Last week, I found myself telling my daughter that while blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lip stick were all ok, I was drawing the line at eye liner. Then I made her blot. How did we get here? Two words: dance recital.
At five, this was her first year in dance, putting her a bit behind the curve in terms of joining. My thought process was that I have the next two decades to pay for activities, why start earlier than necessary? She smiled throughout her entire first class. Often, the leotard and tights would be worn for the rest of the day, so happy was she to even have them on. With her first recital around the corner, she was adamant that she had to grow her hair long so that it could be put into the required bun. As she informed me of this a mere week beforehand, and her hair is currently bobbed at her ears, this presented a problem. Also a problem? The full face she needed to wear onstage, not one item of which I owned. Thankfully, my SILs came through and gave their niece all the makeup she required in a cute little leopard-print bag, which my daughter openly covets.
On picture day, I took her to a local kiddie salon to get her hair done. If I did to her what they did to her, she would have screamed to the high heavens and police would have been called on suspicions of child endangerment. But, no, a total stranger in an apron pulled, sprayed, pinned, and glued her hair into the smallest, tightest bun ever and all she could do was smile.
I was lucky enough to skip the dress rehearsal due to a very kind friend, but was unable to skip out on full hair and makeup. This time, I did it myself and liberally applied half a can of spray to my child’s head while using enough pins to secure an entire Rockette’s worth of buns. I apologize to anyone in my immediate area who suffered extraordinary sunburn this past weekend because I most definitely put a hole in the ozone layer. I wonder if you can name them, like stars?
Finally, finally, dance day arrived. Early. Very early. Breakfast, hair salon (this time they used so much product I thought for sure she’d have that bun for life), snack, makeup, costume, and off she went. No nerves, not even the idea of stage fright passed through her head. And let me tell you, she was a star. They all were. Cute as buttons, twirling here, pointing there, and if it wasn’t the smoothest or most professional performance I’d ever seen, they were five. They didn’t have to be professional, just adorable.
Of course, she is already asking when she can start lessons again and has barely taken off her costume. And though we said we wouldn’t, we already bought a DVD of the performance, took dozens of pictures, and posted on FB about it. I’m sure, once that video arrives, it will get watched on every rainy day, overly sunny day, or just days ending in “y”. And that’s what it’s all about right? At this age, it isn’t a career, a scholarship chance, or even exercise. For her, it’s just about the joy of dancing and for me, the joy of watching her. And though I had to point out which one she was for my father, and my mother missed her entirely during the closing bow, I could spot her in an instant – because she was the only one without eye liner.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Book 'Em, Dano
My hatred of shopping has been well documented. But, as with every rule, there is always an exception and in my case, this comes in the form of book sales. When the annual bargain book sale at BN.com comes around, I will go through every entry in my little black book (which contains not phone numbers, but authors and titles) to find hardcovers for the price of paperbacks. So, it should come as no surprise that when the twice yearly Camden County Library sale came around, I anticipated it with the joy usually reserved for brides at Kleinfeld’s sample sale.
With my children once again happily squirreled away with their grandparents (whose main goal seem to be to fattening them for slaughter), I was able to enjoy shopping by myself. Book sales are not for children. The children’s book section is a hotbed of insanity. At this sale, the insanity took place in a tiny, windowless room absolutely packed with tables, adults, children, and strollers. Being at elbow height is not a good vantage point in a crowd. Strollers became low-riders as they groaned under the weight of the works of J.K. Rowling and even the most patient child can only be hit in the head by Disney books so many times. Plus, you haven’t experienced ruthlessness until you’ve watched a woman trying to find the few Junie B. Jones her child doesn’t have. I was lucky to get out with my life and a handful of Little Golden books, a few Step One readers, and one Oh David!
Then, I headed over to the fiction tables – where I stayed for the next two hours. I fondled more spines than a chiropractor as I looked through row after row after row of hardcovers. When I came upon a particularly juicy find (say, the newest Stephen King, still in stores at full price), or a title long listed in my little black book, but never acquired, I actually let out little squeals of excitement. In the real world, this type of behavior is frowned upon, but there, it was just another happy noise. But a quiet, hushed happy noise. This was a library after all.
