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Last weekend, I was struck with the urge to purge. After cleaning out the contents of an old four-drawer filing cabinet, I put the cabinet up for sale for $30 on Craigslist. Within an hour, I received no fewer than ten responses to the ad. Here are my favorites:
"I don't drive but I want to buy the cabinet. Do you think that I can bring it home on the train?"
"Why are you selling the cabinet so cheap? What's wrong with it? If nothing, then I want it."
"How close is the Mainline to Maryland?"
"I would like to purchase the filing cabinet. If you could deliver it after 6pm weekdays or between 12-5 on Sunday, that would be great. I live near 19th and Chestnut."
This individual's email signature identified him as an academic. Specifically, he is a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. This news totally shocked me as most academics are not this presumptuous and have a much higher level of self-awareness. He must not be tenured.
"Is the filing cabinet still available? If so, I want it. I have a lot of papers to feel."
I ended up selling the cabinet to a woman named Barb who lives two towns over. Once I gave her my phone number, she called me no less than 13 times asking for re-measurements, additional pictures, approximate weight, and my opinion on whether or not the cabinet would look good with black office furniture. I answered some of the calls; most I let go to voice mail.
Around call 7, I began to fantasize about delivering the cabinet to 19th and Chestnut. By call 11, I would have paid the professor $30 to take the cabinet from me. By the time Barb arrived, the cabinet was at the end of the driveway with a note taped to the top drawer instructing her to leave the money in my mailbox.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
My Parting Gift
I just got back to Philadelphia after spending the past three days in California for my grandfather's funeral. My grandfather lived a full, wonderful life and it was a great honor and privilege to be able to celebrate his life with my extended family. I come from a very large family and this was the first time in over a decade that all of the children and grandchildren (with the exception of three grandsons who are serving overseas missions for our church) were together in one place. It was awesome.
I'm the oldest female granddaughter by several years and my age alone makes me a freak show amongst my younger female sisters and cousins, all of whom are in their early twenties. To them, I am the dreaded M-word.
Matronly.
My attempts to nudge my way into the coveted in-crowd were foiled by several unfortunate attributes including my oblivious ignorance of current fashion trends and two bloody eyes. On the cross-country plane trip, both eye sockets began to ooze and itch. Somewhere over Nebraska, I realized that I had a horrendous case of pink eye.
When prescription eye drops failed to take care of the problem, I was forced to purchase a pair of dark wrap around sunglasses from the geriatric aisle of the drugstore. Exposure to indoor lighting made my eyes burn. Direct sunlight was downright unbearable.
"Nice glasses," said one of my twenty-something sisters. A couple of cousins snickered from the love seat.
I informed the group that the glasses were the next big thing in fashion.
"Like wearing navy pantyhose with a black skirt?" my sister teased.
That's when I knew that they had noticed what I had hoped that they wouldn't.
Having lost all dignity, I spent the rest of the day with my grandparents' elderly friends, where amongst the blue perms and oxygen tanks, my appearance was downright fashion forward.
Fortunately, I'm not one to hold grudges. Before I left for home, I made a specific point to rub my infected eyes really good. Then, taking each darling sister and cousin by hand, I bid them a fond farewell.
****
Comments Closed
I'm the oldest female granddaughter by several years and my age alone makes me a freak show amongst my younger female sisters and cousins, all of whom are in their early twenties. To them, I am the dreaded M-word.
Matronly.
My attempts to nudge my way into the coveted in-crowd were foiled by several unfortunate attributes including my oblivious ignorance of current fashion trends and two bloody eyes. On the cross-country plane trip, both eye sockets began to ooze and itch. Somewhere over Nebraska, I realized that I had a horrendous case of pink eye.
When prescription eye drops failed to take care of the problem, I was forced to purchase a pair of dark wrap around sunglasses from the geriatric aisle of the drugstore. Exposure to indoor lighting made my eyes burn. Direct sunlight was downright unbearable.
"Nice glasses," said one of my twenty-something sisters. A couple of cousins snickered from the love seat.
I informed the group that the glasses were the next big thing in fashion.
"Like wearing navy pantyhose with a black skirt?" my sister teased.
That's when I knew that they had noticed what I had hoped that they wouldn't.
