I've been out of commission for the past several days. Sick kid. Lack of sleep. Ennui.
The child is back at school and feeling much better. It was only a bad head cold and sore throat, no fever, thank goodness, which put all of my Swine flu fears to rest. At some point, I'm guessing production on the vaccine will increase and we can all get protected, if we so choose.
For now, I will keep spewing the up side of obsessive hand-washing.
But I'm not going to beat myself up over the lack of ambition, the desire to simply sit back and be a sloth in human form. I liked it.
An entire weekend was wasted on the couch with the latest dvd's and a new book. Nope, I'm not even going to feel a little bit guilty.
As a refreshing change from staying up too late, I actually made it into bed last night at 8p.m and managed a full eight hours of sleep (a dose of Nyquil was a huge help). Still, I cringed when the alarm went off at four a.m.
Money used to motivate me at work. Now the thought of a nap is what gets me through the workday.
As my dear friend, M, would say: "You do like your naps, don't you?"
Yes, M, I do. And it's nice to know my couch is waiting for me.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Official
Several years ago, I lost a long-time job. As much as I hated this particular job and my bosses, and the lack of morale that had permeated the building, I was still in shock the day they called me in to tell me my services were no longer needed. First I laughed, long and loud, right in front of them. They sat and stared politely, if not a bit bewildered. Then, days later, when the reality of it finally sunk into my brain, I had a mini-panic attack while doing laundry. In the middle of throwing a load of wet clothes into the dryer, I became chilled and dizzy. My chest felt tight and I had to sit down. My whole life, my identity, had revolved around that job. What the hell was I going to do? It wasn't just about money, there was another adult in the house, still gainfully employed. I had been employed in one career, and one career only, since graduating from college in 1981. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and I'd always felt that I did it rather well. As working mom, it was also the perfect career to help me meet my daughter's needs, too.
I wasn't trained to do anything else and I was scared.
As it turned out, I was out of work for almost a year. But it was a good thing because during that time, my grandmother was dying and I went home to help my family. They had taken care of the old woman for all the years I was gone, hundreds of miles away, and now I had the chance to ease some of their load. I also brought along a journal, the thought being that I could finally get some writing down on paper. Writing; I was always too busy, to unsure of myself to really give it a try. And I'd graduated with a degree in Journalism.
I managed to put together some nice little paragraphs, snippets really, about my grandma and my family. Trying to make it all segue into an interesting tale, or essay, was another story. It was dawning on me why so many of the people I knew who called themselves writers had to take on other jobs to survive.
I signed up for a writing workshop and after eight weeks, managed to finish two essays. Both were eventually published in two separate anthologies.
Did this qualify me as an official writer? To date, my writing skills have earned me grand total of forty dollars. In my mind, that doesn't sound too professional. But I kept at it, it was fun, therapeutic even. I wrote my first short piece of fiction, a love story about a young couple and naturally, tragedy ensued. It's been three years since I started it and I'm still re-writing, and I even managed to find another job, one that offers a regular paycheck. At some point, it may be time to say farewell to my characters, Sam and Sophia, and start fresh with a brand new story.
My first full week as a fifty year old woman and I'm disappointed to admit that I've not achieved my goal of finishing a novel by the half century mark. Well, actually, that's not quite true. A couple of years ago I participated in National Novel Writing month. It takes place every year in the month of November. The goal is to finish a fifty thousand word manuscript, and that's exactly what I managed to do. I even have the downloaded certificate, my award, to prove I was capable of quantity, not quality.
And so, for the right here and right now, I will keep plugging away at this blog...and keep a journal at my side.
I wasn't trained to do anything else and I was scared.
As it turned out, I was out of work for almost a year. But it was a good thing because during that time, my grandmother was dying and I went home to help my family. They had taken care of the old woman for all the years I was gone, hundreds of miles away, and now I had the chance to ease some of their load. I also brought along a journal, the thought being that I could finally get some writing down on paper. Writing; I was always too busy, to unsure of myself to really give it a try. And I'd graduated with a degree in Journalism.
I managed to put together some nice little paragraphs, snippets really, about my grandma and my family. Trying to make it all segue into an interesting tale, or essay, was another story. It was dawning on me why so many of the people I knew who called themselves writers had to take on other jobs to survive.
