the streets of our neighborhood in a truck that spewed a thick white fog behind him. This fog was supposed to kill the mosquitoes in our township. The cry of “Mosquito Man” from the throat of a neighborhood kid was enough for us to drop whatever we were doing and streak toward the truck. We all ran behind the truck in the white fog for as long as our legs held out and reveled in the invisibility that the thick, probably poisonous cloud afforded us. We never suffered any ill effects from the Mosquito Man’s fog, and the mosquitoes didn’t seem to mind it, either.
The long, hot days of July soon gave way to August, when school loomed on the not-too-distant horizon. My mother would bring us to Grant’s (now C.H. Martin) in the Suburban Square Shopping Center or Cook’s (now Precious Pets) on Pennington Road to get notebooks, pencil cases, rulers and other school supplies. We would go to Young Ages (next to Ewing High) to get fitted for our uniforms and to Dunham’s (now Burlington Coat Factory) in Lawrenceville to get shoes. Needless to say, we were not happy about these chores. We escaped our mothers’ clutches as soon as possible and joined our friends to squeeze every last bit of fun out of what was left of the summer.
I remember lying on my back on the grass in our backyard one August morning. I just lay there, looking up and letting my mind drift like the clouds that scudded across the sky. I tried to identify every sound I heard: the trash men clanging the metal garbage cans out in the street, the screen door banging closed as my brother went into the house, our neighbor’s baby crying, my mother’s radio playing a duet by Frank Sinatra and his daughter Nancy. The song was called “Something Stupid.” As young as I must have been, I remember realizing that life doesn’t get much better than that. I closed my eyes and wished that that moment and that peaceful feeling could last forever. Lately, on a particularly stressful or sad day, I try and evoke my 60s summer memories. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear the echoes of our bikes with baseball cards in the spokes, or our laughter as one of us slipped off the stepping stones and fell in the creek.
I now fully understand the meaning of the old chestnut “Those were the days,” because they truly were the best days ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go out and lie in the grass.
The Story Behind the Score
The Story Behind the Score
High school athletic teams are judged largely by their win-loss records. A team is deemed “good” if their wins outnumber their losses. They are deemed “weak” if they have more losses than wins. If a team shuts out another team, they are “awesome.” And if they consistently make it to the State tournament, they are “a force to be reckoned with.” Win/loss records do not tell the whole story of a team, however. Those numbers give no hint of the heart, team spirit, heroism, sportsmanship, unselfishness and pure love of the game that exists on a certain New Jersey high school boys’ soccer team.
This team has not had a winning record in several years. They are written off as “easy wins” by their opponents. The newspapers make no predictions about them or their players in their pre-season articles, and they give little coverage to them aside from reporting their game scores. So it would be easy to assume that this team is not important or interesting enough to rate inches in a newspaper. That assumption would be wrong. The story behind the score of this team is made up of many stories which clearly demonstrate the way these players honor the game of soccer that brought them together.
It is a story that shows courage, strength, faith, teamwork and sportsmanship in an almost constant adverse environment. It shows absolute and unswerving trust in a young coach who came into the job with new ideas, new energy, and a new attitude. The story behind the score shows players who volunteer to play in positions where they are not 100% comfortable or even happy, for the good of the team. It tells of players who play through injury without complaint, because their team needs them. The story behind the score is about the player who carried an injured teammate cradled in his arms off the practice field unaided. It tells of players who took turns visiting their injured goalie while he recuperated from an injury sustained in practice. The story behind the score shows teenage boys comforting each other and bolstering each other after tough games. The story behind the score shows the players who represent each other, their school, and their families, with dignity and with respect.
The story behind the score shows pride, in each other and in their team regardless of what the final score is. They walk off the field after every game, taking something positive with them even after a loss. The score doesn’t reflect the way this team honors the game of soccer every time they step onto a field. The respect they show game officials, the brotherhood they share with each other and with their coach, the gratitude they feel for their devoted fans – their families, friends and schoolmates who unconditionally support them at every game; none of that is apparent in the score. If one was to make the error of thinking that the score accurately depicted the team, then one would be sadly remiss.
So their record may not be a winning one in terms of numbers or statistics. But what this team stands for, what the players have learned, is that one of the least important things about a game is the final score. This team believes if everyone puts all their efforts and concentration and heart into playing to their potential, playing soccer with integrity, that they are winners, no matter what the scorebook says at the end of the 80 minutes. That is their victory. The story behind the score tells of the pride that this high school boys’ soccer team has, and the way they honor their game and themselves. Life lessons well learned, which will take them to college and afterwards, into their lives as adults. We should all be so lucky.