Having lost all dignity, I spent the rest of the day with my grandparents' elderly friends, where amongst the blue perms and oxygen tanks, my appearance was downright fashion forward.
Fortunately, I'm not one to hold grudges. Before I left for home, I made a specific point to rub my infected eyes really good. Then, taking each darling sister and cousin by hand, I bid them a fond farewell.
****
Comments Closed
Monday, January 25, 2010
Lazy and Crazy
I have a soft spot for Christmas leftovers. Try as I might, I just can't seem to keep my hands out of the 90% off bins at Michael's and A.C. Moore. On Saturday afternoon, I found myself holding three gingerbread kits and a foam nativity set.
"I have to have these," said the voice in my head I affectionately call Crazy.
"You can't even make a gingerbread house when its seasonally appropriate," said Lazy. "What makes you think that you'll make one now?"
"You could serve the shingles to your children for an afternoon snack," suggested Crazy, clapping her hands with excitement.
"That would raise the bar of after school snacks to a level I'm not willing to consistently reach," admitted Lazy, popping Crazy's balloon.
I put the gingerbread kits and nativity set back into the clearance bin.
I took home a reindeer pinata instead.
"I have to have these," said the voice in my head I affectionately call Crazy.
"You can't even make a gingerbread house when its seasonally appropriate," said Lazy. "What makes you think that you'll make one now?"
"You could serve the shingles to your children for an afternoon snack," suggested Crazy, clapping her hands with excitement.
"That would raise the bar of after school snacks to a level I'm not willing to consistently reach," admitted Lazy, popping Crazy's balloon.
I put the gingerbread kits and nativity set back into the clearance bin.
I took home a reindeer pinata instead.
"What is that and why is it in my house?" asked my husband.
His heart softened considerably after learning that Rudolph only cost $1.47.
"What should we do with him?" I asked my kids.
Cortlen's idea earned the most votes.
****
We have no connection to Boise State, but somehow, for reasons unknown to man, we have produced the Broncos' # 1 fan.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Redecorating
I have decided to redecorate my house, beginning and ending with new bath towels.
"These are one step above disgusting," my neighbor told me on the day that I cut my hand. She expressed concern that the towels populating my linen closet might breed infection.
"I've had these since eighth grade!" I yelped in protest.
She was not amused by my joke. She did, however, find it within herself to pass along some insider information about a certain national retail chain that sells goods for the home.
"They get their shipments on Tuesdays and Fridays," she told me. "The Tuesday truck is unloaded on Wednesday morning and the merchandise is put on the shelves by Thursday morning. The Friday truck is unloaded on Friday afternoon, just in time for the weekend rush."
I made a mental note of her advice and went to the store on Monday at noon, when inventory was at its lowest.
Even in this harsh shopping climate, there were still a fair number of well-manicured and sleekly dressed interior designers perusing the aisles, filling their carts with barbaric candelabras and gigantic ceramic elephants. There were also several women about my age in the store, all of whom were crammed into the store's arboretum.
"Do these look real?" one woman said to another, holding up a bundle of fake roses suspended in a vase filled with clear acrylic gel.
"So real," the other woman replied. "And such a bargain at $16.99."
That was all the convincing that the first woman needed. Plop. Into the shopping cart the flower arrangement went, along with two of its close relatives, a pitcher of plastic tulips and a large wreath fashioned out of plastic Easter eggs.
When I left the aisle, the second woman was putting the exact same trio of treasures into her shopping cart.
I stalked one of the interior designers until I caught her off guard in a sea of throw pillows.
"Are you an interior designer?" I asked, lamely. The thirteen pieces of framed artwork in her shopping cart gave her away.
"Professional home stager," she clarified.
I wasn't exactly sure what that was, but it sounded like something that I might be good at.
"Do you like these towels?" I asked, gesturing to the mound of objects filling the bottom of my shopping cart. "Do they go together?"
"Are they all for the same bathroom?" the woman asked me, studying the objects with a raised eyebrow.
For the record, I tried to find a complete set of towels. When the lack of inventory deemed this impossible, I was forced to mix n' match.
Before I could explain myself, the woman picked up a beige hand towel that I had discovered on the clearance table next to an assortment of Christmas soaps.