I signed up for a writing workshop and after eight weeks, managed to finish two essays. Both were eventually published in two separate anthologies.
Did this qualify me as an official writer? To date, my writing skills have earned me grand total of forty dollars. In my mind, that doesn't sound too professional. But I kept at it, it was fun, therapeutic even. I wrote my first short piece of fiction, a love story about a young couple and naturally, tragedy ensued. It's been three years since I started it and I'm still re-writing, and I even managed to find another job, one that offers a regular paycheck. At some point, it may be time to say farewell to my characters, Sam and Sophia, and start fresh with a brand new story.
My first full week as a fifty year old woman and I'm disappointed to admit that I've not achieved my goal of finishing a novel by the half century mark. Well, actually, that's not quite true. A couple of years ago I participated in National Novel Writing month. It takes place every year in the month of November. The goal is to finish a fifty thousand word manuscript, and that's exactly what I managed to do. I even have the downloaded certificate, my award, to prove I was capable of quantity, not quality.
And so, for the right here and right now, I will keep plugging away at this blog...and keep a journal at my side.
Monday, October 19, 2009
What I Learned From the French
Two days. Two women. Paris, France. A 50th birthday. It was the whirlwind I'd expected. The City of Lights did not disappoint me. Saturday night it was dinner at a small cafe on the Champs de Elysees, next weekend I'll be helping out at the Spaghetti dinner at my daughter's school.
"M" and I made it to the top of the Eiffel Tower, we marveled at the Arc de Triomphe. We blasted through the Louvre with two goals; to see the Mona Lisa and the statue of Aphrodite. We accomphlished both and then ran to catch the train to Versailles. Marie A's Palace was over the top, lots of gold and decadence. M and I agreed the peasants had every right to revolt!
Contrary to what some of my American friends believe, the French were not rude. They were lovely, polite and more than happy to help a language-challenged U.S. citizen.
When it comes to food and fashion, the French adhere to the "less is more" policy.
I've learned that you can't go wrong with black and a beautiful scarf. The women may not all have been beauties but they all possessed a simple,elegent style.
The French also understand the concept of portion size when it comes to their meals. A serving of pasta arrives at your table in a small bowl. It's not swimming in sauce.The Boeuf (beef) Bourguignan contained just a few chunks of tender red meat in a delicate wine sauce, accompanied by small pieces of potatoes and carrots. And of course, one has to have a glass of wine. Please notice that I said glass, as in one glass, maybe two. I have a feeling that for the majority of the French, wine is simply another part of the meal, not a reason to keep drinking until you can no longer stand. Of course, I could be wrong. People sit and talk and enjoy the company of their friends, with a bite of food being consumed at a slow, leisurely pace. I'm willing to bet they don't suffer the gastrointestinal troubles we do in the states.
They also smoke...alot. But they walk everyday and everywhere.
Delicious food. Good Wine. Great art. Forty-eight hours isn't nearly long enough to fully grasp a new culture, but I sure can appreciate it.
"M" and I made it to the top of the Eiffel Tower, we marveled at the Arc de Triomphe. We blasted through the Louvre with two goals; to see the Mona Lisa and the statue of Aphrodite. We accomphlished both and then ran to catch the train to Versailles. Marie A's Palace was over the top, lots of gold and decadence. M and I agreed the peasants had every right to revolt!
Contrary to what some of my American friends believe, the French were not rude. They were lovely, polite and more than happy to help a language-challenged U.S. citizen.
When it comes to food and fashion, the French adhere to the "less is more" policy.
I've learned that you can't go wrong with black and a beautiful scarf. The women may not all have been beauties but they all possessed a simple,elegent style.
The French also understand the concept of portion size when it comes to their meals. A serving of pasta arrives at your table in a small bowl. It's not swimming in sauce.The Boeuf (beef) Bourguignan contained just a few chunks of tender red meat in a delicate wine sauce, accompanied by small pieces of potatoes and carrots. And of course, one has to have a glass of wine. Please notice that I said glass, as in one glass, maybe two. I have a feeling that for the majority of the French, wine is simply another part of the meal, not a reason to keep drinking until you can no longer stand. Of course, I could be wrong. People sit and talk and enjoy the company of their friends, with a bite of food being consumed at a slow, leisurely pace. I'm willing to bet they don't suffer the gastrointestinal troubles we do in the states.