Book sales are not for the faint of heart. You do not simply wander around, casually browsing, pausing to read a back cover here, a book jacket there, while sipping a latte. That type of behavior will get you trampled and killed. Plastic bags are verboten. Instead, cloth bags are preferred, allowing you to contribute to deforestation in an eco-friendly way. Hoarding is also frowned upon. Even the re-sellers (easy to spot because they scanned every book with an electronic wand) usually only had a box or two of books at their feet. The goal is to skim the titles, take what you like, and move on quickly and efficiently. As such, there is a system to perusing. All of the titles face the same direction and as there are hundreds of books in a row you must keep moving to keep reading. The polite way to get someone to move the hell out of your way was to ask them to “switch” with you. I must have heard this word dozens of times. This also happened beneath the tables, where I would tunnel under and open all the unpacked boxes to unearth new treasures. The unspoken rule was that you always gave the person next to you time to peek into the box, and if there was a bottom row of books, then you would lift the top row in unison. This sounds crazy, I know, but readers are not the most confrontational people, so there was a truly epic level of civility on display.
All told, I bought a case of books for less than the price of a case of beer. My husband even joined in the fun during the second day of the sale and picked up his own baker’s dozen of random tomes. Now I just have to get them all read before the next sale in October. Switch!
With my children once again happily squirreled away with their grandparents (whose main goal seem to be to fattening them for slaughter), I was able to enjoy shopping by myself. Book sales are not for children. The children’s book section is a hotbed of insanity. At this sale, the insanity took place in a tiny, windowless room absolutely packed with tables, adults, children, and strollers. Being at elbow height is not a good vantage point in a crowd. Strollers became low-riders as they groaned under the weight of the works of J.K. Rowling and even the most patient child can only be hit in the head by Disney books so many times. Plus, you haven’t experienced ruthlessness until you’ve watched a woman trying to find the few Junie B. Jones her child doesn’t have. I was lucky to get out with my life and a handful of Little Golden books, a few Step One readers, and one Oh David!
Then, I headed over to the fiction tables – where I stayed for the next two hours. I fondled more spines than a chiropractor as I looked through row after row after row of hardcovers. When I came upon a particularly juicy find (say, the newest Stephen King, still in stores at full price), or a title long listed in my little black book, but never acquired, I actually let out little squeals of excitement. In the real world, this type of behavior is frowned upon, but there, it was just another happy noise. But a quiet, hushed happy noise. This was a library after all.
Book sales are not for the faint of heart. You do not simply wander around, casually browsing, pausing to read a back cover here, a book jacket there, while sipping a latte. That type of behavior will get you trampled and killed. Plastic bags are verboten. Instead, cloth bags are preferred, allowing you to contribute to deforestation in an eco-friendly way. Hoarding is also frowned upon. Even the re-sellers (easy to spot because they scanned every book with an electronic wand) usually only had a box or two of books at their feet. The goal is to skim the titles, take what you like, and move on quickly and efficiently. As such, there is a system to perusing. All of the titles face the same direction and as there are hundreds of books in a row you must keep moving to keep reading. The polite way to get someone to move the hell out of your way was to ask them to “switch” with you. I must have heard this word dozens of times. This also happened beneath the tables, where I would tunnel under and open all the unpacked boxes to unearth new treasures. The unspoken rule was that you always gave the person next to you time to peek into the box, and if there was a bottom row of books, then you would lift the top row in unison. This sounds crazy, I know, but readers are not the most confrontational people, so there was a truly epic level of civility on display.
All told, I bought a case of books for less than the price of a case of beer. My husband even joined in the fun during the second day of the sale and picked up his own baker’s dozen of random tomes. Now I just have to get them all read before the next sale in October. Switch!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Save the Ta-Tas
So, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force released new information recently stating that they no longer believe mammograms are necessary for women under 50. Apparently, because “the 10-year breast cancer risk for a 40-year-old is only 1.4%, their absolute reduction in death is very small.”
Ok, so saving 1.4 percent of lives isn’t worthwhile then? What percentage would be worthwhile? Who decides that number?
The report further states that women under 50 who receive mammograms are at risk for “false alarms.” A false positive will cause them “additional pain, expense and worry because of additional scans and biopsies.”
Well, yes, but won’t they feel so much better once they realize they are cancer-free? Wouldn’t most women choose a false positive at 35 rather than a definite positive at 50?
Then of course, both sides of the debate are presented. The under-50 group believes that mammograms have reduced mortality rates by 30 percent. The over-50 group claims that mammograms still miss very aggressive cancers that can spring up between screenings. They believe the results of mammograms are overly hyped.
