Hello, and welcome to Baltimore! We invite you to stop by for a visit and "Find your happy place."
Yep, that's the $500,000 ad campaign the powers that be in my fair city are hoping will put a positive twist on Baltimore, sometimes lovingly referred to as Charm City.
Poor Baltimore. It really does need a public relations lift, but many Baltimorons (yep, that's what we call ourselves) are having a good laugh over the theme. As one of my Facebook friends said:
"Baltimore. Good at crabcakes. Bad at slogans."
Here, why don't you take a look for yourself:
Baltimore Sets Record for World's Largest Human Smiley Face
Let me know what you think. I'm originally from Detroit, so I could be a little jaded!
Look, I'm all for happy. Life is too short to not be happy, but I don't think putting people in orange rain slickers and making a ginormous happy face is going to change anything.
Here's a couple of news items from Charm City the past couple of days:
An 18 month old baby tested positive for gonorrhea and police suspect she was sexually assaulted by a 21 year friend of the family.
In an effort to balance the budget, Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake is thinking about reducing the size of the police force. Criminals should be happy about that, anyway.
You know what would make me happy?
Having enough money to keep our police department fully staffed, and castrating repulsive child sex offenders.
But that could just be me.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find my happy place...
Friday, May 14, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sometimes, I Want To Tell My Daughter To Stay Far, Far Away From The Opposite Sex
You've probably seen the news reports the past couple of days. Two young people, both set to graduate from the University of Virginia, had their lives end in the most tragic of ways. Yeardley Love was a beautiful young woman, a gifted athlete and good student. Apparently loved by all who knew her. Her brutalized body was found by her roommates the other night. She had her whole life ahead of her, as the saying goes.
George Huguely was the former boyfriend of Yeardley. He's charged with her murder.
Yeardley is dead, her future gone. George, allegedly the person responsible for her death, is now facing the consequences of his actions. His life, the plans he had for life after college, are over, too.
They were both 22 years old.
The story hits very close to home, because both were from the Maryland suburbs. Kids who went to private prep schools, and had it all, one would think. But it's never really the way it seems, is it?
As more details from this sad story emerge, it appears Huguely's golden boy persona could be anything but...
His lawyer, according to reports in this morning's Baltimore Sun, called it "an accident with a tragic outcome."
After reading and hearing the news updates, however, I'm having a hard time buying the "accident" claims. Apparently there was a fight, and Huguely's admitted to shaking her to the point where Yeardley's head repeatedly hit a wall.
As the investigation continues, we're bound to hear more of the gritty details. Why a young man couldn't deal with the end of a relationship.
It's enough to make any parent with a daughter of dating age lose sleep at night.
My daughter is sixteen and dating a very nice boy. At least, I pray he's a nice young man. From all outward appearances, he hits the mark. Good athlete, good student, nice parents.
Sometimes I even tease her about how he's too nice for her. And now I realize, what a stupid thing to say.
When she entered the teen years, I thought the only things to fear were unplanned pregnancies, std's, and car accidents. Now it's potential death by boyfriend.
Yes, I have talked to her about domestic abuse, and how no one, female or male, should put up with any type of abuse.
"When that little voice inside your head starts screaming to get out of a relationship, GET OUT!" I've said.
But is she listening?
George Huguely was the former boyfriend of Yeardley. He's charged with her murder.
Yeardley is dead, her future gone. George, allegedly the person responsible for her death, is now facing the consequences of his actions. His life, the plans he had for life after college, are over, too.
They were both 22 years old.
The story hits very close to home, because both were from the Maryland suburbs. Kids who went to private prep schools, and had it all, one would think. But it's never really the way it seems, is it?
As more details from this sad story emerge, it appears Huguely's golden boy persona could be anything but...
His lawyer, according to reports in this morning's Baltimore Sun, called it "an accident with a tragic outcome."
After reading and hearing the news updates, however, I'm having a hard time buying the "accident" claims. Apparently there was a fight, and Huguely's admitted to shaking her to the point where Yeardley's head repeatedly hit a wall.
As the investigation continues, we're bound to hear more of the gritty details. Why a young man couldn't deal with the end of a relationship.
It's enough to make any parent with a daughter of dating age lose sleep at night.
My daughter is sixteen and dating a very nice boy. At least, I pray he's a nice young man. From all outward appearances, he hits the mark. Good athlete, good student, nice parents.
Sometimes I even tease her about how he's too nice for her. And now I realize, what a stupid thing to say.
When she entered the teen years, I thought the only things to fear were unplanned pregnancies, std's, and car accidents. Now it's potential death by boyfriend.
Yes, I have talked to her about domestic abuse, and how no one, female or male, should put up with any type of abuse.
"When that little voice inside your head starts screaming to get out of a relationship, GET OUT!" I've said.
But is she listening?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Here's One Way To Tackle That Embarrassing Feminine Itch...
Years ago, I worked in an office with a nice guy who happened to have one glass eye. Whenever the artifical orb caused him discomfort, he would pop it out and leave it on our shared workspace. Lovely, right? Workplace etiquette manuals simply failed to address the issue of co-workers with fake eyes or limbs, and while I didn't want to report a perfectly decent man to the human resource director, it was difficult to work with someone sporting a huge, gaping hole on his face.
I only mention this, because sometimes it's unbelievable what some people think is proper workplace behavior, what they assume they'll be able to get away with, whether others are watching or not.
My Dentist is also a dear friend of mine. She has a large, mostly femaly staff, and if you ask any of her employees, they will attest that she is the best boss they've ever had. She's generous to a fault, with trips to dental conventions, and staff cruises to the Bahamas. In return, she expects the best from her people; professionalism, courtesy, and loyalty. Oh, and one more thing, please don't waste her hard-earned money.
The other day we met for lunch and she shared a somewhat disturbing tale with me. Someone on her staff was blatantly wasting dental supplies.
"You know those Oral B toothbrushes I give to patients," she said. "How much do you think those cost me?"
"I have absolutely no idea," I admitted. "But I do like getting a new toothbrush everytime I visit you!"
Actually, every visit I walk out with a nifty little plastic bag containing not only a new Oral B, but toothpaste, floss, and some pointy brushlike device meant to stimulate my middle-aged receding gumline.
"Those toothbrushes run me about $1.42 each," she said. "Last week, I found a half dozen used brushes in the trash in the staff bathroom."
"Well, at least they're practicing what you preach," I said. "But you'd think they'd know to hang on to their brushes, put em in a toothbrush holder, or something."
Turns out, they weren't being used on teeth.
After much questioning and prodding, and more questioning, the culprit finally broke down and confessed. Turns out the woman at hand (who is no longer employed with my friend for other job-related concerns) was suffering from a nasty infection of the nether regions and the only thing that eased her chronic itching was the soft bristles of the Oral B's.
Maybe a fake eyeball every now and then between co-workers isn't so bad, afterall...
I only mention this, because sometimes it's unbelievable what some people think is proper workplace behavior, what they assume they'll be able to get away with, whether others are watching or not.
My Dentist is also a dear friend of mine. She has a large, mostly femaly staff, and if you ask any of her employees, they will attest that she is the best boss they've ever had. She's generous to a fault, with trips to dental conventions, and staff cruises to the Bahamas. In return, she expects the best from her people; professionalism, courtesy, and loyalty. Oh, and one more thing, please don't waste her hard-earned money.
The other day we met for lunch and she shared a somewhat disturbing tale with me. Someone on her staff was blatantly wasting dental supplies.
"You know those Oral B toothbrushes I give to patients," she said. "How much do you think those cost me?"
"I have absolutely no idea," I admitted. "But I do like getting a new toothbrush everytime I visit you!"
Actually, every visit I walk out with a nifty little plastic bag containing not only a new Oral B, but toothpaste, floss, and some pointy brushlike device meant to stimulate my middle-aged receding gumline.
"Those toothbrushes run me about $1.42 each," she said. "Last week, I found a half dozen used brushes in the trash in the staff bathroom."
"Well, at least they're practicing what you preach," I said. "But you'd think they'd know to hang on to their brushes, put em in a toothbrush holder, or something."
Turns out, they weren't being used on teeth.
After much questioning and prodding, and more questioning, the culprit finally broke down and confessed. Turns out the woman at hand (who is no longer employed with my friend for other job-related concerns) was suffering from a nasty infection of the nether regions and the only thing that eased her chronic itching was the soft bristles of the Oral B's.
Maybe a fake eyeball every now and then between co-workers isn't so bad, afterall...
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Random Thoughts On A Lovely Tuesday...
Roseanne Barr woke me up this morning. She'd invaded my dreams with both her fat and frumpy, and skinnier,surgically altered versions. For whatever reason, I was in her sitcom playing with finger puppets.
I blame it on the spicy meatballs we had for dinner last night.
I'm about this close to kicking the finely formed ass of my 20-something neighbor across the street. We live on a narrow alley way, and he keeps insisting on parking illegally on the curb, making it almost impossible for me to get out of my garage each morning. I will either key the side of his truck or call the police.
Why does my husband keep up his relentless complaining about the most lame ass issues?
"WHY???Why do we have so many boxes of lemon jello mix?" He bitched and moaned the other night. "Wwhhhyyyy...?"
"I don't know." I said. "Why is the downstairs toilet still refusing to flush properly after I've asked to have it fixed for six months? Why do I still not have a door on my bathroom after fourteen years? Why do you refuse to join the rest of the twenty-first century and get a cell phone so I can reach you during an emergency?"