(published in Ewing Observer in fall 2006)
High school athletic teams are judged largely by their win-loss records. A team is deemed “good” if their wins outnumber their losses. They are deemed “weak” if they have more losses than wins. If a team shuts out another team, they are “awesome.” And if they consistently make it to the State tournament, they are “a force to be reckoned with.” Win/loss records do not tell the whole story of a team, however. Those numbers give no hint of the heart, team spirit, heroism, sportsmanship, unselfishness and pure love of the game that exists on a certain New Jersey high school boys’ soccer team.
This team has not had a winning record in several years. They are written off as “easy wins” by their opponents. The newspapers make no predictions about them or their players in their pre-season articles, and they give little coverage to them aside from reporting their game scores. So it would be easy to assume that this team is not important or interesting enough to rate inches in a newspaper. That assumption would be wrong. The story behind the score of this team is made up of many stories which clearly demonstrate the way these players honor the game of soccer that brought them together.
It is a story that shows courage, strength, faith, teamwork and sportsmanship in an almost constant adverse environment. It shows absolute and unswerving trust in a young coach who came into the job with new ideas, new energy, and a new attitude. The story behind the score shows players who volunteer to play in positions where they are not 100% comfortable or even happy, for the good of the team. It tells of players who play through injury without complaint, because their team needs them. The story behind the score is about the player who carried an injured teammate cradled in his arms off the practice field unaided. It tells of players who took turns visiting their injured goalie while he recuperated from an injury sustained in practice. The story behind the score shows teenage boys comforting each other and bolstering each other after tough games. The story behind the score shows the players who represent each other, their school, and their families, with dignity and with respect.
The story behind the score shows pride, in each other and in their team regardless of what the final score is. They walk off the field after every game, taking something positive with them even after a loss. The score doesn’t reflect the way this team honors the game of soccer every time they step onto a field. The respect they show game officials, the brotherhood they share with each other and with their coach, the gratitude they feel for their devoted fans – their families, friends and schoolmates who unconditionally support them at every game; none of that is apparent in the score. If one was to make the error of thinking that the score accurately depicted the team, then one would be sadly remiss.
So their record may not be a winning one in terms of numbers or statistics. But what this team stands for, what the players have learned, is that one of the least important things about a game is the final score. This team believes if everyone puts all their efforts and concentration and heart into playing to their potential, playing soccer with integrity, that they are winners, no matter what the scorebook says at the end of the 80 minutes. That is their victory. The story behind the score tells of the pride that this high school boys’ soccer team has, and the way they honor their game and themselves. Life lessons well learned, which will take them to college and afterwards, into their lives as adults. We should all be so lucky.
(published in Ewing Observer in fall 2006)
The Day I Met "The Boss"
The songs of Bruce Springsteen were the “coming of age” anthems for many people of my generation. Throughout my high school and college days, Bruce and the E Street Band sang of living and playing in Asbury Park, NJ and about the Jersey shore and boardwalk. We still love his raspy voice, his scruffy exterior, and his Jersey roots.
My son George is the boys’ varsity soccer coach at a high school in Red Bank, NJ. I and my youngest son Donnie recently went to a Saturday afternoon game which was held at a private school in Monmouth County. After the game, we joined George by the parking lot. After greeting us, George whispered, “Bruce Springsteen is over there.” I whipped my head around, saying “Where? Where is Bruce?” He pointed to two men and a woman with a red ponytail leaning on the fence that surrounded the field. Turns out that Bruce’s son played on the team that my son’s team just beat. I stared open-mouthed as Bruce and his wife Patti chatted casually with another man. George’s team and their families stood silently, gazing at The Boss’ back. If Bruce had glanced back at us, he would have seen a semi-circle of green-clad soccer players standing like statues with their mouths open, gawking at him.
Donnie inched his way up, camera phone at the ready, and began snapping pictures of Bruce’s back. Without thinking, I began to walk up to Bruce. Then stage fright set in, and I abruptly turned and headed back to where Donnie stood. He said, “Go, Mom. You know you want to,” and with that, I marched up to Bruce Springsteen, put my hand on his corduroy-clad arm, and said softly, “Excuse me.”
He turned around and I found myself face-to-face with The Boss. This man had provided the musical score for my young adulthood. And here I was, staring at his chin wordlessly. The first thing I noticed was how tall and slim he was. Then I noticed his shoes. He had on bright blue, patent leather track shoes. Realizing that Bruce was waiting for me to say something, I stuck out my hand.