They also smoke...alot. But they walk everyday and everywhere.
Delicious food. Good Wine. Great art. Forty-eight hours isn't nearly long enough to fully grasp a new culture, but I sure can appreciate it.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Winging It
Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than the things you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Mark Twain
I am not a "spur of the moment" kind of person. I like to have a gameplan, an outline on the events that will affect my life. Sure, there will always be the things that will be out of one's control, no matter how organized the plan, but for the most part, I enjoy playing it safe. But as I get older, I've been trying to change, trying to free myself up to new opportunities.
That's why I'm headed to Paris for the weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday. Yep, that Paris...the one in France. It never would have happened without "M". She's the catalyst for this impromptu voyage, and she's also my traveling companion, and the one who arranged the itinerary.
At some point, probably several years ago, I must have mentioned how I hoped to get back to Europe before hitting the half century mark. Did I really bother to take myself seriously, of course not. Life was crazy, there was a child to raise and a job to report to during the week.
But "M" didn't forget. She booked our flight, reserved a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, and then, knowing my unease with surprise, called me a couple of weeks ago to tell me and let the idea sink in. She understands my need to plan.
So we leave this afternoon, after my workday ends. It'll be a short trip, and we'll pack in as much of the excitement of Paris that we can in two full days. My family is more than capable of taking care of themselves, in fact I'm certain both hubby and child do the happy dance whenever I'm gone.
So Paris awaits me and M. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to give my guidebook a once over and recheck my suitcase.
Au revoir!
I am not a "spur of the moment" kind of person. I like to have a gameplan, an outline on the events that will affect my life. Sure, there will always be the things that will be out of one's control, no matter how organized the plan, but for the most part, I enjoy playing it safe. But as I get older, I've been trying to change, trying to free myself up to new opportunities.
That's why I'm headed to Paris for the weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday. Yep, that Paris...the one in France. It never would have happened without "M". She's the catalyst for this impromptu voyage, and she's also my traveling companion, and the one who arranged the itinerary.
At some point, probably several years ago, I must have mentioned how I hoped to get back to Europe before hitting the half century mark. Did I really bother to take myself seriously, of course not. Life was crazy, there was a child to raise and a job to report to during the week.
But "M" didn't forget. She booked our flight, reserved a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, and then, knowing my unease with surprise, called me a couple of weeks ago to tell me and let the idea sink in. She understands my need to plan.
So we leave this afternoon, after my workday ends. It'll be a short trip, and we'll pack in as much of the excitement of Paris that we can in two full days. My family is more than capable of taking care of themselves, in fact I'm certain both hubby and child do the happy dance whenever I'm gone.
So Paris awaits me and M. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to give my guidebook a once over and recheck my suitcase.
Au revoir!
Monday, October 12, 2009
My Dehydrating Quest to Kill Germs
My hands are very dry today. I've been going crazy with the liquid hand sanitizer and it's taking a toll on my skin. The Swine flu frenzy is well under way, and while I ponder whether or not to get the vaccine, the hygiene freak inside me is having a field day. I carry a mini-bottle of sanitizer in my purse, as well as wipes. I use the pump bottle provided at work on my way to and from the ladies room, the kitchen, and the elevator. I think twice before scratching my nose with my hand, opting instead to use my sweater-covered arm.
And of course, the huge debate continues: Is the vaccine safe? Are we idiots if we don't get it. What about companies forcing their employees to get vaccinated?
Currently, from what I understand, there is a limited supply of the H1N1 Vaccine available, and right now only a select group of people can get it, like pregnant women and those with compromised immune systems. Once those in the higher risk groups are protected, the rest of us schleps can get vaccinated, if there's anything left.
My daughter and I have both received the seasonal flu vaccines, we had no side effects, not that I anticipated any. People who claim they always get the flu after getting a flu shot were probably already getting sick, at least that's what my doctor tells me. Still, like many other people, I too had my questions about the Swine vaccine. After a long talk with my daughter's pediatrician, a true non-alarmist, I was left very reassured. The good doctor says it's a safe vaccine, produced in a very similiar way to the seasonal variety. She recommended that my daughter get it as soon as it was available to her, and me too.