I don't think I'll be hearing about my surplus lemon jello supply anytime soon...
When my teenage daughter started high school, I bought her a cell phone for safety issues. She wanted to upgrade to a Blackberry for status issues and I refused. One day she presented me with a huge wad of cash, babysitting and birthday money she'd saved. It covered the cost of the phone and the year of service to go along with it. It's a good thing she sprang for the unlimited texting. More than 21,000 texts on the latest bill. The child is developing over-sized thumbs and I fear arthritis is in her future.
But still, it's nice to get a text message every now and then stating, Hey Mom, I Luv U.
I blame it on the spicy meatballs we had for dinner last night.
I'm about this close to kicking the finely formed ass of my 20-something neighbor across the street. We live on a narrow alley way, and he keeps insisting on parking illegally on the curb, making it almost impossible for me to get out of my garage each morning. I will either key the side of his truck or call the police.
Why does my husband keep up his relentless complaining about the most lame ass issues?
"WHY???Why do we have so many boxes of lemon jello mix?" He bitched and moaned the other night. "Wwhhhyyyy...?"
"I don't know." I said. "Why is the downstairs toilet still refusing to flush properly after I've asked to have it fixed for six months? Why do I still not have a door on my bathroom after fourteen years? Why do you refuse to join the rest of the twenty-first century and get a cell phone so I can reach you during an emergency?"
I don't think I'll be hearing about my surplus lemon jello supply anytime soon...
When my teenage daughter started high school, I bought her a cell phone for safety issues. She wanted to upgrade to a Blackberry for status issues and I refused. One day she presented me with a huge wad of cash, babysitting and birthday money she'd saved. It covered the cost of the phone and the year of service to go along with it. It's a good thing she sprang for the unlimited texting. More than 21,000 texts on the latest bill. The child is developing over-sized thumbs and I fear arthritis is in her future.
But still, it's nice to get a text message every now and then stating, Hey Mom, I Luv U.
Monday, April 12, 2010
A Year Or Two From Now, I'm Sure We'll All Have A Good Laugh...
I swear to God, this whole driver's ed thing is going to kill me. I will die of a stroke, or a massive heart attack, but before my little darling gets her official license, something will kill me.
On the suggestion of her instructor, we hit the hilly back roads of suburbia today. Teenzilla needs practice on how to maintain speed behind the wheel.
"You're biggest problem is that you live in the city," said her driving teacher. "Too much stop and go, too many traffic lights. You need to get her on the open road."
"You need to get me a prescription for Valium," I said.
The male parental unit in this whole scenario is doing just fine, thank you. That's because he hasn't taken the child out once to sharpen her driving skills. He figures one shotgun riding parent is enough, apparently. But he tries to offer his own bizarre shot at support.
"You really should thank your mom for helping you learn to drive," he recently told the child. "She's putting her life on the line every time she goes out with you."
Yep, this truly makes me feel so much better...
So, we hit the country roads thinking it would be so much more relaxing than dealing with those crazy city drivers. Not really. Out in the burbs, pretty hills and all, the posted speed limit signs are merely a suggestion. My poor kid followed the rules and became the magnet for every rude horse's ass sharing the road with her. We had one guy who followed us for about a mile or so, right on our tail, because there was no place where he could pass us. At a stop sign, my daughter came to a full and complete stop, as she'd learned in class, and in the rear view mirror could see the idiot saluting her with a variety of lovely hand gestures and single digit salutes.
First of all, my daughter may be inexperienced, but she's totally at ease behind the wheel. And while she is a safe and conscientious student driver, she also thinks she knows everything there is to know about driving, which of course, scares the hell out of me. She's been driving since the end of January, for crying out loud, so why wouldn't she know everything?!
And as I've repeatedly told her, it's really not her driving that leaves my heart wedged in my esophagus, it's the other crazies on the road.
On the suggestion of her instructor, we hit the hilly back roads of suburbia today. Teenzilla needs practice on how to maintain speed behind the wheel.
"You're biggest problem is that you live in the city," said her driving teacher. "Too much stop and go, too many traffic lights. You need to get her on the open road."
"You need to get me a prescription for Valium," I said.
The male parental unit in this whole scenario is doing just fine, thank you. That's because he hasn't taken the child out once to sharpen her driving skills. He figures one shotgun riding parent is enough, apparently. But he tries to offer his own bizarre shot at support.
"You really should thank your mom for helping you learn to drive," he recently told the child. "She's putting her life on the line every time she goes out with you."
Yep, this truly makes me feel so much better...
So, we hit the country roads thinking it would be so much more relaxing than dealing with those crazy city drivers. Not really. Out in the burbs, pretty hills and all, the posted speed limit signs are merely a suggestion. My poor kid followed the rules and became the magnet for every rude horse's ass sharing the road with her. We had one guy who followed us for about a mile or so, right on our tail, because there was no place where he could pass us. At a stop sign, my daughter came to a full and complete stop, as she'd learned in class, and in the rear view mirror could see the idiot saluting her with a variety of lovely hand gestures and single digit salutes.
First of all, my daughter may be inexperienced, but she's totally at ease behind the wheel. And while she is a safe and conscientious student driver, she also thinks she knows everything there is to know about driving, which of course, scares the hell out of me. She's been driving since the end of January, for crying out loud, so why wouldn't she know everything?!
And as I've repeatedly told her, it's really not her driving that leaves my heart wedged in my esophagus, it's the other crazies on the road.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Maybe I Should Just Leave God's Creatures Alone
When I was twelve years old I contracted the chicken pox and like a good big sister, passed it along to my two younger brothers. After a week trapped in the house with three bored children (oozy, crusty, and plain revolting in appearance) mom opted to bypass the local bar and instead, drove herself to the nearest shopping center and found a pet store.
She returned with a pregnant mouse on the verge of delivering tiny offspring.
"Kids, very soon, you will witness the beauty of childbirth," she said. "You will never forget this experience."
Mom was right, we didn't.
Mere hours after bringing home the glass aquarium containing the furry little mom-to-be, we sat with our mother and watched the labor and delivery process. Mama mouse gave birth to ten of the ugliest babies I'd ever seen; hairless, gray, and blind, they were about the size of garden grubs.
"What happens now?" asked my youngest brother. "Are they hungry?"
"Wait and see," said Mom. "Nature has a way of taking care of everything. The mother will do everything by instinct."
It's been thirty-eight years, but what happened next still haunts my dreams to this very day. I can still hear the shrill screams of my brother.
"MOM! MOM! SHE'S KILLING HER BABIES!"
It was infanticide, plain and simple. The tiny, wormlike creatures never stood a chance.
My frantic mother called the pet store and was told in times of stress or fear, mother mice will sometimes kill and eat their young.
It would have been nice if someone had mentioned that before she left the store.
But I'm getting off track...
Let's fast forward to present day Tamara world.
Several weeks ago, I noticed lots of birds hanging out on my deck; doves, little red-headed finch like creatures, starlings, blackbirds, etc.
My first mistake was buying the birdseed and the birdfeeder. Remember that Fabrege Organic shampoo commerical from years and years ago? I told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on...
That's how it rolls in the bird world. I looked out on my deck one day and it was like an avian convention. Birds and bird poop everywhere.
And then the doves decided they not only wanted to eat from the birdfeeder, they wanted to live in the birdfeeder! The weight from their round bodies actually tilted the base of the feeder off kilter, thrilling the other birds because all of the birdseed spilled over onto the deck. Fortunately, some massive winds blew through last week, sweeping the birdfeeder off the deck and onto my neighbor's roof.
I thought this would be the end of my feathered buddies. No food, no reason to show up anymore...no more bird poop.
They won't leave. However, I've gained an ally who may convince them to find a new deck...a hawk. He/she is an absolutely regal creature, about a foot and a half in height, and apparently new to the neighborhood.
So far, no casualties, but the doves better watch their backs...
She returned with a pregnant mouse on the verge of delivering tiny offspring.
"Kids, very soon, you will witness the beauty of childbirth," she said. "You will never forget this experience."
Mom was right, we didn't.
Mere hours after bringing home the glass aquarium containing the furry little mom-to-be, we sat with our mother and watched the labor and delivery process. Mama mouse gave birth to ten of the ugliest babies I'd ever seen; hairless, gray, and blind, they were about the size of garden grubs.
"What happens now?" asked my youngest brother. "Are they hungry?"
"Wait and see," said Mom. "Nature has a way of taking care of everything. The mother will do everything by instinct."
It's been thirty-eight years, but what happened next still haunts my dreams to this very day. I can still hear the shrill screams of my brother.
"MOM! MOM! SHE'S KILLING HER BABIES!"
It was infanticide, plain and simple. The tiny, wormlike creatures never stood a chance.
My frantic mother called the pet store and was told in times of stress or fear, mother mice will sometimes kill and eat their young.
It would have been nice if someone had mentioned that before she left the store.
But I'm getting off track...
Let's fast forward to present day Tamara world.
Several weeks ago, I noticed lots of birds hanging out on my deck; doves, little red-headed finch like creatures, starlings, blackbirds, etc.
My first mistake was buying the birdseed and the birdfeeder. Remember that Fabrege Organic shampoo commerical from years and years ago? I told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on...
That's how it rolls in the bird world. I looked out on my deck one day and it was like an avian convention. Birds and bird poop everywhere.