Ok, sure, it might not catch all cancers, but isn’t some better than nothing? Thirty percent (of what I assume is all women with breast cancer who were diagnosed under 50) is a whole lot of women. Let’s put it in perspective. If out of 100 women, 30 were saved, that is an entire class of first graders who didn’t lose their mothers. It is a transit bus full of people who didn’t lose their sisters. It is a plane full of men who did not lose their wives. Now magnify that by the thousands, nay millions of women, the reduced screenings would eliminate from the world. Schools full of children, parking lots full of buses, airfields lined with planes – all filled with grieving family members. I think 30 percent is worthwhile, don’t you?
This entire concept is a head scratcher. I honestly don’t understand why anyone would choose to put women at risk rather than just get them tested. The test itself isn’t invasive, just embarrassing. I just had my first mammogram and what the technician did to my boobs was nothing short of miraculous. My voluptuous womanhood was mashed between two plates of plastic to become nothing more than a boob pancake. This was done a few different times in a few different ways. For some it may be painful, but for me it was just odd. I haven’t been that manhandled since high school. The entire test took 10 minutes. The government mandates a 15 minute break for every four hours of work. It can't spring for a once a year test that takes less time than the average coffee break? Even adding in the travel time to and from the office and waiting time, the test took an hour. I think out of 525,600 minutes in a year, women can spare 60 to make sure they live another one. And I think it is a crime if they have to pay for the privilage of doing so.
Ok, so saving 1.4 percent of lives isn’t worthwhile then? What percentage would be worthwhile? Who decides that number?
The report further states that women under 50 who receive mammograms are at risk for “false alarms.” A false positive will cause them “additional pain, expense and worry because of additional scans and biopsies.”
Well, yes, but won’t they feel so much better once they realize they are cancer-free? Wouldn’t most women choose a false positive at 35 rather than a definite positive at 50?
Then of course, both sides of the debate are presented. The under-50 group believes that mammograms have reduced mortality rates by 30 percent. The over-50 group claims that mammograms still miss very aggressive cancers that can spring up between screenings. They believe the results of mammograms are overly hyped.
Ok, sure, it might not catch all cancers, but isn’t some better than nothing? Thirty percent (of what I assume is all women with breast cancer who were diagnosed under 50) is a whole lot of women. Let’s put it in perspective. If out of 100 women, 30 were saved, that is an entire class of first graders who didn’t lose their mothers. It is a transit bus full of people who didn’t lose their sisters. It is a plane full of men who did not lose their wives. Now magnify that by the thousands, nay millions of women, the reduced screenings would eliminate from the world. Schools full of children, parking lots full of buses, airfields lined with planes – all filled with grieving family members. I think 30 percent is worthwhile, don’t you?
This entire concept is a head scratcher. I honestly don’t understand why anyone would choose to put women at risk rather than just get them tested. The test itself isn’t invasive, just embarrassing. I just had my first mammogram and what the technician did to my boobs was nothing short of miraculous. My voluptuous womanhood was mashed between two plates of plastic to become nothing more than a boob pancake. This was done a few different times in a few different ways. For some it may be painful, but for me it was just odd. I haven’t been that manhandled since high school. The entire test took 10 minutes. The government mandates a 15 minute break for every four hours of work. It can't spring for a once a year test that takes less time than the average coffee break? Even adding in the travel time to and from the office and waiting time, the test took an hour. I think out of 525,600 minutes in a year, women can spare 60 to make sure they live another one. And I think it is a crime if they have to pay for the privilage of doing so.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
It’s a Cookbook!
I came home from my book club the other night to find my husband watching, quite possible, the dumbest television show ever. I’ve seen every version of the Real Housewives franchise, so I know from dumb television. He was watching Ancient Aliens on the History Channel. In this ridiculous series, proponents of ancient astronaut theory (!) give examples as to how they can prove that aliens have been buzzing our proverbial flight tower for millennia. They cite references to the journal of Christopher Columbus, where he wrote that he saw strange lights in the sky while sailing. DUN Dun dun. Why mention it if it wasn’t important, they wondered. Well, it probably scared the shit out of him, that’s why! The video of the meteor careening across the Midwest back in April scared the shit out of me – and I knew what it was! Back in 1492, you couldn’t just Google it and find thousand of camera phone clips to determine what you saw. But, you see, he was sailing through the Bermuda Triangle at the time of the sighting. Dun Dun Dun! An area that has been so thoroughly debunked of being mysterious that even Oceanic Flight 815 managed to miss it. So, unless Columbus also recorded the score of Close Encounters note for note in his journal along with the sighting, I’m not buying.