In the meantime, I'll keep slathering on that hand sanitizer.
And of course, the huge debate continues: Is the vaccine safe? Are we idiots if we don't get it. What about companies forcing their employees to get vaccinated?
Currently, from what I understand, there is a limited supply of the H1N1 Vaccine available, and right now only a select group of people can get it, like pregnant women and those with compromised immune systems. Once those in the higher risk groups are protected, the rest of us schleps can get vaccinated, if there's anything left.
My daughter and I have both received the seasonal flu vaccines, we had no side effects, not that I anticipated any. People who claim they always get the flu after getting a flu shot were probably already getting sick, at least that's what my doctor tells me. Still, like many other people, I too had my questions about the Swine vaccine. After a long talk with my daughter's pediatrician, a true non-alarmist, I was left very reassured. The good doctor says it's a safe vaccine, produced in a very similiar way to the seasonal variety. She recommended that my daughter get it as soon as it was available to her, and me too.
In the meantime, I'll keep slathering on that hand sanitizer.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I went shopping today in search of a black turtleneck sweater. Sounds simple enough, right? This Fall, however, is apparently not the season for turtleneck sweaters. Huge cowl necks, button ups, scoop necks, v-necks, but nary a turtleneck to be found. I finally settled on a simple cable knit, the scoop neck variety. I can always spiff it up with a scarf around my neck.
But I'm getting off track. The real reason for my post tonight is to vent on a very disturbing fashion trend from the past that seems to be making a comeback...stirrup pants.
I was in a fairly hip boutique this afternoon and there they were, on a rack all to themselves, in black, no less. For a minute I was confused, my head felt dizzy as if in the throes of a vertigo attack. I had a strange flashback from somewhere in the 80's. But then I thought, this can't be right, it's 2009, who would be dumb enough to try and resurrect a style of pants that actually made mom jeans look hip?
This continued to bother me on my drive home so I decided to do some online investigating. Ladies, I'm terrified to say that my discovery today is not an isolated incident. I found pair after pair, after pair, available online. Neiman Marcus even offered a top line designer pair for $895.00! Okay, I'll concede that the size 0 model wearing them certainly helped...but they're still freaking ugly pants!
But I'm getting off track. The real reason for my post tonight is to vent on a very disturbing fashion trend from the past that seems to be making a comeback...stirrup pants.
I was in a fairly hip boutique this afternoon and there they were, on a rack all to themselves, in black, no less. For a minute I was confused, my head felt dizzy as if in the throes of a vertigo attack. I had a strange flashback from somewhere in the 80's. But then I thought, this can't be right, it's 2009, who would be dumb enough to try and resurrect a style of pants that actually made mom jeans look hip?
This continued to bother me on my drive home so I decided to do some online investigating. Ladies, I'm terrified to say that my discovery today is not an isolated incident. I found pair after pair, after pair, available online. Neiman Marcus even offered a top line designer pair for $895.00! Okay, I'll concede that the size 0 model wearing them certainly helped...but they're still freaking ugly pants!
Friday, October 9, 2009
Facets Away
Lower back pain, it's a true pain in the ass (well, close enough) that's for sure. At some point in the evolutionary chain, we went from walking on all fours to scuffling along on two feet, and that's when all our problems started. I sometimes wonder if Cro Magnon man or Mr. Neanderthal, after a tough day of hunting and gathering, sat down on a bed of fur wondering what to do about the nagging pain in their lower spine.
My own back pain started after the birth of my daughter almost sixteen years ago. I'm convinced that while the little darling was growing inside me, she managed to knock my pelvis out of whack, which has led to years and years of searching for ways to make the pain stop.
You name the treatment, and I've probably tried it; chiropractic, physical therapy, decompression therapy, deep tissue massage, and a bizarre hands-on manipulation where the practitioner pressed down on my pelvic region and told me to think about urinating.
Yoga and pilates classes, yep, tried those as well.
Relief from all of the above would be short and sweet. Nothing seemed to provide a permanent solution and apparently the two arthritic discs in my lower left back weren't bad enough to require surgery.