And then the doves decided they not only wanted to eat from the birdfeeder, they wanted to live in the birdfeeder! The weight from their round bodies actually tilted the base of the feeder off kilter, thrilling the other birds because all of the birdseed spilled over onto the deck. Fortunately, some massive winds blew through last week, sweeping the birdfeeder off the deck and onto my neighbor's roof.
I thought this would be the end of my feathered buddies. No food, no reason to show up anymore...no more bird poop.
They won't leave. However, I've gained an ally who may convince them to find a new deck...a hawk. He/she is an absolutely regal creature, about a foot and a half in height, and apparently new to the neighborhood.
So far, no casualties, but the doves better watch their backs...
Monday, March 29, 2010
Urban Annoyances
I was a child of the suburbs but since 1987 have been a city dweller, living close to my port town's quirky downtown area. It has its pros and cons.
For example, this morning on her Facebook page, one of my friends, another city resident, used her status update to vent frustrations over the idiots who ate chicken wings and used her street as a trash can, and for even further insult, someone threw up in her planter.
Oh sure, it may not sound like the end of the world, but for those of use who rehabbed old, dilapidated rowhouses and other buildings, and turned them into our homes, it's insulting. I hate pointing fingers, but it's rarely middle-aged adults pulling these types of antics. My particular neighborhood has a reputation for heavy booze-related activity since the late 1600's. It was trawling grounds for drunken sailors, privateers, and women of questionable character.
It hasn't changed much over the years.
Whenever I complain, my suburbanite friends say I should have known. And you know what, I fully understand that living in the big city comes along with its own special brand of headaches. Petty crime, lack of parking, trash, rats. The list is endless. Our mayor is ready to cut hundreds of people from the police and fire departments, and people are very upset.
What it comes down to is that you have to pick your battles.
My house is located on a small alley street, not far from a bakery complex. The employees who work in the baking and packaging portion of the company have to wear paper hair nets. Several walk to work, and use my street as a bypass, which is fine. Using my street as a trash can to dispose of the hairnets, not so fine. There's a trash receptacle located at the top of the street, they walk right by it.
So now I collect the hairnets and save them in a plastic bag. At the end of each week, I take them to the bakery's head office and hand them to the human resource director. We're now on a first name basis.
And each and every time I make a delivery she says to me, "I am so sorry. I'll talk to them."
But there's only so much she can do, there's no way I could ever confirm who is to blame. Just a part of city living.
Sure beats the time I found three guys dressed as Superman peeing on my garage door at Halloween.
For example, this morning on her Facebook page, one of my friends, another city resident, used her status update to vent frustrations over the idiots who ate chicken wings and used her street as a trash can, and for even further insult, someone threw up in her planter.
Oh sure, it may not sound like the end of the world, but for those of use who rehabbed old, dilapidated rowhouses and other buildings, and turned them into our homes, it's insulting. I hate pointing fingers, but it's rarely middle-aged adults pulling these types of antics. My particular neighborhood has a reputation for heavy booze-related activity since the late 1600's. It was trawling grounds for drunken sailors, privateers, and women of questionable character.
It hasn't changed much over the years.
Whenever I complain, my suburbanite friends say I should have known. And you know what, I fully understand that living in the big city comes along with its own special brand of headaches. Petty crime, lack of parking, trash, rats. The list is endless. Our mayor is ready to cut hundreds of people from the police and fire departments, and people are very upset.
What it comes down to is that you have to pick your battles.
My house is located on a small alley street, not far from a bakery complex. The employees who work in the baking and packaging portion of the company have to wear paper hair nets. Several walk to work, and use my street as a bypass, which is fine. Using my street as a trash can to dispose of the hairnets, not so fine. There's a trash receptacle located at the top of the street, they walk right by it.
So now I collect the hairnets and save them in a plastic bag. At the end of each week, I take them to the bakery's head office and hand them to the human resource director. We're now on a first name basis.
And each and every time I make a delivery she says to me, "I am so sorry. I'll talk to them."
But there's only so much she can do, there's no way I could ever confirm who is to blame. Just a part of city living.
Sure beats the time I found three guys dressed as Superman peeing on my garage door at Halloween.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Another Week, Another Chance For An Aneurysm-Inducing Headache
I managed to avoid anything and everything sports or health related this weekend. No March Madness for me. No updates on healthcare. I avoided t.v and radio news reports like painful rectal itch, and instead enjoyed the sunshine and warm weather.
College basketball really doesn't interest me, too loud and confusing...all those brackets. I don't get it.
The health debate, who knows? I'm from the mindset that no matter who is in office, I'll always get screwed. As long as I keep my expectations low, I'm never disappointed. It's the strife from both sides regarding healthcare that gives me a headache and makes my stomach churn. I have friends both liberal and conservative and I simply will not get tangled up in a debate with them. I change the subject or leave the room. Not gonna do it, sorry.
The only thing I'll say about politics is that it's a land that I don't understand. So much self-interest, so much hot air blowing to the left and right.
I have always, always, always taken care of myself. I've had a job since the age of fourteen, and I've been voting since the age of eighteen. Not once, in all of my voting years, can I honestly say there has been one candidate who has inspired me to be a better human being. I have been my only motivator. When I lost a long-term job several years ago, I took a retail position to keep myself busy and started doing some freelance writing. It took about a year, but I finally landed a job, a "real" job, in the career I loved, and still do.
But I'm getting off track. I don't want this to turn political. There's enough division not only in my life, but among my friends and family, and across the United States, and the world, and who knows...perhaps the galaxy!
Right now I'm tired of hearing from tea baggers, tree huggers, whatever. Right now, a tiny island where I can catch a break from the human race sounds fantastic.
But in this country I still believe, no matter our political leanings (or lack thereof, in my case), there are issues we all agree on, that pull us together as a people.
My deepest thanks to John Edwards, Rielle Hunter, Tiger Woods, and Jesse James(Mr. Sandra Bullock).
College basketball really doesn't interest me, too loud and confusing...all those brackets. I don't get it.
The health debate, who knows? I'm from the mindset that no matter who is in office, I'll always get screwed. As long as I keep my expectations low, I'm never disappointed. It's the strife from both sides regarding healthcare that gives me a headache and makes my stomach churn. I have friends both liberal and conservative and I simply will not get tangled up in a debate with them. I change the subject or leave the room. Not gonna do it, sorry.
The only thing I'll say about politics is that it's a land that I don't understand. So much self-interest, so much hot air blowing to the left and right.
I have always, always, always taken care of myself. I've had a job since the age of fourteen, and I've been voting since the age of eighteen. Not once, in all of my voting years, can I honestly say there has been one candidate who has inspired me to be a better human being. I have been my only motivator. When I lost a long-term job several years ago, I took a retail position to keep myself busy and started doing some freelance writing. It took about a year, but I finally landed a job, a "real" job, in the career I loved, and still do.
But I'm getting off track. I don't want this to turn political. There's enough division not only in my life, but among my friends and family, and across the United States, and the world, and who knows...perhaps the galaxy!
Right now I'm tired of hearing from tea baggers, tree huggers, whatever. Right now, a tiny island where I can catch a break from the human race sounds fantastic.
But in this country I still believe, no matter our political leanings (or lack thereof, in my case), there are issues we all agree on, that pull us together as a people.
My deepest thanks to John Edwards, Rielle Hunter, Tiger Woods, and Jesse James(Mr. Sandra Bullock).
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
As A Matter Of Fact, I Don't Want To Know
Here's a suggestion to all of my well-meaning relatives and friends: When I tell you I've scheduled a colonoscopy, please do not regale me with tales of every person you know who had their colons perforated during the procedure.
Over the past six years, I've had two colonoscopies, both problem free, thank you very much. Aside from the grueling prep the night before, once the twilight-sleep was administered, I didn't feel a thing. And the best part, my colon was (and still is, hopefully) cancer and polyp free. My maternal grandmother and uncle both had colon cancer so I don't take any chances. A healthy colon is a happy colon.
As suggested by my doctor, now that I'm over fifty and because of the family history, I get a colonoscopy every five years. Why do the people in my life insist on delving headfirst into the annals of alledged medical mishaps? They share stories of their great aunt's daughter's next door neighbor who had their first colonoscopy ever and ended up in the intensive care unit after the doctor sneezed, twitched, passed out, or just plain screwed up a routine health screening.
I don't want to hear it, but that doesn't stop them.
"Oh wow, you're getting a colonoscopy?" my neighbor asked. "My co-worker had one last month and her husband had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died."
"Really? Well thanks for sharing," I said. "I'm sure it was a fluke."
First of all, as reasonable people, we should all understand that simply getting up and out of bed each morning comes along with risks. Nothing is risk free, not even a colonoscopy, but the odds are usually in the favor of the person on the table with a probe up their tushy.
I have no proof, but it wouldn't shock me if the female contingency who share this information do the same with new moms-to-be, dredging up every delivery room horror story from the past several centuries and reciting it like a Shakespeare soliloquy. Who doesn't want to hear about potential tragedy and botched episiotomies days before giving birth?
The other day, a card from my doctor was in the mail, reminding me it was time for another colonoscopy.
I'll tell everyone about it when it's OVER!
Over the past six years, I've had two colonoscopies, both problem free, thank you very much. Aside from the grueling prep the night before, once the twilight-sleep was administered, I didn't feel a thing. And the best part, my colon was (and still is, hopefully) cancer and polyp free. My maternal grandmother and uncle both had colon cancer so I don't take any chances. A healthy colon is a happy colon.