On another episode, the topic is Nazi Germany and aliens. Hitler happened across a UFO in the Black Forest and using reverse engineering, replicated its weaponry and used it on the Allies. Ok, so let’s take this step by step. Hitler stumbled upon an alien craft during what, his morning stroll? Were they blonde, so they were ok? Because, let’s be honest, he wasn’t known as being the most inclusive and welcoming of people. And then, using the technology of the era, he figured out how to replicate its weaponry? I’m not sure 1940 technology could replicate an iPod let alone a “foo fighter.” (Not Dave Grohl). Hmm. That’s quite a mouthful. I’m not sure I can swallow it.
I’m not even going to touch upon why the Pyramid of Giza was probably not a hydrogen power plant. Or why Noah probably wasn’t carrying human DNA on his ark, or even why ancient depictions of flying discs were nothing more than art. However, I am amused by the thought that the Black Plague was created by aliens. Ignoring the obvious, which is that even in our Purell-coated world, the Avian Flu managed to get a toe hold and that 1300s Europe, with its severe lack of basic sanitation, medical care, hygiene, food, and shelter wasn’t exactly a sterile environment, I would like to focus on the obscure. Due to popular belief in witches, cats were slaughtered en masse. No cats, more rats, lots of plague. I’d bet good money that the people currently shouting “Alien!” are descended from the people who were once shouting “Witch!” It’s like a circle of stupidity.
This brings me to my final point. Why are aliens as stupid as the people they abduct? The human race hasn’t managed to send a man past its own moon, yet we are working on decoding the human genome. But aliens, having managed to fly light years, and in stealth and secrecy, descend on a far distant planet can’t seem to figure out that our brains aren’t actually in our butts? Why would any intelligent creature, equipped with enough technology to navigate the Milky Way, continually fly over the most desolate and isolated regions of our country? Broken GPS? Womp rat practice? (I hear there’s a kid who can hit one from two meters.) Why not New York City, Paris, or even Dubai? The Palm Jumeira has to be at least as beautiful at night as say, the Badlands.
Do I believe aliens exist? Well, it’s a really, really big universe. There may even be a restaurant at the end of it. And I’d much rather hope that there are creatures of greater intelligence floating around out there than despair that the average Wal-Mart shopper is the best our entire existence has to offer. But I really don’t want them to stop by anytime soon. If we learned any lesson at all from Christopher Columbus, it was not that aliens exist, but that if they come ashore, it will not end well for the natives.
On another episode, the topic is Nazi Germany and aliens. Hitler happened across a UFO in the Black Forest and using reverse engineering, replicated its weaponry and used it on the Allies. Ok, so let’s take this step by step. Hitler stumbled upon an alien craft during what, his morning stroll? Were they blonde, so they were ok? Because, let’s be honest, he wasn’t known as being the most inclusive and welcoming of people. And then, using the technology of the era, he figured out how to replicate its weaponry? I’m not sure 1940 technology could replicate an iPod let alone a “foo fighter.” (Not Dave Grohl). Hmm. That’s quite a mouthful. I’m not sure I can swallow it.
I’m not even going to touch upon why the Pyramid of Giza was probably not a hydrogen power plant. Or why Noah probably wasn’t carrying human DNA on his ark, or even why ancient depictions of flying discs were nothing more than art. However, I am amused by the thought that the Black Plague was created by aliens. Ignoring the obvious, which is that even in our Purell-coated world, the Avian Flu managed to get a toe hold and that 1300s Europe, with its severe lack of basic sanitation, medical care, hygiene, food, and shelter wasn’t exactly a sterile environment, I would like to focus on the obscure. Due to popular belief in witches, cats were slaughtered en masse. No cats, more rats, lots of plague. I’d bet good money that the people currently shouting “Alien!” are descended from the people who were once shouting “Witch!” It’s like a circle of stupidity.
This brings me to my final point. Why are aliens as stupid as the people they abduct? The human race hasn’t managed to send a man past its own moon, yet we are working on decoding the human genome. But aliens, having managed to fly light years, and in stealth and secrecy, descend on a far distant planet can’t seem to figure out that our brains aren’t actually in our butts? Why would any intelligent creature, equipped with enough technology to navigate the Milky Way, continually fly over the most desolate and isolated regions of our country? Broken GPS? Womp rat practice? (I hear there’s a kid who can hit one from two meters.) Why not New York City, Paris, or even Dubai? The Palm Jumeira has to be at least as beautiful at night as say, the Badlands.