I tried to keep a smile on my face and stay positive despite the pain.
But now I think I've found the doctor who can make me pain free again.
Today he performed a little something called a lumbar rhizotomy. In a nutshell, he cauterized the facet nerves that were generating all of the agony from my degenerating discs. If all goes as planned, the treatment should last anywhere from nine months to two years.
"In some cases the pain never returns, " said the doctor, a man who has the potential of topping my all time favorite human being list.
Two to three weeks from now, I'll learn if this rhizotomy thing was successful. Tonight, I'll get comfy on the couch with an ice pack on my back.
My own back pain started after the birth of my daughter almost sixteen years ago. I'm convinced that while the little darling was growing inside me, she managed to knock my pelvis out of whack, which has led to years and years of searching for ways to make the pain stop.
You name the treatment, and I've probably tried it; chiropractic, physical therapy, decompression therapy, deep tissue massage, and a bizarre hands-on manipulation where the practitioner pressed down on my pelvic region and told me to think about urinating.
Yoga and pilates classes, yep, tried those as well.
Relief from all of the above would be short and sweet. Nothing seemed to provide a permanent solution and apparently the two arthritic discs in my lower left back weren't bad enough to require surgery.
I tried to keep a smile on my face and stay positive despite the pain.
But now I think I've found the doctor who can make me pain free again.
Today he performed a little something called a lumbar rhizotomy. In a nutshell, he cauterized the facet nerves that were generating all of the agony from my degenerating discs. If all goes as planned, the treatment should last anywhere from nine months to two years.
"In some cases the pain never returns, " said the doctor, a man who has the potential of topping my all time favorite human being list.
Two to three weeks from now, I'll learn if this rhizotomy thing was successful. Tonight, I'll get comfy on the couch with an ice pack on my back.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
It Fills Me With Glee
The past several television seasons have been a real disappointment for me. Where were the Freaks and Geeks, The Wonder Years, the Malcom in the Middles. I held out some hope when Desperate Housewives hit the airwaves, but lost interest by season 2.
There was no happiness to be found on television, not for me, anyway. And then, I heard about Glee.
This is a new show on the Fox network that should be assigned watching for middle to high school-aged students. Absolutely wonderful. I even stay up an hour past my bedtime on Wednesday nights just to watch it.
The show centers around Mr. Schuester,an Ohio high school teacher who longs to bring back his own glory days of being a member of the Glee club. He assembles a group consisting of the lowest on the high school food chain to the coolest of the jocks and cheerleaders. Together, they have one goal: to win the local high school glee club regional competition. But are they good enough?
The writing is brilliant. Every cast member the perfect choice for their given role. These kids can sing and they made me laugh,and they broke my heart, and they had me rethink my own high school days and the class systems I knew all too well. The adults are even better, from the germaphobic guidance counselor, Emma Pillsbury to Sue Sylvester, the militaristic cheerleading coach who believes terrifying children helps motivate them!
Has Glee changed my life? Has it inspired me to be a better human being? No, c'mon, that's asking an awful lot of a t.v. show, especially a musical-dramedy. But for at least one night a week, for one sweet hour, I'm pulled away from all the garbage that's happening in the world, and I smile.
And that's enough for me.
There was no happiness to be found on television, not for me, anyway. And then, I heard about Glee.
This is a new show on the Fox network that should be assigned watching for middle to high school-aged students. Absolutely wonderful. I even stay up an hour past my bedtime on Wednesday nights just to watch it.
The show centers around Mr. Schuester,an Ohio high school teacher who longs to bring back his own glory days of being a member of the Glee club. He assembles a group consisting of the lowest on the high school food chain to the coolest of the jocks and cheerleaders. Together, they have one goal: to win the local high school glee club regional competition. But are they good enough?
The writing is brilliant. Every cast member the perfect choice for their given role. These kids can sing and they made me laugh,and they broke my heart, and they had me rethink my own high school days and the class systems I knew all too well. The adults are even better, from the germaphobic guidance counselor, Emma Pillsbury to Sue Sylvester, the militaristic cheerleading coach who believes terrifying children helps motivate them!