As suggested by my doctor, now that I'm over fifty and because of the family history, I get a colonoscopy every five years. Why do the people in my life insist on delving headfirst into the annals of alledged medical mishaps? They share stories of their great aunt's daughter's next door neighbor who had their first colonoscopy ever and ended up in the intensive care unit after the doctor sneezed, twitched, passed out, or just plain screwed up a routine health screening.
I don't want to hear it, but that doesn't stop them.
"Oh wow, you're getting a colonoscopy?" my neighbor asked. "My co-worker had one last month and her husband had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died."
"Really? Well thanks for sharing," I said. "I'm sure it was a fluke."
First of all, as reasonable people, we should all understand that simply getting up and out of bed each morning comes along with risks. Nothing is risk free, not even a colonoscopy, but the odds are usually in the favor of the person on the table with a probe up their tushy.
I have no proof, but it wouldn't shock me if the female contingency who share this information do the same with new moms-to-be, dredging up every delivery room horror story from the past several centuries and reciting it like a Shakespeare soliloquy. Who doesn't want to hear about potential tragedy and botched episiotomies days before giving birth?
The other day, a card from my doctor was in the mail, reminding me it was time for another colonoscopy.
I'll tell everyone about it when it's OVER!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
If You Don't Want My Opinion, Don't Ask
After my first marriage failed, in my early twenties, I moved back home with my parents for a spell, a sadder but wiser woman.
As I worked to get my life together, it became very apparent that my mom and dad were dealing with their own marital issues. Nothing scandalous, no infidelities or domestic abuse. My dad's business was sinking fast and he was frantic to find ways to avoid bankruptcy. My father was grouchy and short-tempered and vented his frustrations on my poor mom. It took a toll on their marriage.
For whatever reason, my mother asked me if I would talk to my father, act as a quasi-relationship counselor.
He was neither moved nor impresed.
"You of all people have no business giving anyone marriage advice," he said.
He had a point. He was the man who had forked over thousands and thousands of dollars to pay for my wedded bliss, a fiasco that lasted two years.
I decided from that point on, I would never again give unsolicited advice. However, the solicited advice would still prove to be my undoing.
Here's an ongoing example or two:
I have a friend...let's call her Sally. Sally is a lovely human being, a gifted artist with a lovely laugh. She's also about 100 pounds overweight and aside from talking about the need to lose weight, she's never made the effort to actually do so. But everytime we get together, she never fails to ask me:
"Do you think I'm fat?"
Typically, I would avoid answering this question like I'd avoid a rectal exam (relax, I get one every time I see my OB/GYN) but at some point I decided why not be honest.
Sally: "Do you think I'm fat?"
Me: "You know, for your own health and well-being, and the fact that I want you around for a long time, yes...I think you need to lose some weight."
Sally:"Hmm, I really don't think I'm that bad."
I could only watch in awe as she sat back and continued to shovel the spaghetti carbonara into her mouth.
Now when she asks, I merely reply: "You're perfect, I wouldn't change a thing."
And then there's "Lola." When the whole online dating scene first emerged, Lola was one of the trailblazers. Talk about being a kid in a candy store, her dating calender was booked for weeks. I was happy for her, of course, but a little sad because my own time with her was so limited. I missed our regular afternoon happy hours which typically segued into the dinner hours. But I was remarried by then with a child, and I wanted to see my friend end up with a nice guy even though the computerized matchups seemed a bit dubious in my mind. But what did I know?
One day, while she was several months into her quest for love, Lola came over for coffee, a little down and not her usual spunky self.
"Am I doing something wrong," she asked. "I can't get more than one or two dates out of any of the men I've met."
Despite the apprehension I felt churning in my lower bowels, I went ahead like an idiot and blurted,"tell me about a typical date."
"Well, I usually meet them for a drink or dinner. I've gone to a movie with a couple of them, and then usually we end up back at my place and...you know."
NO! NO! NO! I didn't want to know. I didn't want to dispense advice. Was she the one woman in the world who was denied the maternal "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free" speech?
And now, let's move on to today. I made the mistake of checking my voice mail. It was "Gladys."
"Should I get a facelift? Call me when you get a chance."
I'm opening a bottle of chardonnay and calling it a day.
As I worked to get my life together, it became very apparent that my mom and dad were dealing with their own marital issues. Nothing scandalous, no infidelities or domestic abuse. My dad's business was sinking fast and he was frantic to find ways to avoid bankruptcy. My father was grouchy and short-tempered and vented his frustrations on my poor mom. It took a toll on their marriage.
For whatever reason, my mother asked me if I would talk to my father, act as a quasi-relationship counselor.
He was neither moved nor impresed.
"You of all people have no business giving anyone marriage advice," he said.
He had a point. He was the man who had forked over thousands and thousands of dollars to pay for my wedded bliss, a fiasco that lasted two years.
I decided from that point on, I would never again give unsolicited advice. However, the solicited advice would still prove to be my undoing.
Here's an ongoing example or two:
I have a friend...let's call her Sally. Sally is a lovely human being, a gifted artist with a lovely laugh. She's also about 100 pounds overweight and aside from talking about the need to lose weight, she's never made the effort to actually do so. But everytime we get together, she never fails to ask me:
"Do you think I'm fat?"
Typically, I would avoid answering this question like I'd avoid a rectal exam (relax, I get one every time I see my OB/GYN) but at some point I decided why not be honest.
Sally: "Do you think I'm fat?"
Me: "You know, for your own health and well-being, and the fact that I want you around for a long time, yes...I think you need to lose some weight."
Sally:"Hmm, I really don't think I'm that bad."
I could only watch in awe as she sat back and continued to shovel the spaghetti carbonara into her mouth.
Now when she asks, I merely reply: "You're perfect, I wouldn't change a thing."
And then there's "Lola." When the whole online dating scene first emerged, Lola was one of the trailblazers. Talk about being a kid in a candy store, her dating calender was booked for weeks. I was happy for her, of course, but a little sad because my own time with her was so limited. I missed our regular afternoon happy hours which typically segued into the dinner hours. But I was remarried by then with a child, and I wanted to see my friend end up with a nice guy even though the computerized matchups seemed a bit dubious in my mind. But what did I know?
One day, while she was several months into her quest for love, Lola came over for coffee, a little down and not her usual spunky self.
"Am I doing something wrong," she asked. "I can't get more than one or two dates out of any of the men I've met."
Despite the apprehension I felt churning in my lower bowels, I went ahead like an idiot and blurted,"tell me about a typical date."
"Well, I usually meet them for a drink or dinner. I've gone to a movie with a couple of them, and then usually we end up back at my place and...you know."
NO! NO! NO! I didn't want to know. I didn't want to dispense advice. Was she the one woman in the world who was denied the maternal "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free" speech?
And now, let's move on to today. I made the mistake of checking my voice mail. It was "Gladys."
"Should I get a facelift? Call me when you get a chance."
I'm opening a bottle of chardonnay and calling it a day.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
How Hard Can It Be, Really?
I've lived in the Baltimore area since 1987. In twenty-three years, I've been trying to make it to the annual Philadelphia flower show. Hopefully, this is the weekend I finally attend.
I'm not far at all from Philly, less than two hours. It's a pretty easy drive up I-95, even more enjoyable by train.
And yet, each and every year, despite my best efforts, I've yet to see one petal at what is hailed as perhaps one of the best floral extravaganas in the United States.
Seriously...how hard is it really to plan a stupid day trip.
This weekend, my daughter heads to the beach with friends(a trip that took her all of ten minutes to plan,by the way)and the other adult unit in the household likes to be left to his own devices, so I really have no excuses.
This has been a truly brutal winter and a few hours lost in the bliss of flowers should provide me with some hope of the upcoming spring.
Wish me luck. Now all I have to do is decide whether to go by car or train.
I'm not far at all from Philly, less than two hours. It's a pretty easy drive up I-95, even more enjoyable by train.
And yet, each and every year, despite my best efforts, I've yet to see one petal at what is hailed as perhaps one of the best floral extravaganas in the United States.
Seriously...how hard is it really to plan a stupid day trip.
This weekend, my daughter heads to the beach with friends(a trip that took her all of ten minutes to plan,by the way)and the other adult unit in the household likes to be left to his own devices, so I really have no excuses.
This has been a truly brutal winter and a few hours lost in the bliss of flowers should provide me with some hope of the upcoming spring.
Wish me luck. Now all I have to do is decide whether to go by car or train.
Monday, February 22, 2010
New Hope For The Rhythmically Challenged
So out of the clear blue last week, my dear friend E's younger sister A suggested we all go salsa dancing.
"But I don't know how to salsa," I said, thinking this would get me off the hook.
It didn't.
Saturday night I found myself signed up for salsa lessons at a trendy little nightclub/dinner place. They put me in the beginners class but I'm sure had there been a sub-beginners group, that's where I would have been placed. E and A, both of Argentinian heritage, were put in the intermediate class.
I am a tragically Caucasian woman who was born with two flat feet and no rhythm. Remember the Seinfeld episode years ago when Elaine danced? I make her look like the Dancing Queen.
The biggest issue seems to be centered right in my pelvis and neighboring hips. They refuse to move, it's like they're fused in place.
Fortunately, during my lesson Saturday night, this was not a concern. The instructor seemed more fixated on my feet which were having a hell of a time trying to keep up with the other students. I seemed to be about a beat and half behind everyone else.