"Is that a horse?" she asked, pointing to the animal stitched onto the front of the towel.
"Unicorn," I clarified.
The look on the woman's face forced me to put all of the towels back on the shelf, including little Pegasus.
"These are one step above disgusting," my neighbor told me on the day that I cut my hand. She expressed concern that the towels populating my linen closet might breed infection.
"I've had these since eighth grade!" I yelped in protest.
She was not amused by my joke. She did, however, find it within herself to pass along some insider information about a certain national retail chain that sells goods for the home.
"They get their shipments on Tuesdays and Fridays," she told me. "The Tuesday truck is unloaded on Wednesday morning and the merchandise is put on the shelves by Thursday morning. The Friday truck is unloaded on Friday afternoon, just in time for the weekend rush."
I made a mental note of her advice and went to the store on Monday at noon, when inventory was at its lowest.
Even in this harsh shopping climate, there were still a fair number of well-manicured and sleekly dressed interior designers perusing the aisles, filling their carts with barbaric candelabras and gigantic ceramic elephants. There were also several women about my age in the store, all of whom were crammed into the store's arboretum.
"Do these look real?" one woman said to another, holding up a bundle of fake roses suspended in a vase filled with clear acrylic gel.
"So real," the other woman replied. "And such a bargain at $16.99."
That was all the convincing that the first woman needed. Plop. Into the shopping cart the flower arrangement went, along with two of its close relatives, a pitcher of plastic tulips and a large wreath fashioned out of plastic Easter eggs.
When I left the aisle, the second woman was putting the exact same trio of treasures into her shopping cart.
I stalked one of the interior designers until I caught her off guard in a sea of throw pillows.
"Are you an interior designer?" I asked, lamely. The thirteen pieces of framed artwork in her shopping cart gave her away.
"Professional home stager," she clarified.
I wasn't exactly sure what that was, but it sounded like something that I might be good at.
"Do you like these towels?" I asked, gesturing to the mound of objects filling the bottom of my shopping cart. "Do they go together?"
"Are they all for the same bathroom?" the woman asked me, studying the objects with a raised eyebrow.
For the record, I tried to find a complete set of towels. When the lack of inventory deemed this impossible, I was forced to mix n' match.
Before I could explain myself, the woman picked up a beige hand towel that I had discovered on the clearance table next to an assortment of Christmas soaps.
"Is that a horse?" she asked, pointing to the animal stitched onto the front of the towel.
"Unicorn," I clarified.
The look on the woman's face forced me to put all of the towels back on the shelf, including little Pegasus.
Stop, Drop, and Roll
If you stop by my house on any given day at 5:30pm, the odds are 50-50 that you will find my children either rolling around on the frozen grass in the front yard or army crawling toward the front door. Invariably, one safety expert will remind the others that the good air is closest to the ground.
"Stay away from that smoke," someone will scream, pointing to the ceiling.
"Get out of there while you still can!" someone else will yell in my direction as he or she somersaults off the front stoop.
After opening all the windows and frantically fanning the air under and around the smoke detector, I will join my troop of junior fire marshals on the driveway. We will stand there exposed to the scornful eye of Marge, the elderly woman who lives across the street and spies on us through her living room blinds, until the smoke detector gives up the ghost or one of my children recites a tidbit of wisdom gleaned from a Smokey Bear public service announcement, whichever comes first.
"Remember, only you can prevent wild fires."
"Thank you Cortlen," I said tonight through clenched teeth.
I have the unfortunate habit of burning dinners. The contents of the oven can't hold my attention like, say, the three-legged squirrel that lives in the tree next to our roof line.
It's not all bad or wasteful, I tell myself. My children are very well versed in fire safety.
"Stay away from that smoke," someone will scream, pointing to the ceiling.
"Get out of there while you still can!" someone else will yell in my direction as he or she somersaults off the front stoop.
After opening all the windows and frantically fanning the air under and around the smoke detector, I will join my troop of junior fire marshals on the driveway. We will stand there exposed to the scornful eye of Marge, the elderly woman who lives across the street and spies on us through her living room blinds, until the smoke detector gives up the ghost or one of my children recites a tidbit of wisdom gleaned from a Smokey Bear public service announcement, whichever comes first.