Do I believe aliens exist? Well, it’s a really, really big universe. There may even be a restaurant at the end of it. And I’d much rather hope that there are creatures of greater intelligence floating around out there than despair that the average Wal-Mart shopper is the best our entire existence has to offer. But I really don’t want them to stop by anytime soon. If we learned any lesson at all from Christopher Columbus, it was not that aliens exist, but that if they come ashore, it will not end well for the natives.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Hi-ya Cha Cha Cha
I’ve started watching Say Yes to the Dress as my Friday night guilty pleasure while I wait for my husband to come home. I am in awe of happy little families who all go dress shopping together, mother and daughter, hand in hand, tearing up at the sight of the perfect wedding gown. How lovely it must be to have such a close and loving relationship with a mother.
That is not my life.
My mother is not close or loving with anything other than her dogs, a fact to which she readily admits. My mother’s family is coming into town and it just so happens they will be here near her birthday. Her cousin wanted to get a cake and since they are not local, I told him I would do the honors. When given the choice of birthday cakes at a local (high-end) grocery store, my mother flat out refused to go pick one out (I was buying), as said store was 20 minutes out of her way and she’d get stuck in rush hour traffic. My mother gets out of work at 2pm. Unless she milked the cows, churned the butter, grew the cacao trees, and went to pastry school while at the store, she could reasonably be home by, say, 3pm. Which, considering she lives an hour outside of the nearest city, would get her well out of harm’s way of traffic. But no. So, her second and more devious plan to thwart me from celebrating her birthday is to create a cake out of thin air, claim it is her favorite, and demand it as the only choice for dessert.
Now, though I desperately tried to get away from this madwoman as soon as humanly possible, I was probably home for most of her birthdays up to and throughout college. So, assuming we are only counting those celebrated in NY, and those I am old enough to remember, I should have eaten this cake at least two dozen times. That would be a cake I’d remember. And yet, I don’t. And I like my cake. So either she is making it up from scratch or she had it once, at some random baby shower or birthday party and conjured it from memory just for the fun of sending me on a wild goose chase.
I will admit that birthdays were not big occasions in my family. They were usually ignored, forgotten, or celebrated in tandem with another event. Now I make sure to make a big as celebration as possible for my own family and once dragged my poor, exhausted husband out for his birthday dinner after a week of hellacious travel just so he could blow out a little tiny candle at his favorite restaurant. But growing up, this was not the case. So I don’t understand why, when given a chance to properly celebrate with people who don’t see her enough to dislike her, she is being so incredibly annoying.
Truth to tell, my mother has always been difficult. I could fill a dozen blogs with stories about her random clothing choices, her rude behavior, and how she tried to humiliate me at my own wedding. If I had a dollar for every time I heard this sentence, “I have never said this to anyone before, but your mother is crazy,” I would be the one telling D-list celebrities that they are fired. I have heard this from coworkers, from groomsmen, from relatives, and from hairdressers. To know her is to have a story about an ill-timed, ill-judged, and ill-mannered comment made by her. She has burned more bridges than Alexander and Napoleon combined. She is impossible. She is obnoxious, and she and my husband absolutely and completely ignore one another.
Many well-meaning friends have offered me recipes and support for making the cake myself. Rather than call every baker in the area, it probably will be easier to attempt my own version. It will make me look like a good and dutiful daughter and she’ll have to act like a thankful and loving mother. Neither of us will feel that way, but will certainly act it. And if she doesn’t eat the cake, I’ll feed it to her dogs. I’ve heard they just LOVE chocolate.
That is not my life.
My mother is not close or loving with anything other than her dogs, a fact to which she readily admits. My mother’s family is coming into town and it just so happens they will be here near her birthday. Her cousin wanted to get a cake and since they are not local, I told him I would do the honors. When given the choice of birthday cakes at a local (high-end) grocery store, my mother flat out refused to go pick one out (I was buying), as said store was 20 minutes out of her way and she’d get stuck in rush hour traffic. My mother gets out of work at 2pm. Unless she milked the cows, churned the butter, grew the cacao trees, and went to pastry school while at the store, she could reasonably be home by, say, 3pm. Which, considering she lives an hour outside of the nearest city, would get her well out of harm’s way of traffic. But no. So, her second and more devious plan to thwart me from celebrating her birthday is to create a cake out of thin air, claim it is her favorite, and demand it as the only choice for dessert.