Halfway through the class, I decided I'd had enough and slipped off to find the ladies room. Then I went back to the table to wait for E and A...and I ordered us a round of the house specialty drink. I'll be damned if I can remember what the waitress called it, but it was green and smooth, ice cold with a touch of coconut!
At some point in the evening, the regular bar crowd swarmed inside, young people ready to dance and have a good time. And let me tell you, they could dance.
"Okay, I'm ready to go," said E.
"But we haven't danced yet," said A. "I came here to dance."
"I'm just having a swell time watching the festivities," I said. And I was. Off in a far corner, one couple was having a tough time deciding whether to dance or have sex right there on the dance floor. Both of their pelvic regions worked just fine.
Someone must have picked up A's need to dance because out of nowhere three young men seemed to be loitering near our table, and then their drinks were sitting on our table, and then all three of us were asked to dance.
"Can't I sit here and watch?" I asked. "I will be very happy to just watch."
"No, no, no!" said A. :You cannot say no. Get out there and dance!"
At least I got the tall guy. Who I might add, was an extremely nice person and laughed everytime I decided to lead, which was pretty funny considering I had no idea what to do!
Every time the music stopped and I thanked him for the dance and started heading back to the table, he'd grab my hand and insist we keep dancing.
And then something interesting happened. I finally got it. I wasn't perfect, I won't be on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon, but I was following his lead and my hips, knees, and feet all seemed to work in conjunction with one another!
Yep...it's kind of nice to get out of your comfort zone every now and then.
"But I don't know how to salsa," I said, thinking this would get me off the hook.
It didn't.
Saturday night I found myself signed up for salsa lessons at a trendy little nightclub/dinner place. They put me in the beginners class but I'm sure had there been a sub-beginners group, that's where I would have been placed. E and A, both of Argentinian heritage, were put in the intermediate class.
I am a tragically Caucasian woman who was born with two flat feet and no rhythm. Remember the Seinfeld episode years ago when Elaine danced? I make her look like the Dancing Queen.
The biggest issue seems to be centered right in my pelvis and neighboring hips. They refuse to move, it's like they're fused in place.
Fortunately, during my lesson Saturday night, this was not a concern. The instructor seemed more fixated on my feet which were having a hell of a time trying to keep up with the other students. I seemed to be about a beat and half behind everyone else.
Halfway through the class, I decided I'd had enough and slipped off to find the ladies room. Then I went back to the table to wait for E and A...and I ordered us a round of the house specialty drink. I'll be damned if I can remember what the waitress called it, but it was green and smooth, ice cold with a touch of coconut!
At some point in the evening, the regular bar crowd swarmed inside, young people ready to dance and have a good time. And let me tell you, they could dance.
"Okay, I'm ready to go," said E.
"But we haven't danced yet," said A. "I came here to dance."
"I'm just having a swell time watching the festivities," I said. And I was. Off in a far corner, one couple was having a tough time deciding whether to dance or have sex right there on the dance floor. Both of their pelvic regions worked just fine.
Someone must have picked up A's need to dance because out of nowhere three young men seemed to be loitering near our table, and then their drinks were sitting on our table, and then all three of us were asked to dance.
"Can't I sit here and watch?" I asked. "I will be very happy to just watch."
"No, no, no!" said A. :You cannot say no. Get out there and dance!"
At least I got the tall guy. Who I might add, was an extremely nice person and laughed everytime I decided to lead, which was pretty funny considering I had no idea what to do!
Every time the music stopped and I thanked him for the dance and started heading back to the table, he'd grab my hand and insist we keep dancing.
And then something interesting happened. I finally got it. I wasn't perfect, I won't be on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon, but I was following his lead and my hips, knees, and feet all seemed to work in conjunction with one another!
Yep...it's kind of nice to get out of your comfort zone every now and then.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
If You Go Away Quietly, I Promise Not To Hurt You
In the musical Scrooge, before he meets the three ghosts who change his life, Scrooge bellows out in song, loud and clear: "I hate people, and I don't care if they hate me."
I know exactly what he means. I'm not a big fan, either. Well, not this week, anyway.
Maybe it's the onslaught of snow we've had the past couple of weeks and being held captive, but as of now, anything standing upright with a pulse is getting on my nerves...BIGTIME!
This is a problem because at work I have to be nice to people and have a smile on my face and joy in my voice. It's not much better on the homefront. We live in a big old renovated warehouse with lots of open space, but not many doors. No matter where I'm located, no matter how hard I try to eek out a little space for myself, there is always someone around me. My daughter is the only one with an escape. Her bedroom actually has a door.
I actually asked my husband recently why we couldn't put a door on the bathroom in our bedroom.
"That would take away from the suite-like feel of the room," he said.
I was sitting on the toilet at the time, thinking some privacy would be nice.
When I was young and didn't know any better, it was so much easier to put up with other people. I was stupid and happy, and had the same easy-going attitude as a Golden Retriever puppy. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when people started to piss me off, but now I'm old and cynical and it takes every ounce of my patience and willpower to not reach out and grab someone by their ears and throttle them around.
It would be so theraputic, but I'm not willing to risk the assault charges it would most likely bring.
Maybe what I need is a punching bag. I could put it in the garage and anytime I felt the need to whallop the crap out of someone head down there and spend some quality time pounding the leather.
I feel better already.
I know exactly what he means. I'm not a big fan, either. Well, not this week, anyway.
Maybe it's the onslaught of snow we've had the past couple of weeks and being held captive, but as of now, anything standing upright with a pulse is getting on my nerves...BIGTIME!
This is a problem because at work I have to be nice to people and have a smile on my face and joy in my voice. It's not much better on the homefront. We live in a big old renovated warehouse with lots of open space, but not many doors. No matter where I'm located, no matter how hard I try to eek out a little space for myself, there is always someone around me. My daughter is the only one with an escape. Her bedroom actually has a door.
I actually asked my husband recently why we couldn't put a door on the bathroom in our bedroom.
"That would take away from the suite-like feel of the room," he said.
I was sitting on the toilet at the time, thinking some privacy would be nice.
When I was young and didn't know any better, it was so much easier to put up with other people. I was stupid and happy, and had the same easy-going attitude as a Golden Retriever puppy. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when people started to piss me off, but now I'm old and cynical and it takes every ounce of my patience and willpower to not reach out and grab someone by their ears and throttle them around.
It would be so theraputic, but I'm not willing to risk the assault charges it would most likely bring.
Maybe what I need is a punching bag. I could put it in the garage and anytime I felt the need to whallop the crap out of someone head down there and spend some quality time pounding the leather.
I feel better already.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Mother Nature...You Hormonal Bitch, You.
Dear Mother Nature,
Seriously...enough is enough. I have no idea what you're problem has been this past week...but c'mon, another freaking snow storm for the Mid-Atlantic??? Currently, close to two feet of snow covers most of Baltimore and the state of Maryland, and now you plan to shower us with another eight to 16 inches!? Our snow plow contingency is already overwhelmed and incapable of clearing a good majority of the smaller residential streets and byways. We have been told by state highway officials to not even think about driving today because there are blizzard and whiteout conditions!
It's a huge, whalloping mess and frankly, we have had enough, thank you! Once loving couples have been trapped in their homes for close to a week. Marriages are breaking up, parents are bound to be taking out their frustrations on their children. A friend emailed me to say that she's not sure how much longer she can take her five year old daughter playing We Shall Overcome on the recorder (by the way, not sure who it was who devised that annoying little flutelike instrument, but they should be shot and killed).
The only good thing to come out of this whole mess is that my wonderful boss has put all of us up in a nearby hotel so we can get to work. I have an entire king sized bed to myself, and as long as the hotel bar doesn't run out of booze, I will persevere!
So in closing, Mother Nature, I'm praying this is the end of the snow. You won't hear from me again until I'm roasting my ass off in a few months during one of your classic Maryland summers. Right now, highs in the 90's and 98 percent humidity is sounding pretty darned good!
XOXOXO
Tamara
Seriously...enough is enough. I have no idea what you're problem has been this past week...but c'mon, another freaking snow storm for the Mid-Atlantic??? Currently, close to two feet of snow covers most of Baltimore and the state of Maryland, and now you plan to shower us with another eight to 16 inches!? Our snow plow contingency is already overwhelmed and incapable of clearing a good majority of the smaller residential streets and byways. We have been told by state highway officials to not even think about driving today because there are blizzard and whiteout conditions!
It's a huge, whalloping mess and frankly, we have had enough, thank you! Once loving couples have been trapped in their homes for close to a week. Marriages are breaking up, parents are bound to be taking out their frustrations on their children. A friend emailed me to say that she's not sure how much longer she can take her five year old daughter playing We Shall Overcome on the recorder (by the way, not sure who it was who devised that annoying little flutelike instrument, but they should be shot and killed).
The only good thing to come out of this whole mess is that my wonderful boss has put all of us up in a nearby hotel so we can get to work. I have an entire king sized bed to myself, and as long as the hotel bar doesn't run out of booze, I will persevere!
So in closing, Mother Nature, I'm praying this is the end of the snow. You won't hear from me again until I'm roasting my ass off in a few months during one of your classic Maryland summers. Right now, highs in the 90's and 98 percent humidity is sounding pretty darned good!
XOXOXO
Tamara
Friday, February 5, 2010
SNOWMAGEDDON! Should Be A Winter Monsterland!