"Remember, only you can prevent wild fires."
"Thank you Cortlen," I said tonight through clenched teeth.
I have the unfortunate habit of burning dinners. The contents of the oven can't hold my attention like, say, the three-legged squirrel that lives in the tree next to our roof line.
It's not all bad or wasteful, I tell myself. My children are very well versed in fire safety.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Enticements of the Litter Box
Our society sends out mixed signals about sand. It's okay, and even encouraged to dig around in plastic turtles and large pits at the playground, but it's not socially acceptable to stick your fingers in ashtrays and cat litter boxes.I have the hardest time keeping little fingers out of the later.
I only wish I was talking about my almost sixteen-month-old. Sadly, I am talking about my trio of six-year-olds.
I was unloading the dishwasher over the weekend when I was overcome by a hideous odor. I turned around to find one of my sons holding the cat litter scooper, filled, of course, with cat poop.
"We've got to clean this out," he said authoritatively, dumping half of the clumps into the kitchen trash can. Unfortunately, he misjudged the width of the trash can, which resulted in the other half of the turds being dropped onto my bare feet.
"Sometimes I just want to stick my light saber in there," my other son said a day later, eyeing the litter box wistfully.
"Resist the urge," counseled my husband.
This morning, I was cleaning out the litter box and was not at all surprised to find a tennis ball among its contents.
"I thought the cat might want something to keep her busy while she's doing her business," Cortlen explained.
This morning, I was cleaning out the litter box and was not at all surprised to find a tennis ball among its contents.
"I thought the cat might want something to keep her busy while she's doing her business," Cortlen explained.
At that moment, I was struck with a realization. How could I have been so blind?
"Would you like to go to bathroom in a litter box?" I asked my son.
His eyes lit up.
"Maybe for your birthday," I replied. "As a one-time special treat."
"Really?" he asked.
"No," I answered and shook my head.
****
For the record, I felt bad for quashing his dream.
Monday, January 18, 2010
MLK Day
My husband's work participated in a community-wide service project today. Employees were encouraged to bring along their children who were over the age of six. I stayed home with the baby and Camber and made an unexpected trip to the E.R. after cutting open my palm on a broken piece of glass (I'm totally fine despite the trauma of having to share a waiting room with a drunk man who kept blowing me kisses). My husband took Cortlen and Kellen with him.
According to several sources, the bus ride to the food bank went smoothly. The service project itself went off without a hitch. Things quickly went south when a friendly woman plopped herself into the vacant seat next to Kellen on the bus ride home. Things got downright ugly when the woman acknowledged my son's presence.
"I'm not even going to tell you all of the rude things that he did," my husband told me when he walked in the door, "But it included lots of pouting and pulling his shirt over his head when she asked him how he liked kindergarten."
I looked at my son but he didn't look back. He had already retreated to the safety of his shirt cave.
Sometimes sitting across the aisle from your dad and not right next to him is hard.
"Who was the woman?" I asked, biting my fingernails. Three hundred people from my husband's company were at the service project. The odds were in my favor.
Of course the woman was one of the company's most powerful and high-ranking vice presidents.
Of course.
According to several sources, the bus ride to the food bank went smoothly. The service project itself went off without a hitch. Things quickly went south when a friendly woman plopped herself into the vacant seat next to Kellen on the bus ride home. Things got downright ugly when the woman acknowledged my son's presence.
"I'm not even going to tell you all of the rude things that he did," my husband told me when he walked in the door, "But it included lots of pouting and pulling his shirt over his head when she asked him how he liked kindergarten."
I looked at my son but he didn't look back. He had already retreated to the safety of his shirt cave.
Sometimes sitting across the aisle from your dad and not right next to him is hard.
"Who was the woman?" I asked, biting my fingernails. Three hundred people from my husband's company were at the service project. The odds were in my favor.
Of course the woman was one of the company's most powerful and high-ranking vice presidents.
Of course.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Hmph!
Earlier today, the receptionist at the pediatrician's office had the nerve to tell me that the Middle Ages are NO LONGER RELEVANT!
Exhibit B: The receptionist's shoes
Why the fourteenth century came up during check-in is another story.
How could someone say something so horrible and UNTRUE?!