“I am sorry to bother you, but I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done, all your music, and you are awesome, we all think so, and we really love you, and thank you so much, we love you and I am sorry to bother you,” I babbled, all the while shaking his hand.
Bruce smiled, kept shaking my hand, and said, “Oh, no bother. I appreciate it. Thank you very much.” His wife Patti smiled over his shoulder, and we kept shaking hands until I realized that a graceful exit was needed. I dropped his hand and backed away from him, continuing to thank him. He kept smiling, and then turned back to the conversation that I had interrupted.
I was in a daze the whole hour-long drive home. I had just shaken hands with Bruce Springsteen! Questions rose to my mind, things I wish I had asked him: Where do you get all your ideas for songs? Is Miami Steve Van Zandt really as cool as he seems? Where do you live, and could I come over and stay for dinner?
I admit I was starstruck. I have met very few celebrities: Jake LaMotta, the boxer whose life inspired the movie “Raging Bull”, Geoff Geary, Aaron Rowand and Ryan Madsen, all Phillies players. I once talked to Christopher Reeve on the phone (long story). And I saw Rosemary Clooney from far away. But Bruce Springsteen! It took me about 20 minutes to text everyone I could think of, telling them about my adventure.
Now I torture myself with “I wish.” When I think back on the meeting, I wish I had gotten his autograph, or my picture with him, or his phone number. I wish I had dressed a bit nicer, instead of wearing a grey tee shirt proclaiming my allegiance to George’s soccer team. I wish I had had my nails done and my hair styled and my face professionally made up. I wish that I had had a microphone and a back-up band and some singing talent, so that I could have auditioned for him. But hindsight is 20/20. I content myself with the knowledge that the Boss and I made a connection that day, and I am sure he will never forget it.
My son George is the boys’ varsity soccer coach at a high school in Red Bank, NJ. I and my youngest son Donnie recently went to a Saturday afternoon game which was held at a private school in Monmouth County. After the game, we joined George by the parking lot. After greeting us, George whispered, “Bruce Springsteen is over there.” I whipped my head around, saying “Where? Where is Bruce?” He pointed to two men and a woman with a red ponytail leaning on the fence that surrounded the field. Turns out that Bruce’s son played on the team that my son’s team just beat. I stared open-mouthed as Bruce and his wife Patti chatted casually with another man. George’s team and their families stood silently, gazing at The Boss’ back. If Bruce had glanced back at us, he would have seen a semi-circle of green-clad soccer players standing like statues with their mouths open, gawking at him.
Donnie inched his way up, camera phone at the ready, and began snapping pictures of Bruce’s back. Without thinking, I began to walk up to Bruce. Then stage fright set in, and I abruptly turned and headed back to where Donnie stood. He said, “Go, Mom. You know you want to,” and with that, I marched up to Bruce Springsteen, put my hand on his corduroy-clad arm, and said softly, “Excuse me.”
He turned around and I found myself face-to-face with The Boss. This man had provided the musical score for my young adulthood. And here I was, staring at his chin wordlessly. The first thing I noticed was how tall and slim he was. Then I noticed his shoes. He had on bright blue, patent leather track shoes. Realizing that Bruce was waiting for me to say something, I stuck out my hand.
“I am sorry to bother you, but I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done, all your music, and you are awesome, we all think so, and we really love you, and thank you so much, we love you and I am sorry to bother you,” I babbled, all the while shaking his hand.
Bruce smiled, kept shaking my hand, and said, “Oh, no bother. I appreciate it. Thank you very much.” His wife Patti smiled over his shoulder, and we kept shaking hands until I realized that a graceful exit was needed. I dropped his hand and backed away from him, continuing to thank him. He kept smiling, and then turned back to the conversation that I had interrupted.
I was in a daze the whole hour-long drive home. I had just shaken hands with Bruce Springsteen! Questions rose to my mind, things I wish I had asked him: Where do you get all your ideas for songs? Is Miami Steve Van Zandt really as cool as he seems? Where do you live, and could I come over and stay for dinner?
I admit I was starstruck. I have met very few celebrities: Jake LaMotta, the boxer whose life inspired the movie “Raging Bull”, Geoff Geary, Aaron Rowand and Ryan Madsen, all Phillies players. I once talked to Christopher Reeve on the phone (long story). And I saw Rosemary Clooney from far away. But Bruce Springsteen! It took me about 20 minutes to text everyone I could think of, telling them about my adventure.