If you're someplace warm this weekend, like Arizona or Florida, I salute you and hope you think of those us stuck in the Mid-Atlantic area. We are gearing up for the Snowstorm of the century...at least if all the hype from the weather experts proves to be true!
We're supposed to get anywhere from twelve to twenty inches!
I can't speak for all Mid-Atlantic states, but here in Maryland, especially the Baltimore area, massive snowfall equals freaked out human beings. We don't typically get alot of snow but when we do...panic ensues. Grocery stores run out of bread, milk, and toilet paper...and just about any other item that isn't nailed to the shelves!
Yesterday after work, I hit the Safeway in my neighborhood and while I only wanted to buy something for dinner that night, I got caught up in the lemming mentality and started filling up my cart like a crazy woman.
Should I be trapped inside my house this weekend, I will find comfort in my variety of frozen pizzas, Girl Scout Thin Mint and Tagalong ice cream, pork shoulder (for a steaming pot of pulled pork!), mac and cheese, slice and bake cookies in the chocolate chip and peanut butter varieties, and a huge box of candy in a valentine shaped box (it was on sale, so sue me).
Yes, it's going to be a comfort food weekend while the blizzard wreaks its havoc!
I live in the city which brings about a whole new set of issues when more than a couple of inches of snow falls. Parking a vehicle, for example. I'm lucky because I have a garage to park my car, but some of my neighbors have to park on the street. It gets very, very territorial...and sometimes, very ugly. Baltimorons have a truly unique way of securing their parking spots...they use lawn chairs. God help the unknowing person who dares to move a chair and steal the spot.
So Godspeed if you too will become a member of the Great Snowstorm of 2010. And if you happen to be basking in the beautiful sunshine, plopped down next to a pool or ocean with a cocktail in hand...I hate you.
(just kidding)
We're supposed to get anywhere from twelve to twenty inches!
I can't speak for all Mid-Atlantic states, but here in Maryland, especially the Baltimore area, massive snowfall equals freaked out human beings. We don't typically get alot of snow but when we do...panic ensues. Grocery stores run out of bread, milk, and toilet paper...and just about any other item that isn't nailed to the shelves!
Yesterday after work, I hit the Safeway in my neighborhood and while I only wanted to buy something for dinner that night, I got caught up in the lemming mentality and started filling up my cart like a crazy woman.
Should I be trapped inside my house this weekend, I will find comfort in my variety of frozen pizzas, Girl Scout Thin Mint and Tagalong ice cream, pork shoulder (for a steaming pot of pulled pork!), mac and cheese, slice and bake cookies in the chocolate chip and peanut butter varieties, and a huge box of candy in a valentine shaped box (it was on sale, so sue me).
Yes, it's going to be a comfort food weekend while the blizzard wreaks its havoc!
I live in the city which brings about a whole new set of issues when more than a couple of inches of snow falls. Parking a vehicle, for example. I'm lucky because I have a garage to park my car, but some of my neighbors have to park on the street. It gets very, very territorial...and sometimes, very ugly. Baltimorons have a truly unique way of securing their parking spots...they use lawn chairs. God help the unknowing person who dares to move a chair and steal the spot.
So Godspeed if you too will become a member of the Great Snowstorm of 2010. And if you happen to be basking in the beautiful sunshine, plopped down next to a pool or ocean with a cocktail in hand...I hate you.
(just kidding)
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The People Who Eat My Brain
Let me tell you about the people who live in my house. One is big and hairy, and old and moody. The other person, is young and pretty, and self-absorbed. But she's a teenager and I'll cut her some slack. I will refrain from mentioning their names because they have no interest in playing an active role in my ramblings.
Let's call them the People Who Eat My Brain.
Old and Moody for example, has managed to avoid most family vacations over the past sixteen years, not to mention spending much time with either branch of our respective families. He will make exceptions for funerals which we all think is so grand of him!
Over Summer or Winter breaks, it was me and the child, and many times when we were on one adventure or another, white-water rafting in Utah, or DisneyWorld, people rightly assumed that I was a single mom.
But every once in a great while O/M completely floors me.
"When does Spring break fall this year?" he asked while we were preparing dinner the other night. "I was thinking of taking the girl on a road trip."
Well I'll be darned, I thought.
"Where are you thinking of going?" He has a two seater convertible and I couldn't imagine exactly what type of voyage was brewing in that brain of his.
"The Grand Canyon," he said, as casually as if he was planning to take her up the street to the CVS. "I think we can get there in a couple of days."
Unless he was thinking of strapping rocket jets onto his tiny wind up toy of a motor vehicle, I couldn't comprehend how he thought he'd get there so fast from our Eastern seaboard home. But I stayed positive for his sake, as well as our daughter's.
"Well that sounds wonderful," I said. "You two will have a great time."
As if on cue, braineater #2 walked in, apparently having caught the tail end of our conversation.
"Where's dad taking me?"
"The Grand Canyon for Spring break," I said. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"
"Can't we go to Maine instead?" she asked.
MAINE!?
"No, that's too far," said #1.
Too Far? I sensed this grand adventure coming to an end before it even started.
"C'mon, you two, a father-daughter trip is a great idea," I insisted. "Life is short, go have some fun!"
"Oh, mom...you just want to have the house to yourself," chimed #2.
You're darned right I do, little girl....and I don't care if it takes duct tape, valium, and two round trip tickets on a Greyhound bus bound for the great Southwest!
Let's call them the People Who Eat My Brain.
Old and Moody for example, has managed to avoid most family vacations over the past sixteen years, not to mention spending much time with either branch of our respective families. He will make exceptions for funerals which we all think is so grand of him!
Over Summer or Winter breaks, it was me and the child, and many times when we were on one adventure or another, white-water rafting in Utah, or DisneyWorld, people rightly assumed that I was a single mom.
But every once in a great while O/M completely floors me.
"When does Spring break fall this year?" he asked while we were preparing dinner the other night. "I was thinking of taking the girl on a road trip."
Well I'll be darned, I thought.
"Where are you thinking of going?" He has a two seater convertible and I couldn't imagine exactly what type of voyage was brewing in that brain of his.
"The Grand Canyon," he said, as casually as if he was planning to take her up the street to the CVS. "I think we can get there in a couple of days."
Unless he was thinking of strapping rocket jets onto his tiny wind up toy of a motor vehicle, I couldn't comprehend how he thought he'd get there so fast from our Eastern seaboard home. But I stayed positive for his sake, as well as our daughter's.
"Well that sounds wonderful," I said. "You two will have a great time."
As if on cue, braineater #2 walked in, apparently having caught the tail end of our conversation.
"Where's dad taking me?"
"The Grand Canyon for Spring break," I said. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"
"Can't we go to Maine instead?" she asked.
MAINE!?
"No, that's too far," said #1.
Too Far? I sensed this grand adventure coming to an end before it even started.
"C'mon, you two, a father-daughter trip is a great idea," I insisted. "Life is short, go have some fun!"
"Oh, mom...you just want to have the house to yourself," chimed #2.
You're darned right I do, little girl....and I don't care if it takes duct tape, valium, and two round trip tickets on a Greyhound bus bound for the great Southwest!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Happy Birthday to My Pookie-Boo!
Sixteen years ago today, my one and only daughter came into the world. Seven pounds, one and three-quarter ounces, nineteen inches long. Now she's as tall as me and proudly sports her new driver's learning permit to anyone who would like to see it!
Over the years, she has answered to a variety of nicknames imposed by various family members; Baboo, Pookie-Bear, Pookie...and of course as she segued into those oh so fun teen years, Teenzilla.
She is my biggest love, and she is my biggest challenge at times.
She was my unexpected surprise and proves to me every day that motherhood is tougher than any "real" job I've ever had.
So happy birthday, my Pookie-Bear. I'll have to come up with a new nickname for your 50th birthday!
Over the years, she has answered to a variety of nicknames imposed by various family members; Baboo, Pookie-Bear, Pookie...and of course as she segued into those oh so fun teen years, Teenzilla.
She is my biggest love, and she is my biggest challenge at times.
She was my unexpected surprise and proves to me every day that motherhood is tougher than any "real" job I've ever had.
So happy birthday, my Pookie-Bear. I'll have to come up with a new nickname for your 50th birthday!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Resolutions
Most people start their resolutions for a new year on the actual start of the new year. I think there may be a better way to make things stick; resolve to be a better human being twenty-five days into the new year.
It took me a few weeks, but today I finally started my quest to be a better person, or at least, a healthier person. And if I manage to drop a few pounds in the process, even better!
I have a new plan for a stronger, better Tamara!
I used to try and squeeze in exercise after work, but taking a nap, grocery shopping, or other family-related obligations always seemed to get in the way of my good intentions. I have to be at work by six a.m. and after studying my list of excuses, it finally dawned on me that in order to get fit, I'd have to start exercising before work.
I quit my old gym which opens at 5:30a.m. and joined a 24-hour facility up the street.
Last night, I packed my gym bag with my work clothes, went to bed in my workout clothes, and when the alarm went off at 3a.m., I was out the door and in the car within four minutes!
Less than two hours later, I'd finished my cardio and strength training, taken a shower and dressed, stopped for coffee and made it to work early enough to goof around on the computer and read the newspaper from front to back. Yes, I know...who actually reads a newspaper anymore?
I think my family is taking bets as to how long I'll be able to maintain this new ultra-early health campaign. But I plan on being twenty pounds lighter by June 1st and I will make them eat those wagers!