Exhibit A: Beowulf's shoes
Exhibit B: The receptionist's shoes
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Guilty by Association
Yesterday, everyone in my son's kindergarten class got "yellows." In stoplight terminology, this means that as a group, the students were bad listeners.
The problem began, I was told, with the rumor of a guest musician in music class. My son and his friends were under the impression that one of the Jonas brothers was going to teach the class how to sing falsetto. This turned out to be false.
The music room was found, however, to contain something even better than a member of a popular boy band: an unattended plastic laundry basket filled with tambourines.
"I didn't shake one!" protested my son. "I promise!"
I explained the principle of guilty by association.
"All the tambourines hurt my ears," Kellen continued.
According to my son, the music teacher confiscated the musical instruments until the class can learn not to touch things without asking or mid-February, whichever comes first.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Bloody Mary
The former Queen of England was bound to show up at our house sooner or later. I had been hoping for later.
She arrived yesterday afternoon in the middle of a play date.
"MOM!" my daughter yelled from the top of the stairs. "Come up here now!"
Thinking that someone either was hurt or had discovered a large stash of gold coins hidden in the floorboards, I ran from the kitchen to the upstairs bathroom.
"Listen up," my daughter told me upon my arrival. "If you turn off all the lights and say 'Bloody Mary' three times at the same time that you're looking into a mirror...you'll see a bloody face!"
"That's fantastic," I said flatly and glared at my daughter's friend, who has an older sister in fifth grade.
"Do you want to see Bloody Mary?" asked my daughter hopefully.
"No thanks," I replied, but it was too late. I had already been pulled into the bathroom against my will. Someone closed the door fast behind me.
After being properly summoned, Bloody Mary did in fact appear. The cranky queen had a noticeably slimy shoulder (her baby has a runny nose) and was holding a soup ladle dripping with, appropriately enough, spaghetti sauce.
****
I am compelled by nerdiness to point out that the connection between Mary I of England and the super fun "Bloody Mary" bathroom mirror game is rooted in folklore and urban legend, not fact.
****
Has Bloody Mary paid you a visit yet? When? How?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Cultural Heritage Week....
gives me the hives.
This year, I made sure that my kids signed up to give their family history presentations on Friday. This gave me four days to discover the one non-English ancestor that I was sure was dangling precariously from a distant branch of my family tree.
"There's got to be something more interesting than fish & chips on one of our sides," I said with hopeful anticipation to my husband as I dug through a thick stack of family history files.
He wished me luck and turned back to the game.
On Monday, two of Kellen's classmates wore saris to school. Another showed the class how to use chopsticks.
On Tuesday, Gina, Maria, and Anthony Jr. brought in cream-filled cannoli, a jar of Venetian glass beads, and spaghetti and meatballs respectively.
I started to sweat.
On Wednesday, one student brought in her grandparents, who taught the class a traditional Bangladeshi dance.
That's when I got the hives.
When my son came home from school on Thursday, I told him that I would rather not hear him count to ten in Japanese. It might push me over the edge.
"I have to bring in something!" wailed my son before he went to bed.
Friday morning, my son was pleasantly surprised to discover that he is descended from a rogue Viking tribe who vacationed in England for seven centuries... and ate store-bought chocolate chip cookies.
This year, I made sure that my kids signed up to give their family history presentations on Friday. This gave me four days to discover the one non-English ancestor that I was sure was dangling precariously from a distant branch of my family tree.
"There's got to be something more interesting than fish & chips on one of our sides," I said with hopeful anticipation to my husband as I dug through a thick stack of family history files.
He wished me luck and turned back to the game.
On Monday, two of Kellen's classmates wore saris to school. Another showed the class how to use chopsticks.
On Tuesday, Gina, Maria, and Anthony Jr. brought in cream-filled cannoli, a jar of Venetian glass beads, and spaghetti and meatballs respectively.
I started to sweat.
On Wednesday, one student brought in her grandparents, who taught the class a traditional Bangladeshi dance.
That's when I got the hives.
When my son came home from school on Thursday, I told him that I would rather not hear him count to ten in Japanese. It might push me over the edge.
"I have to bring in something!" wailed my son before he went to bed.