Now I torture myself with “I wish.” When I think back on the meeting, I wish I had gotten his autograph, or my picture with him, or his phone number. I wish I had dressed a bit nicer, instead of wearing a grey tee shirt proclaiming my allegiance to George’s soccer team. I wish I had had my nails done and my hair styled and my face professionally made up. I wish that I had had a microphone and a back-up band and some singing talent, so that I could have auditioned for him. But hindsight is 20/20. I content myself with the knowledge that the Boss and I made a connection that day, and I am sure he will never forget it.
Potter-Mania
Potter-Mania
I am and have been an avid reader for years. I will read just about anything. In the beginning of the summer, my son Georgie asked me to name my all-time favorite book. I replied, “Gone With the Wind.” That has since changed.
I finished reading the last Harry Potter book, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” while sitting on a beach in South Carolina. I delayed finishing the book as long as possible, reading a few pages and then going for a dip in the ocean, reading a few more pages and then chatting with my husband and our friends, reading a few more pages and then eating a pretzel or three. But inevitably, I finished the book, bidding Harry and the rest of my witch and wizard friends good-bye until one of two things happens: J.K Rowling writes another series about the next Hogwarts generation, or I decide to reread the seven books.
I was not part of the Harry Potter craze that swept the world ten years ago. I was not militantly protesting against Potter-Mania. Quite simply, I was disinterested. Wizards, magic, and witches seemed silly to me, so therefore I just didn’t bother reading it. On the other hand, my friend Kim, one of the most avid Potter-People I know, waited impatiently for each book to come out so she could devour it. My friend Pam saw every movie as it came out. I stood alone in my Potterless world for years.
Tired of reading what seemed like a vast wasteland of trivial romance books, boring non-fiction books, and even more excruciatingly boring autobiographies, I turned to the world of Harry Potter this past August. Kim owned all seven books and she fed them to me, one by one, throughout the month of August. I devoured them. I freely admit that I became obsessed with them. Thoughts of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry and his friends, Quidditch matches and other magical creatures and events filled my head, and I couldn’t wait to open my book and continue on my journey. I had a bad case of Potteritis.
As the story heated up, the books got thicker and thicker, so heavy that my hand often cramped while holding the books. I lost track of time, actually losing sleep while reading the books. I burned food, ignored ringing phones, and stayed up way past my bedtime, because of my total addiction to the Potter books. I had many one-sided conversations with my husband George about the books. Bless his heart, he simply nodded and made appropriate “interested listener” sounds as I babbled about Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape, the ghost Peeves, and the Fat Lady who guarded the entrance to the Griffindor common room. I chatted about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Hogsmeade and the fact that “the wand chooses the wizard”. George, having over 27 years of practice tuning me out while acting like he is hanging on every word, did a commendable job of letting me display my Potteritis symptoms.
Nowadays, my conversation is punctuated with frequent Potterisms. Recently, we were in a car with another couple and the driver was protesting the fact that the car in front of us was going really slowly. I replied, “If you were Harry Potter, you could put a charm on that car and it would move out of your way.” Cooking dinner one evening, I told George that Harry Potter could whip up this meal with his wand in less than three seconds. George responded by asking me if Harry Potter had a “shut up” curse that he could use on me. (Actually, Harry would have put a “Silencio” Charm on me but I’m not telling George.) Perhaps he, had he read Potter, would wish for a Muffliato Charm during these conversations. Then George’s ears would be filled with an unidentifiable buzzing to keep him from hearing anything.
I cried, I laughed and I got chills as I read the books. I recognized many messages in the books, from classic good vs. evil to “love conquers all,” to friendship and loyalty, to betrayal and redemption. I have heard Potter fans compare some of the messages to Bible stories. And on the flip side, many people argue that the Potter stories are not literature. I say, “Whatever.” I don’t care whether J.K. Rowling’s Potter series is considered literature. I won’t debate whether the books should be required reading in high schools. All I care about is that the books are, quite simply, fun to read. Every one of the seven books is funny, imaginative, dark, sad, light, happy, well-written, and ultimately just a “feel-good” read. One can’t ask for more than that!
I am and have been an avid reader for years. I will read just about anything. In the beginning of the summer, my son Georgie asked me to name my all-time favorite book. I replied, “Gone With the Wind.” That has since changed.