It took me a few weeks, but today I finally started my quest to be a better person, or at least, a healthier person. And if I manage to drop a few pounds in the process, even better!
I have a new plan for a stronger, better Tamara!
I used to try and squeeze in exercise after work, but taking a nap, grocery shopping, or other family-related obligations always seemed to get in the way of my good intentions. I have to be at work by six a.m. and after studying my list of excuses, it finally dawned on me that in order to get fit, I'd have to start exercising before work.
I quit my old gym which opens at 5:30a.m. and joined a 24-hour facility up the street.
Last night, I packed my gym bag with my work clothes, went to bed in my workout clothes, and when the alarm went off at 3a.m., I was out the door and in the car within four minutes!
Less than two hours later, I'd finished my cardio and strength training, taken a shower and dressed, stopped for coffee and made it to work early enough to goof around on the computer and read the newspaper from front to back. Yes, I know...who actually reads a newspaper anymore?
I think my family is taking bets as to how long I'll be able to maintain this new ultra-early health campaign. But I plan on being twenty pounds lighter by June 1st and I will make them eat those wagers!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Permitted
Yesterday I took my almost sixteen year old daughter to the MVA to get her learner's permit to operate a motor vehicle. She started driver's training school last week and we have to tally some actual driving hours to pass the fourteen week course ( I say 'we' because she's not allowed behind the wheel without a licensed adult family member).
A couple of things I'd like to note:
Maybe it's me, but I am completely floored by the fact that a teenager, or any potential new driver for that matter, can be handed a driving permit without actually having spent any time in the driver's seat. My memory is fuzzy, but I think when I went through driver's ed a thousand years ago, you had to complete the entire driver's training course before you earned your permit. Times have changed, apparently!
Also, in order to get the permit, my daughter had to bring, along with her birth certificate and social security card, her school attendance record. MVA officials told me it had to be in a sealed envelope with the school seal stamped on front. Fine, no problem. I certainly understood their concern about kids tampering with the paperwork in order to get a permit. However...
The clerk behind the counter took the envelope from my daughter and immediately eyed it suspiciously.
"I'm going to have to find two of my superiors to confirm this envelope hasn't been opened," she said. "I'll be right back."
Mom, I did not open that envelope," said my daughter, sensing my presumed guilty before being found innocent stance on anyone under the age of twenty. "It's been in my backpack for a week."
This explained its less than stellar appearance.
Fortunately, the Motor Vehicle Gestapo deemed the envelope untouched and my daughter breezed through the vision and written exams, and walked out the door with her new driver's permit in hand.
And now the fun begins...
A couple of things I'd like to note:
Maybe it's me, but I am completely floored by the fact that a teenager, or any potential new driver for that matter, can be handed a driving permit without actually having spent any time in the driver's seat. My memory is fuzzy, but I think when I went through driver's ed a thousand years ago, you had to complete the entire driver's training course before you earned your permit. Times have changed, apparently!
Also, in order to get the permit, my daughter had to bring, along with her birth certificate and social security card, her school attendance record. MVA officials told me it had to be in a sealed envelope with the school seal stamped on front. Fine, no problem. I certainly understood their concern about kids tampering with the paperwork in order to get a permit. However...
The clerk behind the counter took the envelope from my daughter and immediately eyed it suspiciously.
"I'm going to have to find two of my superiors to confirm this envelope hasn't been opened," she said. "I'll be right back."
Mom, I did not open that envelope," said my daughter, sensing my presumed guilty before being found innocent stance on anyone under the age of twenty. "It's been in my backpack for a week."
This explained its less than stellar appearance.
Fortunately, the Motor Vehicle Gestapo deemed the envelope untouched and my daughter breezed through the vision and written exams, and walked out the door with her new driver's permit in hand.
And now the fun begins...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Call Me Crazy
Sixteen years ago this month, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was a follically challenged little creature for the first several months of her life, and I had to resort to adorning her tiny head with those soft, elastic headbands so people would stop saying what an adorable baby boy...despite the fact that she was usually dressed in pinks and flowers! Baby girl eventually sprouted hair... lots and lots of thick chesnut colored hair that I now find clogging the shower drain.
But for the most part, she's a great kid and I'm planning a little something special to mark her sixteen years on earth.
She really doesn't want a party. My darling wants to spare me that expense because she'd rather I spend my hard earned money on buying her a Blackberry. Isn't she sweet?
"You don't need a Blackberry," I said. "People with real jobs like lawyers, accountants, and doctors need Blackberries."
"I am the only person at school without a Blackberry," she said. "You suck all the fun out of my life!"
Ouch. That left a bit of a sting, but I have a hard shell and have since recovered. I guess I'm tired of all the technology that has infiltrated one teenage girl's life.
So we compromised with a much healthier alternative. She wants to get in shape for summer, but isn't quite sure how to do it on her own. Instead of a Blackberry, her father and I are purchasing several sessions with a personal trainer, just a few sessions to get her on track to the point where she can devise her own workouts, without injuring herself in the process.
Still, it is her sixteenth birthday and some kind of celebration should take place to acknowledge the milestone.
So like the "creeper" my child has often accused me of being, I went through her list of Facebook friends, found twenty of her closest buddies, and we will surprise her with a scavenger hunt and dinner at her favorite shopping mall!
I know what you're thinking...dinner for twenty teenage girls!? If all twenty plan on attending, we'll eat on the cheap with pizza. Less than ten, I'll be happy to spring for a meal that includes cloth napkins and real silverware!
But for the most part, she's a great kid and I'm planning a little something special to mark her sixteen years on earth.
She really doesn't want a party. My darling wants to spare me that expense because she'd rather I spend my hard earned money on buying her a Blackberry. Isn't she sweet?
"You don't need a Blackberry," I said. "People with real jobs like lawyers, accountants, and doctors need Blackberries."
"I am the only person at school without a Blackberry," she said. "You suck all the fun out of my life!"
Ouch. That left a bit of a sting, but I have a hard shell and have since recovered. I guess I'm tired of all the technology that has infiltrated one teenage girl's life.
So we compromised with a much healthier alternative. She wants to get in shape for summer, but isn't quite sure how to do it on her own. Instead of a Blackberry, her father and I are purchasing several sessions with a personal trainer, just a few sessions to get her on track to the point where she can devise her own workouts, without injuring herself in the process.
Still, it is her sixteenth birthday and some kind of celebration should take place to acknowledge the milestone.
So like the "creeper" my child has often accused me of being, I went through her list of Facebook friends, found twenty of her closest buddies, and we will surprise her with a scavenger hunt and dinner at her favorite shopping mall!
I know what you're thinking...dinner for twenty teenage girls!? If all twenty plan on attending, we'll eat on the cheap with pizza. Less than ten, I'll be happy to spring for a meal that includes cloth napkins and real silverware!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
You're Killing my Mojo
When my mother was in her early fifties, she finally made it to Europe. It was a voyage she'd been waiting for her whole life. She was woman filled with wanderlust, but sadly, saddled with three children, failing kidneys, and a husband who could only afford to take her on one trip of a lifetime. But she was grateful for her 17 day adventure, even if it didn' t take her to every country she'd dreamed of exploring.
I only mention this because my mom was the poster child for the glass half full mentality of happy people. Her doctors always said she lived as long as she did (far exceeding their expectations) because of her positive mental outlook on life. She was truly a living example of mind over matter.
My dad, a wonderful , loving guy, was eventually dealt his own crappy medical kick in the ass and decided he wanted to check out asap. There was no holding his head high and laughing death in the face. He wanted to check out and check out fast. The doctors predicted he would live no longer than five years after their diagnosis of a horrible neurological disorder, and he died within exactly that time frame. He was not a good patient, but he was a great father. I'm just happy he's now at peace.
I'm rambling, I know, but I'm only remembering two very important people in my life, who loved each other depsite being polar opposites, and because of certain people currently in my life who I have termed Joy Killers. Debbie Downers. Dream Suckers. I think you get the idea.
In a nutshell, if you're feeling happy or relatively good about life, they will be more than happy to drop by and be the needle that pops your balloon. I don't think their intent is meanness, they can't help themselves. It's part of their genetic makeup.
You can even point this debilitating trait out to them and they will deny, deny, deny.
I'll keep my glass half-filled, no matter how hard they try to drain it.
I only mention this because my mom was the poster child for the glass half full mentality of happy people. Her doctors always said she lived as long as she did (far exceeding their expectations) because of her positive mental outlook on life. She was truly a living example of mind over matter.
My dad, a wonderful , loving guy, was eventually dealt his own crappy medical kick in the ass and decided he wanted to check out asap. There was no holding his head high and laughing death in the face. He wanted to check out and check out fast. The doctors predicted he would live no longer than five years after their diagnosis of a horrible neurological disorder, and he died within exactly that time frame. He was not a good patient, but he was a great father. I'm just happy he's now at peace.
I'm rambling, I know, but I'm only remembering two very important people in my life, who loved each other depsite being polar opposites, and because of certain people currently in my life who I have termed Joy Killers. Debbie Downers. Dream Suckers. I think you get the idea.
In a nutshell, if you're feeling happy or relatively good about life, they will be more than happy to drop by and be the needle that pops your balloon. I don't think their intent is meanness, they can't help themselves. It's part of their genetic makeup.
You can even point this debilitating trait out to them and they will deny, deny, deny.