Friday morning, my son was pleasantly surprised to discover that he is descended from a rogue Viking tribe who vacationed in England for seven centuries... and ate store-bought chocolate chip cookies.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Needy
Earlier this week, I went to Target with the specific purpose of digging through the children's clearance racks. You can imagine my irritation when I arrived on the scene only to find the entire contents of the 50 and 75% off racks inside another woman's shopping cart.
To make matters worse, the woman was dripping in diamonds. "This is so unfair!" I cried to myself. "She is taking clearance merchandise away from the needy!" Clearly I count myself among the deserving.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mumbled as I followed the woman to the only open checkout line.
The woman pushed my buttons further when she asked the cashier to remove each article of clothing from its hanger and neatly fold it before putting it in a plastic shopping bag.
I did a quick survey of the contents of her shopping cart and counted over 100 items. "This is going to take FOREVER!" I whined to myself.
After a few minutes, I felt compelled to hurry the process along and began helping the woman and the cashier fold shirts, pants, and jackets.
"Your kids sure are lucky," I observed.
The woman stopped folding and gave me a strange look.
"My kids are grown," she told me. "Whenever I find children's clothing on sale, I buy it and send it to orphanges in Africa."
I felt very, very small.
The total sale came to $1,237.65.
Before leaving the store, the woman paused long enough to crumple up her receipt and toss it into the trash can.
I left the store feeling more needy than when I entered. What I am in need of, I realized, isn't a half-price Christmas dress, but rather humility and compassion.
To make matters worse, the woman was dripping in diamonds. "This is so unfair!" I cried to myself. "She is taking clearance merchandise away from the needy!" Clearly I count myself among the deserving.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mumbled as I followed the woman to the only open checkout line.
The woman pushed my buttons further when she asked the cashier to remove each article of clothing from its hanger and neatly fold it before putting it in a plastic shopping bag.
I did a quick survey of the contents of her shopping cart and counted over 100 items. "This is going to take FOREVER!" I whined to myself.
After a few minutes, I felt compelled to hurry the process along and began helping the woman and the cashier fold shirts, pants, and jackets.
"Your kids sure are lucky," I observed.
The woman stopped folding and gave me a strange look.
"My kids are grown," she told me. "Whenever I find children's clothing on sale, I buy it and send it to orphanges in Africa."
I felt very, very small.
The total sale came to $1,237.65.
Before leaving the store, the woman paused long enough to crumple up her receipt and toss it into the trash can.
I left the store feeling more needy than when I entered. What I am in need of, I realized, isn't a half-price Christmas dress, but rather humility and compassion.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Squatter
Unbeknownst to me, a snow monster moved into my one-year-old's bedroom closet. It took up residence in the darkest corner of our house shortly after my children viewed the claymation holiday classic Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. One of the results of this unwanted house guest's stay is that my children will not go upstairs unless every light in the house is turned on and they are accompanied by a muscular adult.
I do not qualify. My husband would be eligible if he didn't happen to be the snow monster's favorite kind of snack.
"You are no match for the Bumble," warned Kellen.
"I have a better chance against the snow monster than you," stated Cortlen.
I have tried numerous things to get rid of the imaginary beast including:
1. Serving the snow monster an eviction notice
2. Showing and discussing ad nauseum the last five minutes of the movie (when the Bumble becomes a vegan and befriends Rudolph)
3. Telling my children that our cats killed the snow monster and ate it while they were at school.
One night, I even made a Bumble stew.
"This is chicken," said Camber flatly, holding up a piece of monster meat.
The only solution to ridding my house of the snow monster, it seems, involves hand-to-hand combat.
"You want me to fight the snow monster?" I asked.
"Yes."
"What happens if the snow monster wins?" I wanted to know.
"Then we'll have to find a new mom," they replied and rolled their eyes, amazed that I couldn't figure out the obvious on my own.
"That's a nice thought," I answered sarcastically as I descended into the bowels of the basement to look for a box of dumbbells.
The conversation left me with the sneaking suspicion that at least half of my children are rooting for the snow monster.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Bad Hair
My husband is smart enough not to make overt comments about my appearance unless they are glowing compliments.
In the past, opinions that he could not keep to himself often took the form of dream visions.
"Last night, I had a dream that I was being trampled to death by a herd of water buffalo," he once told me. Coincidentally, at the same time, I was wearing a pair of zebra-print pumps.