Has Glee changed my life? Has it inspired me to be a better human being? No, c'mon, that's asking an awful lot of a t.v. show, especially a musical-dramedy. But for at least one night a week, for one sweet hour, I'm pulled away from all the garbage that's happening in the world, and I smile.
And that's enough for me.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A Purple Kind of Day
I've decided to play around with my blog settings a bit. Purple is a lovely color and I choose to use it for the rest of the football season in honor of the Baltimore Ravens. The team has truly made me a fan, and I thank them!
Aside from the new color, I've also changed the font size. Call me middle-aged, it's just easier to read.
Also, I'm having one heck of a time trying to keep my eyes open today...purple text is quite the eye-opener.
I have no one but myself to blame for my fatigue. It's very simple: I get up at four a.m. in order to be at work by 5:05. I average about five to six hours of sleep per night. You don't even have to be a sleep disorder expert to figure this out. I need more sleep, it's as simple as that.
The nice thing about being exhausted is that it's killing my desire to eat. This is a good thing, I've lost about thirteen pounds. Twenty-seven more pounds to go.
Can you tell I'm really scrounging here to come up with something, anything, to talk about this morning. My promise to myself was to write daily. It's not easy. There are so many fascinating blogs out there. So far, I have to admit, this is not one of them. Yet.
Am I happy today? Not really sure...but a nap wouldn't kill me.
Aside from the new color, I've also changed the font size. Call me middle-aged, it's just easier to read.
Also, I'm having one heck of a time trying to keep my eyes open today...purple text is quite the eye-opener.
I have no one but myself to blame for my fatigue. It's very simple: I get up at four a.m. in order to be at work by 5:05. I average about five to six hours of sleep per night. You don't even have to be a sleep disorder expert to figure this out. I need more sleep, it's as simple as that.
The nice thing about being exhausted is that it's killing my desire to eat. This is a good thing, I've lost about thirteen pounds. Twenty-seven more pounds to go.
Can you tell I'm really scrounging here to come up with something, anything, to talk about this morning. My promise to myself was to write daily. It's not easy. There are so many fascinating blogs out there. So far, I have to admit, this is not one of them. Yet.
Am I happy today? Not really sure...but a nap wouldn't kill me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
But is it Leather?
Dear AARP,
I believe you have clearly made your point. Yes, I know, believe me, I know that I'm going to be fifty very soon. Thank you, though, for driving the point home over and over again for the past several months with your incessant offers of a free travel bag if I sign up with your fine organization. However, here's the deal:
A) I don't need another travel bag. My closet is filled with enough bags and sacks, and over-sized purses to supply an entire tour bus of senior citizens. Real senior citizens, people over the age of sixty-five who are actually retired and have the time, if not the cash, to travel.
Which leads me to my next point:
B) At what time did the AARP decide that the age of fifty was when a person made that graceful transition to old age? No one in my circle of friends, fifty and over, has yet had the luxury of being able to retire. Where are all of these rich old people who need your travel bags? Just asking. It seems, given the amount of times you've solicited me, that you have an over-abundance of bags, but that could be me.
Please understand, I have nothing against aging. I'm doing my part, with my salt and pepper hair, and the annoying brown spots that have started to appear on my cheeks. I assure you, there will be no caving in to the plastic surgeon's lair. I could spew a whole bunch of bull about the beauty of older women who choose to remain in their natural state, untouched, just the way God intended...but the reality, I'm way too cheap. Sure, a doctor could have a nipping and tucking frenzy, maybe start somewhere down around my ankles and pull all the way up to my eyebrows, but if he or she can't promise I'll come out of that operating room looking like Cindy Crawford, then forget it. I'd rather spend my hard-earned cash on a nice piece of art or an overseas adventure!
If it turns out I do need that travel bag, I'll be in touch.
I believe you have clearly made your point. Yes, I know, believe me, I know that I'm going to be fifty very soon. Thank you, though, for driving the point home over and over again for the past several months with your incessant offers of a free travel bag if I sign up with your fine organization. However, here's the deal:
A) I don't need another travel bag. My closet is filled with enough bags and sacks, and over-sized purses to supply an entire tour bus of senior citizens. Real senior citizens, people over the age of sixty-five who are actually retired and have the time, if not the cash, to travel.