I finished reading the last Harry Potter book, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” while sitting on a beach in South Carolina. I delayed finishing the book as long as possible, reading a few pages and then going for a dip in the ocean, reading a few more pages and then chatting with my husband and our friends, reading a few more pages and then eating a pretzel or three. But inevitably, I finished the book, bidding Harry and the rest of my witch and wizard friends good-bye until one of two things happens: J.K Rowling writes another series about the next Hogwarts generation, or I decide to reread the seven books.
I was not part of the Harry Potter craze that swept the world ten years ago. I was not militantly protesting against Potter-Mania. Quite simply, I was disinterested. Wizards, magic, and witches seemed silly to me, so therefore I just didn’t bother reading it. On the other hand, my friend Kim, one of the most avid Potter-People I know, waited impatiently for each book to come out so she could devour it. My friend Pam saw every movie as it came out. I stood alone in my Potterless world for years.
Tired of reading what seemed like a vast wasteland of trivial romance books, boring non-fiction books, and even more excruciatingly boring autobiographies, I turned to the world of Harry Potter this past August. Kim owned all seven books and she fed them to me, one by one, throughout the month of August. I devoured them. I freely admit that I became obsessed with them. Thoughts of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry and his friends, Quidditch matches and other magical creatures and events filled my head, and I couldn’t wait to open my book and continue on my journey. I had a bad case of Potteritis.
As the story heated up, the books got thicker and thicker, so heavy that my hand often cramped while holding the books. I lost track of time, actually losing sleep while reading the books. I burned food, ignored ringing phones, and stayed up way past my bedtime, because of my total addiction to the Potter books. I had many one-sided conversations with my husband George about the books. Bless his heart, he simply nodded and made appropriate “interested listener” sounds as I babbled about Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape, the ghost Peeves, and the Fat Lady who guarded the entrance to the Griffindor common room. I chatted about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Hogsmeade and the fact that “the wand chooses the wizard”. George, having over 27 years of practice tuning me out while acting like he is hanging on every word, did a commendable job of letting me display my Potteritis symptoms.
Nowadays, my conversation is punctuated with frequent Potterisms. Recently, we were in a car with another couple and the driver was protesting the fact that the car in front of us was going really slowly. I replied, “If you were Harry Potter, you could put a charm on that car and it would move out of your way.” Cooking dinner one evening, I told George that Harry Potter could whip up this meal with his wand in less than three seconds. George responded by asking me if Harry Potter had a “shut up” curse that he could use on me. (Actually, Harry would have put a “Silencio” Charm on me but I’m not telling George.) Perhaps he, had he read Potter, would wish for a Muffliato Charm during these conversations. Then George’s ears would be filled with an unidentifiable buzzing to keep him from hearing anything.
I cried, I laughed and I got chills as I read the books. I recognized many messages in the books, from classic good vs. evil to “love conquers all,” to friendship and loyalty, to betrayal and redemption. I have heard Potter fans compare some of the messages to Bible stories. And on the flip side, many people argue that the Potter stories are not literature. I say, “Whatever.” I don’t care whether J.K. Rowling’s Potter series is considered literature. I won’t debate whether the books should be required reading in high schools. All I care about is that the books are, quite simply, fun to read. Every one of the seven books is funny, imaginative, dark, sad, light, happy, well-written, and ultimately just a “feel-good” read. One can’t ask for more than that!
20 Ways To Maintain A Healthy Level Of Insanity
1. At Lunch Time, Sit In Your Parked Car with Sunglasses on and point a Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.
2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom. Don't Disguise Your Voice.
3. Every Time someone asks you to do something, ask if they Want Fries with that.
4. Put Your Garbage Can on Your Desk and Label it "In".
5. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks Once Everyone has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch to Espresso.
6. In The Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write "For Smuggling Diamonds".
7. Finish All Your sentences with "In Accordance With the Prophecy".
8. Don't use any punctuation.
9. As Often As Possible, Skip Rather Than
Walk.
10. Order a Diet Water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.
11. Specify That Your Drive-through Order Is "To Go". 1
2. Sing Along At The Opera.
13. Go To A Poetry Recital. And Ask Why The Poems Don't Rhyme?
14. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area and Play tropical Sounds All Day.
15. Five Days In Advance, Tell Your Friends You Can't Attend Their Party because you're not In the Mood.
16. Have Your Co-workers Address You by Your Wrestling Name, Rock Bottom.
17. When The Money Comes Out The ATM, Scream "I Won! I Won!"
18. When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running towards the Parking lot, Yelling "Run For Your Lives! They're Loose!"
19. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, "Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go."
20. Put on a Superman costume and crash a party, acting as though there is nothing unusual about your outfit. When asked why you are wearing it, reply, “I fight crime.”
2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom. Don't Disguise Your Voice.
3. Every Time someone asks you to do something, ask if they Want Fries with that.
4. Put Your Garbage Can on Your Desk and Label it "In".
5. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks Once Everyone has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch to Espresso.
6. In The Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write "For Smuggling Diamonds".
7. Finish All Your sentences with "In Accordance With the Prophecy".
8. Don't use any punctuation.
9. As Often As Possible, Skip Rather Than
Walk.
10. Order a Diet Water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.
11. Specify That Your Drive-through Order Is "To Go". 1
2. Sing Along At The Opera.
13. Go To A Poetry Recital. And Ask Why The Poems Don't Rhyme?
14. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area and Play tropical Sounds All Day.
15. Five Days In Advance, Tell Your Friends You Can't Attend Their Party because you're not In the Mood.
16. Have Your Co-workers Address You by Your Wrestling Name, Rock Bottom.
17. When The Money Comes Out The ATM, Scream "I Won! I Won!"
18. When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running towards the Parking lot, Yelling "Run For Your Lives! They're Loose!"
19. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, "Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go."
20. Put on a Superman costume and crash a party, acting as though there is nothing unusual about your outfit. When asked why you are wearing it, reply, “I fight crime.”
Snappy Comebacks to Stupid Questions
I know that I am a cranky old menopausal woman, but still.....people ask the dumbest questions! I am tired of stupidity, so I have been compiling a list of the most common stupid questions and sarcastic answers to them. This is a work in progress. Enjoy!
If someone asks......
.....Is this seat taken? You reply, "Yes, my invisible friend Hassan is sitting there cradling an AK47, guzzling a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and muttering in Arabic."
....Are you on the phone? You reply, "Why no, this unique device is an earwax scoop."
....Do you work here? You reply, 'No, I am just hanging around behind this desk waiting for the chance to file a sexual harrassment suit."
If someone asks......
.....Is this seat taken? You reply, "Yes, my invisible friend Hassan is sitting there cradling an AK47, guzzling a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and muttering in Arabic."
....Are you on the phone? You reply, "Why no, this unique device is an earwax scoop."
....Do you work here? You reply, 'No, I am just hanging around behind this desk waiting for the chance to file a sexual harrassment suit."
An Unexpected Gift
I was meandering through my days (hear contented whistling), minding my own business and content enough with life. We were preparing to glide into the next phase of our lives, the phase where our kids are done college and working in their chosen fields. Our youngest moved back home and commutes every day to Philly, where he works in a radio station. Our eldest lives out at the beach near the school where he teaches. Life was quiet and a bit boring. But not for long. Then on November 2, 2006, everything shifted.
Imagine being almost 50 years old and finding out you have two half-sisters and a half-brother. Imagine finding out that your birth mother passed away ten years ago, while you were busy raising a fifteen year old and an eleven year old and spending most of your time on a soccer field. Imagine the shock and disbelief and yes, curiosity, that you would feel upon receiving this knowledge.
It happened to me. I went home for lunch on Thursday, November 2, and began sifting through the mail, groaning at bills and sorting out the “Resident” letters. A white envelope bearing my name and a return address in Somerset, NJ was in the stack. Curious, I slit it open and read it. The words “…..your birth mother, who was my mother, too” hit me squarely in the solar plexus. Looking around, I half-expected Ashton Kutcher to pop out of my living room yelling, “You’ve been punk’d!”
Allow me to digress. At the age of two weeks, I was adopted by my mom and dad, two wonderful people. Being wonderful, they were honest with me and my two adoptive brothers, telling us that we were adopted and that we were special because they “picked us out.” The fact of my adoption was never an issue with me or my brothers. We were happy and normal kids growing up in a happy, normal house. We never had a burning urge to explore our birth situations. We were (and are) a happy and relatively normal family and that was that. We used to joke about hoping that our birth mothers showed up at our door one day with truckloads of money for us.
Then this letter arrived. In it, my birth sister invited me to call her if I wanted to. I did, several hours later after I digested all this information and we spoke for quite a while. I learned about my birth mother, that she liked to write, read and do crossword puzzles. She was a Jeopardy (one of my favorite shows) champ in the 60s. She had a good sense of humor and she liked Billy Joel. I heard about my other birth sister and birth brother. I learned that I have three birth nieces and a birth nephew. I also learned the circumstances of my birth and subsequent adoption. I sent both sisters a picture of me and my family at a Phillies game and they sent me a picture of my birth mother, to whom I bear little resemblance.