Now, though I desperately tried to get away from this madwoman as soon as humanly possible, I was probably home for most of her birthdays up to and throughout college. So, assuming we are only counting those celebrated in NY, and those I am old enough to remember, I should have eaten this cake at least two dozen times. That would be a cake I’d remember. And yet, I don’t. And I like my cake. So either she is making it up from scratch or she had it once, at some random baby shower or birthday party and conjured it from memory just for the fun of sending me on a wild goose chase.
I will admit that birthdays were not big occasions in my family. They were usually ignored, forgotten, or celebrated in tandem with another event. Now I make sure to make a big as celebration as possible for my own family and once dragged my poor, exhausted husband out for his birthday dinner after a week of hellacious travel just so he could blow out a little tiny candle at his favorite restaurant. But growing up, this was not the case. So I don’t understand why, when given a chance to properly celebrate with people who don’t see her enough to dislike her, she is being so incredibly annoying.
Truth to tell, my mother has always been difficult. I could fill a dozen blogs with stories about her random clothing choices, her rude behavior, and how she tried to humiliate me at my own wedding. If I had a dollar for every time I heard this sentence, “I have never said this to anyone before, but your mother is crazy,” I would be the one telling D-list celebrities that they are fired. I have heard this from coworkers, from groomsmen, from relatives, and from hairdressers. To know her is to have a story about an ill-timed, ill-judged, and ill-mannered comment made by her. She has burned more bridges than Alexander and Napoleon combined. She is impossible. She is obnoxious, and she and my husband absolutely and completely ignore one another.
Many well-meaning friends have offered me recipes and support for making the cake myself. Rather than call every baker in the area, it probably will be easier to attempt my own version. It will make me look like a good and dutiful daughter and she’ll have to act like a thankful and loving mother. Neither of us will feel that way, but will certainly act it. And if she doesn’t eat the cake, I’ll feed it to her dogs. I’ve heard they just LOVE chocolate.
Monday, May 17, 2010
It’s Like a Spa Day . . . with Cheese Fries
Every year my husband goes away for a weekend with his friends. They call it the Ultimate Testosterone Invitational (UTI for short) and plan months in advance to do manly things like golf, deep sea fish, grille, gamble, and drink copious amounts of sub-standard beer while studiously avoiding any mention of their families. They stay in dive motels, tripling the occupancy rate while halving the oxygen level in the bathrooms and end the weekend with the traditional trip to Hooters for their fantasy football draft.
I too have started an annual trip with several girlfriends. However, other than a chance crossover in location, the trips could not be more different. I end the weekend rested, refreshed, and rejuvenated. He comes home hungover, haggard, and hazy. I come home with freshly-painted toes and freshly-popped kettle corn. He, well, does not. They may sound so similar – a trip down the shore – but they are so very, very different.
My weekend was awesome, but to be honest, rather more exercise than I had bargained for. We purposely started one of our mornings with a brisk three-mile walk. For fun! Another day, we walked up 199 steps to see the ocean from the top of a lighthouse. Would you like to know what the ocean looked like from the top of the lighthouse? About the same damn way it looked at ground level. The only difference was the amount of human remains. You see, some complete idjits decided the absolute best moment to grieve and remember the passing of a loved one was to dump their ashes in high wind among a crowd of strangers in the middle of the day at the top of a f’ing lighthouse. We thought, at best, that they were sprinkling good luck salt, or at worst, were dumping coffee grounds. Nope, instead of inhuming their dearly beloved, we were inhaling him.
Though to be honest, there was probably more protein and fiber in that gust of grandpa than there was in a single item I ate the entire weekend. Pizza and pancakes, Chex mix and chocolate chip cookies, burnt bacon and beer, spicy salsa and small ice cream cones – diet was definitely a four-letter word. We were disappointed we forgot to break open the feed bags of popcorn and we complained when our French fries were not liberally coated in cheese. So while I can (and did) grumble about the blisters I developed endlessly walking on the sand and the street, a lovely pedicure soothed my savaged soles and those extra miles helped soften my hardening arteries.