Which leads me to my next point:
B) At what time did the AARP decide that the age of fifty was when a person made that graceful transition to old age? No one in my circle of friends, fifty and over, has yet had the luxury of being able to retire. Where are all of these rich old people who need your travel bags? Just asking. It seems, given the amount of times you've solicited me, that you have an over-abundance of bags, but that could be me.
Please understand, I have nothing against aging. I'm doing my part, with my salt and pepper hair, and the annoying brown spots that have started to appear on my cheeks. I assure you, there will be no caving in to the plastic surgeon's lair. I could spew a whole bunch of bull about the beauty of older women who choose to remain in their natural state, untouched, just the way God intended...but the reality, I'm way too cheap. Sure, a doctor could have a nipping and tucking frenzy, maybe start somewhere down around my ankles and pull all the way up to my eyebrows, but if he or she can't promise I'll come out of that operating room looking like Cindy Crawford, then forget it. I'd rather spend my hard-earned cash on a nice piece of art or an overseas adventure!
If it turns out I do need that travel bag, I'll be in touch.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Thank You for Visiting...Now Please Go Home
One of the nice things about living in an historic urban neighborhood is that people from all over love to come visit. One of the bad things about living in a cool old neighborhood is that sometimes, thousands of people like to converge all on the same weekend.
My neighborhood dates back to the late sixteen or seventeen hundreds. I've lived here close to twenty years and perhaps if I bothered to do the research, I'd know the exact date. It's an old seaport area, home to drunken sailors for a long, long time.
This particular weekend the neighborhood is holding what it calls a "Fun" festival. For me, it was fun for oh, let's say, the first ten to fifteen times I experienced it. Now, I would love for all these nice people to pack it in and leave.
When I explained my dislike of the festival to a new neighbor, she said, "Oh, you're one of those people."
One of those people? I had no idea there was a special category just for us.
And to further perpetuate my new reputation as the grouchy woman on the street, I will have to endure, at some point today, our annual block party. Someone had the brilliant idea about nine years ago to start this tradition during the festival weekend. Every year I have to devise new and creative ways to politely avoid it. It's not that I don't like my neighbors, they're all great people. I simply hate block parties.
I suppose that makes me one of those people yet again.
My neighborhood dates back to the late sixteen or seventeen hundreds. I've lived here close to twenty years and perhaps if I bothered to do the research, I'd know the exact date. It's an old seaport area, home to drunken sailors for a long, long time.
This particular weekend the neighborhood is holding what it calls a "Fun" festival. For me, it was fun for oh, let's say, the first ten to fifteen times I experienced it. Now, I would love for all these nice people to pack it in and leave.
When I explained my dislike of the festival to a new neighbor, she said, "Oh, you're one of those people."
One of those people? I had no idea there was a special category just for us.
And to further perpetuate my new reputation as the grouchy woman on the street, I will have to endure, at some point today, our annual block party. Someone had the brilliant idea about nine years ago to start this tradition during the festival weekend. Every year I have to devise new and creative ways to politely avoid it. It's not that I don't like my neighbors, they're all great people. I simply hate block parties.
I suppose that makes me one of those people yet again.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Giving One for the Team
Kudos to you moms who have more than one child, especially those with children involved in sports and other after school activities. I don't know how you do it. One high school athlete is about all I can handle.
I've been trying to update this blog for two days...so much for those plans to sit down and write every day. My life doesn't swing that way, apparently.
Work takes up about nine hours of the day, starting bright and early at five a.m. Teenzilla (she'd kill me if I used her real name...MOM, I can't believe you're talking about me on a blog...) takes up the other half. Believe me, I do it gladly because I love her, and because one day, she'll be choosing my assisted living facility. She's a great kid (okay, a little mouthy, but I'm sure it's passing phase) with a wicked sense of humor, but her volleyball schedule is killing me!
Let me get this out in the open, right here and now: I'm a bad sports mom. Oh sure, I show up at games and bring the Gatorade when asked, but if I had my way, I'd be at home taking a nap. It's not my fault, I was born without a competitive nature gene. The "good" sports moms know all of the girls on the team, their jersey numbers, their positions. I know to pay attention and act like I understand the game of volleyball when Teenzilla is at the net.