Many odd coincidences emerged through conversations. My birth niece was a junior at the College of NJ at the time, where my husband works. My birth mother lived in the township where George and I lived a year after we got married. My best friends for over thirty years are named Kim and Pam. Guess what my birth sisters’ names are? Kim and Pam. Now, when referring to the Kims and Pams, I have to distinguish between Sister Kim and Friend Kim and Sister Pam and Friend Pam. It sounds like I alternate residences between a convent and a Quaker meeting house.
It felt like I was living an episode of Oprah. After all these years, I had a birth family living less than an hour from me, people who actually shared my blood. As I said to my sister that day on the phone, “I have genes and they don’t have Calvin Klein on the pockets!”
We arranged a meeting. On Friday, November 17, George and I met Sisters Kim and Pam at H.I. Rib in Pennington. On the drive up to the restaurant, I second-guessed the meeting. “Am I doing the wrong thing?” I asked George. “What if we don’t get along,” I worried. It was a very cold night, yet I was sweating profusely. “Hyperventilating,” I informed George as we walked to the front door of the restaurant.
I had no idea what these women like. At least they knew what I looked like. Shaking like a leaf, I walked into the bar with George following me. I scanned the patrons and I immediately spotted them seated at the end of the bar at the same time they spotted me. I would have known them anywhere. All nervousness vanished and I ran around the bar towards them. They met me halfway and we threw ourselves at each other, hugging and crying. Very emotional and probably a bit alarming to the poor patrons at the bar.
After getting ourselves under control, we were seated at a table where we proceeded to show pictures and interrupt each other, talking and laughing. We told our server the whole story, just in case she was worried we were overly intoxicated. We ended up sitting at that booth for three hours. After the initial nervousness I experienced on the drive to the restaurant, I felt calm and totally at ease with Kim and Pam. It was like I had known them forever.
Since then, I have talked to them via phone, email and text-messages almost every day. We are planning another meeting after the New Year, hopefully including more family members. My husband walks around proclaiming, “Just what I need – more in-laws!” My kids are not used to the idea of these new family members yet, but they are anxious to meet the new aunts and cousins. My mom and dad, supportive as always, are anxious to meet the sisters as well.
As “Friend” Pam says, “It’s always an adventure!”
As I get older, I realize more and more that the most important thing is family. After all the years of running the kids around to their soccer practices, games, and tournaments, I finally have the time to reconnect with cousins and other family members that we “neglected” during the soccer gypsy years. And now, to gain a “new” family is an unexpected gift. I have always been grateful to my birth mother for putting me up for adoption and giving me a great life by doing so. I am also grateful for the internet, which allowed “Sister” Kim to find me using my birth name. So my cup overflows. With lots and lots of family, and lots and lots of love.
Imagine being almost 50 years old and finding out you have two half-sisters and a half-brother. Imagine finding out that your birth mother passed away ten years ago, while you were busy raising a fifteen year old and an eleven year old and spending most of your time on a soccer field. Imagine the shock and disbelief and yes, curiosity, that you would feel upon receiving this knowledge.
It happened to me. I went home for lunch on Thursday, November 2, and began sifting through the mail, groaning at bills and sorting out the “Resident” letters. A white envelope bearing my name and a return address in Somerset, NJ was in the stack. Curious, I slit it open and read it. The words “…..your birth mother, who was my mother, too” hit me squarely in the solar plexus. Looking around, I half-expected Ashton Kutcher to pop out of my living room yelling, “You’ve been punk’d!”
Allow me to digress. At the age of two weeks, I was adopted by my mom and dad, two wonderful people. Being wonderful, they were honest with me and my two adoptive brothers, telling us that we were adopted and that we were special because they “picked us out.” The fact of my adoption was never an issue with me or my brothers. We were happy and normal kids growing up in a happy, normal house. We never had a burning urge to explore our birth situations. We were (and are) a happy and relatively normal family and that was that. We used to joke about hoping that our birth mothers showed up at our door one day with truckloads of money for us.