I also learned lots and lots of new things on my weekend away! I learned that children can get fake nails. Big, long, fake ones pained with black tips. (No really!) I learned that no matter how cold you are, you and your friends should never wear matching sweatshirts, even if they are sale, and I learned that no matter how late you want to sleep, your internal body clock cannot be reset. Among other lessons? Semen can be brought into almost any conversation and surly waitresses are as much a staple of breakfast dining as coffee in chipped white mugs. I learned that I can wear pants to bed if necessary, that dolphins are easy to find (I stopped counting at 20), and sun-brewed iced tea mixed with fresh lemonade makes the best Arnold Palmer you have ever tasted.
And finally, I learned that, in the end, it is probably best that my husband and I enjoy separate weekends away. After all, the girls and I never did turn on the television, kick our case, or stay up til midnight. My husband would call that hell, but I call it heaven. With cheese fries.
I too have started an annual trip with several girlfriends. However, other than a chance crossover in location, the trips could not be more different. I end the weekend rested, refreshed, and rejuvenated. He comes home hungover, haggard, and hazy. I come home with freshly-painted toes and freshly-popped kettle corn. He, well, does not. They may sound so similar – a trip down the shore – but they are so very, very different.
My weekend was awesome, but to be honest, rather more exercise than I had bargained for. We purposely started one of our mornings with a brisk three-mile walk. For fun! Another day, we walked up 199 steps to see the ocean from the top of a lighthouse. Would you like to know what the ocean looked like from the top of the lighthouse? About the same damn way it looked at ground level. The only difference was the amount of human remains. You see, some complete idjits decided the absolute best moment to grieve and remember the passing of a loved one was to dump their ashes in high wind among a crowd of strangers in the middle of the day at the top of a f’ing lighthouse. We thought, at best, that they were sprinkling good luck salt, or at worst, were dumping coffee grounds. Nope, instead of inhuming their dearly beloved, we were inhaling him.
Though to be honest, there was probably more protein and fiber in that gust of grandpa than there was in a single item I ate the entire weekend. Pizza and pancakes, Chex mix and chocolate chip cookies, burnt bacon and beer, spicy salsa and small ice cream cones – diet was definitely a four-letter word. We were disappointed we forgot to break open the feed bags of popcorn and we complained when our French fries were not liberally coated in cheese. So while I can (and did) grumble about the blisters I developed endlessly walking on the sand and the street, a lovely pedicure soothed my savaged soles and those extra miles helped soften my hardening arteries.
I also learned lots and lots of new things on my weekend away! I learned that children can get fake nails. Big, long, fake ones pained with black tips. (No really!) I learned that no matter how cold you are, you and your friends should never wear matching sweatshirts, even if they are sale, and I learned that no matter how late you want to sleep, your internal body clock cannot be reset. Among other lessons? Semen can be brought into almost any conversation and surly waitresses are as much a staple of breakfast dining as coffee in chipped white mugs. I learned that I can wear pants to bed if necessary, that dolphins are easy to find (I stopped counting at 20), and sun-brewed iced tea mixed with fresh lemonade makes the best Arnold Palmer you have ever tasted.
And finally, I learned that, in the end, it is probably best that my husband and I enjoy separate weekends away. After all, the girls and I never did turn on the television, kick our case, or stay up til midnight. My husband would call that hell, but I call it heaven. With cheese fries.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Ugly Duckling
Do you think that you would know if your own child was ugly? Oh sure, everyone is beautiful on the inside, blah, blah, blah, but I’m not talking about the soul, I’m talking about the face.
Today, at the library, I saw two children that were just completely unattractive. The shorter one was bowlegged, with a severely receded hairline, albino coloring, bug eyes, and thin, scraggly hair. The taller one was rocking a disheveled mullet that was also oddly straight in some areas, curly in others, knotted all around. Both children wore severely stained, ill-fitting clothes. The mom wore a beautiful hippie dress, lots of jewelry, blown-out hair, and cute shoes.
Now, I fully understand “judge not lest ye be judged” particularly when it comes to dressing children. My own daughter has insisted upon outfits that could bring on hysterical blindness and my son could get dirty in a sterile room. For all I know, both kids could have been up since the ass crack of dawn, gone through three outfits, and burst into hysterics at the sight of a brush. These things have been known to happen. But the bottom line is that even well scrubbed, suited, and straightened, those kids had been hit with the ugly stick. And I wonder, if, or even when, the mother will realize it.