When she made the JV team, I was thrilled. JV plays first which meant, I thought, only an hour of my time invested and then we could grab her gym bag and continue on with the rest of the afternoon. I would have about an hour to run errands (take a nap, who am I kidding?) before dealing with dinner. Yeah, right. Teenzilla volunteered to be the line girl for the varsity games. From what I can tell, the line girl holds a red flag and plays a role in determining whether the ball is in or out of bounds. Excuse me...isn't that the job of the referee?
Now I sit in the stands for an extra hour or so and cheer on girls whose names I will hopefully learn before the end of the season. Why not just leave after the JV game, you ask? Take your nap, run to the grocery store and then pick up Teenzilla after the varsity game. Well, you see, it's those good moms again. They never fail to show up early and cheer on my daughter and the rest of the JV team. It would be rude to not do the same for their daughters.
On the drive home from last night's game, as we went to pick up Chinese for dinner, my daughter made the offhand comment about how Mrs. "L" had the weekly schedules of all four of her children, and her husband, programmed into her Blackberry.
"Do you want me to put your schedule into my phone?" I asked, hoping like heck she wouldn't because I can barely retrieve my voicemail messages or send texts. "Would that make you feel better?"
"No, it's okay," she said. "Besides, Mrs. "L" is kind of of a Stepford wife, it's pretty scary."
I made a mental note to retrieve the October school calender from the bowels of my oversized purse. It's crammed down there, somewhere, between bills that need to be paid, raffle tickets that need to be sold for the Mother's Club, and the empty order form for the school fundraiser that's due later this month.
No one will ever hurl accusations of being a Stepford wife my way...at least I have that in my favor.
I've been trying to update this blog for two days...so much for those plans to sit down and write every day. My life doesn't swing that way, apparently.
Work takes up about nine hours of the day, starting bright and early at five a.m. Teenzilla (she'd kill me if I used her real name...MOM, I can't believe you're talking about me on a blog...) takes up the other half. Believe me, I do it gladly because I love her, and because one day, she'll be choosing my assisted living facility. She's a great kid (okay, a little mouthy, but I'm sure it's passing phase) with a wicked sense of humor, but her volleyball schedule is killing me!
Let me get this out in the open, right here and now: I'm a bad sports mom. Oh sure, I show up at games and bring the Gatorade when asked, but if I had my way, I'd be at home taking a nap. It's not my fault, I was born without a competitive nature gene. The "good" sports moms know all of the girls on the team, their jersey numbers, their positions. I know to pay attention and act like I understand the game of volleyball when Teenzilla is at the net.
When she made the JV team, I was thrilled. JV plays first which meant, I thought, only an hour of my time invested and then we could grab her gym bag and continue on with the rest of the afternoon. I would have about an hour to run errands (take a nap, who am I kidding?) before dealing with dinner. Yeah, right. Teenzilla volunteered to be the line girl for the varsity games. From what I can tell, the line girl holds a red flag and plays a role in determining whether the ball is in or out of bounds. Excuse me...isn't that the job of the referee?
Now I sit in the stands for an extra hour or so and cheer on girls whose names I will hopefully learn before the end of the season. Why not just leave after the JV game, you ask? Take your nap, run to the grocery store and then pick up Teenzilla after the varsity game. Well, you see, it's those good moms again. They never fail to show up early and cheer on my daughter and the rest of the JV team. It would be rude to not do the same for their daughters.
On the drive home from last night's game, as we went to pick up Chinese for dinner, my daughter made the offhand comment about how Mrs. "L" had the weekly schedules of all four of her children, and her husband, programmed into her Blackberry.
"Do you want me to put your schedule into my phone?" I asked, hoping like heck she wouldn't because I can barely retrieve my voicemail messages or send texts. "Would that make you feel better?"
"No, it's okay," she said. "Besides, Mrs. "L" is kind of of a Stepford wife, it's pretty scary."
I made a mental note to retrieve the October school calender from the bowels of my oversized purse. It's crammed down there, somewhere, between bills that need to be paid, raffle tickets that need to be sold for the Mother's Club, and the empty order form for the school fundraiser that's due later this month.
No one will ever hurl accusations of being a Stepford wife my way...at least I have that in my favor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