Then this letter arrived. In it, my birth sister invited me to call her if I wanted to. I did, several hours later after I digested all this information and we spoke for quite a while. I learned about my birth mother, that she liked to write, read and do crossword puzzles. She was a Jeopardy (one of my favorite shows) champ in the 60s. She had a good sense of humor and she liked Billy Joel. I heard about my other birth sister and birth brother. I learned that I have three birth nieces and a birth nephew. I also learned the circumstances of my birth and subsequent adoption. I sent both sisters a picture of me and my family at a Phillies game and they sent me a picture of my birth mother, to whom I bear little resemblance.
Many odd coincidences emerged through conversations. My birth niece was a junior at the College of NJ at the time, where my husband works. My birth mother lived in the township where George and I lived a year after we got married. My best friends for over thirty years are named Kim and Pam. Guess what my birth sisters’ names are? Kim and Pam. Now, when referring to the Kims and Pams, I have to distinguish between Sister Kim and Friend Kim and Sister Pam and Friend Pam. It sounds like I alternate residences between a convent and a Quaker meeting house.
It felt like I was living an episode of Oprah. After all these years, I had a birth family living less than an hour from me, people who actually shared my blood. As I said to my sister that day on the phone, “I have genes and they don’t have Calvin Klein on the pockets!”
We arranged a meeting. On Friday, November 17, George and I met Sisters Kim and Pam at H.I. Rib in Pennington. On the drive up to the restaurant, I second-guessed the meeting. “Am I doing the wrong thing?” I asked George. “What if we don’t get along,” I worried. It was a very cold night, yet I was sweating profusely. “Hyperventilating,” I informed George as we walked to the front door of the restaurant.
I had no idea what these women like. At least they knew what I looked like. Shaking like a leaf, I walked into the bar with George following me. I scanned the patrons and I immediately spotted them seated at the end of the bar at the same time they spotted me. I would have known them anywhere. All nervousness vanished and I ran around the bar towards them. They met me halfway and we threw ourselves at each other, hugging and crying. Very emotional and probably a bit alarming to the poor patrons at the bar.
After getting ourselves under control, we were seated at a table where we proceeded to show pictures and interrupt each other, talking and laughing. We told our server the whole story, just in case she was worried we were overly intoxicated. We ended up sitting at that booth for three hours. After the initial nervousness I experienced on the drive to the restaurant, I felt calm and totally at ease with Kim and Pam. It was like I had known them forever.
Since then, I have talked to them via phone, email and text-messages almost every day. We are planning another meeting after the New Year, hopefully including more family members. My husband walks around proclaiming, “Just what I need – more in-laws!” My kids are not used to the idea of these new family members yet, but they are anxious to meet the new aunts and cousins. My mom and dad, supportive as always, are anxious to meet the sisters as well.
As “Friend” Pam says, “It’s always an adventure!”
As I get older, I realize more and more that the most important thing is family. After all the years of running the kids around to their soccer practices, games, and tournaments, I finally have the time to reconnect with cousins and other family members that we “neglected” during the soccer gypsy years. And now, to gain a “new” family is an unexpected gift. I have always been grateful to my birth mother for putting me up for adoption and giving me a great life by doing so. I am also grateful for the internet, which allowed “Sister” Kim to find me using my birth name. So my cup overflows. With lots and lots of family, and lots and lots of love.
MAN-O-Pause!
I am realizing every day that I am old. Aging by the minute. OLDER than middle-aged, because, let's face it, how many 102 year old women do you know?
Things that are cool about getting older:
1) I don't give a good rat's ass about what people think of me anymore.
2) I can go without makeup in public and no one notices.
3) I have lived thru some historical events that my kids ask me about and are impressed by.
4) I was in attendance at the last Led Zeppelin concert on the East Coast in 1978, or was it 1979?
5) I don't have to suck my stomach in anymore. If I do, I get a head rush.
6) I don't change diapers, carpool, make school lunches, serve on PTA, or pay dues to a travel soccer team anymore.
7) And the coolest thing about getting old is that I don't have to do a damn thing except sit back and watch the lines appear on my face.
Things that are cool about getting older:
1) I don't give a good rat's ass about what people think of me anymore.
2) I can go without makeup in public and no one notices.
3) I have lived thru some historical events that my kids ask me about and are impressed by.
4) I was in attendance at the last Led Zeppelin concert on the East Coast in 1978, or was it 1979?
5) I don't have to suck my stomach in anymore. If I do, I get a head rush.
6) I don't change diapers, carpool, make school lunches, serve on PTA, or pay dues to a travel soccer team anymore.
7) And the coolest thing about getting old is that I don't have to do a damn thing except sit back and watch the lines appear on my face.
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