I'll keep my glass half-filled, no matter how hard they try to drain it.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Keeping it Simple for 2010
Three simple goals are on my list this year: Get enough sleep, moderate exercise, and staying the hell away from any self-help guru who has the answers to my problems. This is the year I stop the insanity(with apologies to Susan Powter, who by the way has disappeared off the radar screen, but maybe that's a good thing). This is the year I stop reading memoirs from tortured women who had the sheer good luck of having a publisher send them on a multi-nation journey of self discovery. This is the year I kiss Oprah goodbye. This is the year I never again spend my hard earned money on another stupid diet book.
I am done, done, DONE!
There isn't a freaking face or body lotion that will ever make me look like America's top model. I can run my ass off and I still won't be a size six again...or a ten, for that matter. But I can be a relatively healthy size 12, and that's okay, too.
I no longer have a desire to make friends or influence people (sorry, Mr. Carnegie) and now that I think about it, I don't think that was ever my goal. You don't like me...who the hell cares!
Your kid is on the honor roll? Big whoop. My kid could open a bottle of wine by the time she was ten (relax, she never drank any, just served mommy and daddy a glass with dinner).
I'm done with real housewives, the Kardashians, and any other group of idiots who decide to tell all on reality t.v. The Soup, with Mr. McHale, is pretty entertaining and its main goal is to make fun of stupid talk and reality shows, so I'll probably still watch it. But everything else...done, finito.
And with that, I'm taking my sagging, middle-aged butt off to bed. Sweet dreams
I am done, done, DONE!
There isn't a freaking face or body lotion that will ever make me look like America's top model. I can run my ass off and I still won't be a size six again...or a ten, for that matter. But I can be a relatively healthy size 12, and that's okay, too.
I no longer have a desire to make friends or influence people (sorry, Mr. Carnegie) and now that I think about it, I don't think that was ever my goal. You don't like me...who the hell cares!
Your kid is on the honor roll? Big whoop. My kid could open a bottle of wine by the time she was ten (relax, she never drank any, just served mommy and daddy a glass with dinner).
I'm done with real housewives, the Kardashians, and any other group of idiots who decide to tell all on reality t.v. The Soup, with Mr. McHale, is pretty entertaining and its main goal is to make fun of stupid talk and reality shows, so I'll probably still watch it. But everything else...done, finito.
And with that, I'm taking my sagging, middle-aged butt off to bed. Sweet dreams
Saturday, January 9, 2010
So Here We Go...Again, Sort Of...
When I started my blog, several months ago, it was an endeavor meant for only me. It was place where I could sort my thoughts and try to accomplish a bit of writing on a regular basis. Only one close friend was allowed access to it because I wanted some kind of feedback, but was hesitant to let the whole world in on it.
"That's the whole point of a blog," said my friend. "You write it, people read it."
"But most bloggers seem to have a reason or a point," I countered. "My blog seems to ramble about aimlessly."
"You'll figure it out," she said.
And that, in a nutshell, is the story of my life. I'm still trying to figure it all out, even at the age of fifty.
On a whim, I decided to see if any of the Powers That Be at Vibrant Nation had any interest in what I had to say. What's the worst that could happen, I figured? They'd send me a polite email thanking me for my participation in VN but there was no immediate need for any new bloggage (by the way, I have no idea if that's even a real word, just humor me).
As it turns out, they were interested and now I need to get busy!
"That's the whole point of a blog," said my friend. "You write it, people read it."
"But most bloggers seem to have a reason or a point," I countered. "My blog seems to ramble about aimlessly."
"You'll figure it out," she said.
And that, in a nutshell, is the story of my life. I'm still trying to figure it all out, even at the age of fifty.
On a whim, I decided to see if any of the Powers That Be at Vibrant Nation had any interest in what I had to say. What's the worst that could happen, I figured? They'd send me a polite email thanking me for my participation in VN but there was no immediate need for any new bloggage (by the way, I have no idea if that's even a real word, just humor me).
As it turns out, they were interested and now I need to get busy!
Monday, January 4, 2010
Near Death And Other Strange Experiences
It's been more than a week since my last post. I was in Detroit, visiting family. It should have been fun but honestly, from start to finish (and through no fault of any specific relative) it truly sucked.
Let's start off by saying that I had not been sick one day in 2009 and then my immune system finally cracked on Christmas eve. First the voice started going and I figured it was the typical start to an ordinary cold. I had the chills but no fever so I sucked it up and went through the Christmas festivities at my mother-in-law's house, even though all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and drift into a blissful coma. That would have been nice.
The day after Christmas, fully minus a voice, I boarded a plane with my daughter for what we both thought would be a short, uneventful flight to Motown. However, thanks to some crackpot who flew out of Amsterdam to Detroit on Christmas, life as an airline passenger took yet another crazy turn. Our flight was supposed to leave Baltimore at 7:55p.m. and land at 9:45. There was some delay with our plane in Tampa and we ended leaving at 11:15. By the time we landed, retrieved luggage, got the rental car and arrived at my brother's house it was almost three in the morning. This was not an added bonus to my physical well-being.
It quickly turned into Tamara's multi-colored mucus tour featuring a strep and sinus infection, and not one, but two, antibiotics and a variety of other pills, ear drops, and eye drops. By mid-week, my family was only semi-kidding when they referred to me as Typhoid Mary.
The good news is that I'm a quasi-germaphobe and thanks to regular hand-washing and keeping my distance from everyone, not one family member was infected (okay, one niece had a 24 viral mishap, but I'm certain it had nothing to do with me).
I'll spare you the boring details but most of the week was spent with me wrapped in a blanket, watching t.v. I did manage to venture out a few times once the drugs kicked in, and met up with old friends from high school and college. New Year's Eve, however, all I could manage was a festive evening on the couch, with my brother's German Shepard puppy by my side.
We left Detroit yesterday afternoon, and yes, the extra security presence was in full swing. TSA workers even stopped passengers who were standing in line ready to board our plane to do a double check to see if their I.D.'s matched their boarding passes.
But that wasn't even close to being the scary part of the voyage. It was a fairly uneventful flight, until it was time to land. We were making our initial descent and then we were heading back up in the air! The pilot came on the intercom to inform us we were in the midst of a wind shear warning and we'd have to take another angle into the airport. It was more than just bumpy, it was nausea inducing. I was in the aisle seat, my daughter by the window, and an elderly woman stuck in the middle between us. The old lady, looking like she was ready to poop herself, kept asking me what was happening.
"They're dealing with some very windy conditions and probably have to wait till they're cleared for landing," I said. "I'm sure everything's fine. This is pretty routine."
Really? Was it? How the hell would I have known. The last thing I needed, though, was an hysterical lady getting my child upset. When I peered over, however, the child was sleeping.
Obviously, we landed safely. We all clapped and cheered once the pilot had us on the ground.
Next year, I'm going someplace warm for the holidays...and I'll be driving.
Let's start off by saying that I had not been sick one day in 2009 and then my immune system finally cracked on Christmas eve. First the voice started going and I figured it was the typical start to an ordinary cold. I had the chills but no fever so I sucked it up and went through the Christmas festivities at my mother-in-law's house, even though all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and drift into a blissful coma. That would have been nice.
The day after Christmas, fully minus a voice, I boarded a plane with my daughter for what we both thought would be a short, uneventful flight to Motown. However, thanks to some crackpot who flew out of Amsterdam to Detroit on Christmas, life as an airline passenger took yet another crazy turn. Our flight was supposed to leave Baltimore at 7:55p.m. and land at 9:45. There was some delay with our plane in Tampa and we ended leaving at 11:15. By the time we landed, retrieved luggage, got the rental car and arrived at my brother's house it was almost three in the morning. This was not an added bonus to my physical well-being.
It quickly turned into Tamara's multi-colored mucus tour featuring a strep and sinus infection, and not one, but two, antibiotics and a variety of other pills, ear drops, and eye drops. By mid-week, my family was only semi-kidding when they referred to me as Typhoid Mary.
The good news is that I'm a quasi-germaphobe and thanks to regular hand-washing and keeping my distance from everyone, not one family member was infected (okay, one niece had a 24 viral mishap, but I'm certain it had nothing to do with me).
I'll spare you the boring details but most of the week was spent with me wrapped in a blanket, watching t.v. I did manage to venture out a few times once the drugs kicked in, and met up with old friends from high school and college. New Year's Eve, however, all I could manage was a festive evening on the couch, with my brother's German Shepard puppy by my side.
We left Detroit yesterday afternoon, and yes, the extra security presence was in full swing. TSA workers even stopped passengers who were standing in line ready to board our plane to do a double check to see if their I.D.'s matched their boarding passes.
But that wasn't even close to being the scary part of the voyage. It was a fairly uneventful flight, until it was time to land. We were making our initial descent and then we were heading back up in the air! The pilot came on the intercom to inform us we were in the midst of a wind shear warning and we'd have to take another angle into the airport. It was more than just bumpy, it was nausea inducing. I was in the aisle seat, my daughter by the window, and an elderly woman stuck in the middle between us. The old lady, looking like she was ready to poop herself, kept asking me what was happening.
"They're dealing with some very windy conditions and probably have to wait till they're cleared for landing," I said. "I'm sure everything's fine. This is pretty routine."
Really? Was it? How the hell would I have known. The last thing I needed, though, was an hysterical lady getting my child upset. When I peered over, however, the child was sleeping.
Obviously, we landed safely. We all clapped and cheered once the pilot had us on the ground.
Next year, I'm going someplace warm for the holidays...and I'll be driving.
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