All babies are odd-looking. No matter the method of birth, the end result is that a very big head and body has been pushed or pulled through a very small opening. Their eyes are goopy, they are odd colors, and they are covered in slime. Or so I’ve seen on A Baby Story. I have remarkably little insider knowledge of the whole birthing process, but that is a story for another time. Only the parents of such a creature could coo over its loveliness. At what point can a mother look at the creature she created, the little persons she grew and think, “Ew”?
Is there a moment of calm (not one where you are covered in something sticky and/or when the child is trying to break the sound barrier using sheer lung power alone), that you can look at your own child and finally notice that both eyes are wonky, his head is misshapen, or she has more resemblance to Sloth from Goonies than anyone on either side of the family? Does that moment really ever occur? Do parents ever really see their children that clearly? Or is parental instinct so strong that even if the child looks like it hit every branch of the ugly tree on its fall down the evolutionary ladder, you still think he or she is the most beautiful child in the world? Obviously, grown children present their own problems and as my relationship with my own mother attests, parents may love, but they may also actively dislike.
Honestly, I don’t have any particular insight into this issue. My daughter was told she was beautiful so often as a baby that long before she understood the meaning of the world, she would smile when it was uttered. If I could count the times someone complimented my children’s looks, then followed up that perfectly innocent sentence with, “And they must look like their father,” well, then I wouldn’t have been an English major. My fingers and toes don’t go that high. I did always thank people for the spirit of the compliment, if not the execution, though. I am nothing if not polite to your face.
Do I think that the library mom saw her children the same way I did? I doubt it. I bet it takes a pretty long time for the rose color to wear off a parent’s point of view. But boy oh boy, I hope she has some alcohol on hand for when she finally sees them in the light of day. She’s gonna need it.
Today, at the library, I saw two children that were just completely unattractive. The shorter one was bowlegged, with a severely receded hairline, albino coloring, bug eyes, and thin, scraggly hair. The taller one was rocking a disheveled mullet that was also oddly straight in some areas, curly in others, knotted all around. Both children wore severely stained, ill-fitting clothes. The mom wore a beautiful hippie dress, lots of jewelry, blown-out hair, and cute shoes.
Now, I fully understand “judge not lest ye be judged” particularly when it comes to dressing children. My own daughter has insisted upon outfits that could bring on hysterical blindness and my son could get dirty in a sterile room. For all I know, both kids could have been up since the ass crack of dawn, gone through three outfits, and burst into hysterics at the sight of a brush. These things have been known to happen. But the bottom line is that even well scrubbed, suited, and straightened, those kids had been hit with the ugly stick. And I wonder, if, or even when, the mother will realize it.
All babies are odd-looking. No matter the method of birth, the end result is that a very big head and body has been pushed or pulled through a very small opening. Their eyes are goopy, they are odd colors, and they are covered in slime. Or so I’ve seen on A Baby Story. I have remarkably little insider knowledge of the whole birthing process, but that is a story for another time. Only the parents of such a creature could coo over its loveliness. At what point can a mother look at the creature she created, the little persons she grew and think, “Ew”?
Is there a moment of calm (not one where you are covered in something sticky and/or when the child is trying to break the sound barrier using sheer lung power alone), that you can look at your own child and finally notice that both eyes are wonky, his head is misshapen, or she has more resemblance to Sloth from Goonies than anyone on either side of the family? Does that moment really ever occur? Do parents ever really see their children that clearly? Or is parental instinct so strong that even if the child looks like it hit every branch of the ugly tree on its fall down the evolutionary ladder, you still think he or she is the most beautiful child in the world? Obviously, grown children present their own problems and as my relationship with my own mother attests, parents may love, but they may also actively dislike.
Honestly, I don’t have any particular insight into this issue. My daughter was told she was beautiful so often as a baby that long before she understood the meaning of the world, she would smile when it was uttered. If I could count the times someone complimented my children’s looks, then followed up that perfectly innocent sentence with, “And they must look like their father,” well, then I wouldn’t have been an English major. My fingers and toes don’t go that high. I did always thank people for the spirit of the compliment, if not the execution, though. I am nothing if not polite to your face.
Do I think that the library mom saw her children the same way I did? I doubt it. I bet it takes a pretty long time for the rose color to wear off a parent’s point of view. But boy oh boy, I hope she has some alcohol on hand for when she finally sees them in the light of day. She’s gonna need it.
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