After making an appointment for my husband at a local sleep disorder clinic, he switched strategies. Now he asks strange and ambiguous questions, usually at very inappropriate times.
We were in the middle of a church service last Sunday when he leaned across the pew and made an inquiry about my hair.
"What are your plans for your hair?" he whispered.
My best guess was that he was referring to the way that my hair was styled at that moment. We were running late that morning and I only had time to blow dry one side of my hair. The other side and the back were scraggly and limp. Until my husband drew attention to the obvious, I didn't necessairly see my condition as a problem.
Unsure of exactly what he meant by his question, I wrote a number of possibilities on the back of the sacrament program and passed it down the aisle.
"Do you mean my immediate plan, my five-year plan, or my lifelong goal?" I wrote.
"Whatever," he mouthed.
After a few moments of deep, honest soul-searching, I realized that my plans for my hair are quite ambitious.
"I want it to become President," I wrote back.
My husband stuck out his tongue at me. Following the good example of their father, my children followed suit.
*********
I realize that this post calls for a current photograph of myself. I would love to oblige, but I left my awesome and only camera in Washington D.C. last weekend by mistake. A very nice security officer is mailing it back to me, but it's going to take a week or so to get it back. Very grateful for his generosity...very sad about missed photo opportunities.
**********
How does your significant other express his opinion about your appearance?
In the past, opinions that he could not keep to himself often took the form of dream visions.
"Last night, I had a dream that I was being trampled to death by a herd of water buffalo," he once told me. Coincidentally, at the same time, I was wearing a pair of zebra-print pumps.
After making an appointment for my husband at a local sleep disorder clinic, he switched strategies. Now he asks strange and ambiguous questions, usually at very inappropriate times.
We were in the middle of a church service last Sunday when he leaned across the pew and made an inquiry about my hair.
"What are your plans for your hair?" he whispered.
My best guess was that he was referring to the way that my hair was styled at that moment. We were running late that morning and I only had time to blow dry one side of my hair. The other side and the back were scraggly and limp. Until my husband drew attention to the obvious, I didn't necessairly see my condition as a problem.
Unsure of exactly what he meant by his question, I wrote a number of possibilities on the back of the sacrament program and passed it down the aisle.
"Do you mean my immediate plan, my five-year plan, or my lifelong goal?" I wrote.
"Whatever," he mouthed.
After a few moments of deep, honest soul-searching, I realized that my plans for my hair are quite ambitious.
"I want it to become President," I wrote back.
My husband stuck out his tongue at me. Following the good example of their father, my children followed suit.
*********
I realize that this post calls for a current photograph of myself. I would love to oblige, but I left my awesome and only camera in Washington D.C. last weekend by mistake. A very nice security officer is mailing it back to me, but it's going to take a week or so to get it back. Very grateful for his generosity...very sad about missed photo opportunities.
**********
How does your significant other express his opinion about your appearance?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Needy
Earlier this afternoon, I received a phone call from Cortlen's kindergarten teacher. She assured me right off the bat that she wasn't calling with bad news: my son was behaving fine in class and had even had his name posted on the blackboard as a Super Duper helper. One of the reasons why she was calling, she told me, was to wish me a happy new year.
"Happy New Year to you too!" I chirped.
The teacher also was calling to see if my husband and I needed assistance providing Cortlen with an appropriate winter coat.
"This is what happens when you refuse to wear your coat to school," I explained to my son after the very awkward phone call ended.
I pretty much spent all afternoon wanting to crawl under a rock.
"Did you tell my teacher that coats make me sweaty?" my son wanted to know. In my defense, my son is exceptionally warm-blooded. He routinely sleds down our driveway in shorts.
"A rule is a rule," I told him, citing the school's policy on sub-freezing temperature attire.
After dinner, I made a specific point to hang Cortlen's winter coat on the closest hook next to the back door.
By bedtime, the coat was AWOL.
After thirty minutes, Cortlen still couldn't remember where he hid it.
My husband told him that if the coat didn't show up by tomorrow morning, then he would have to wear his sister's hot pink ski parka to school.
Mysteriously and quite miraculously, my son's memory was restored.
If only my tattered pride could heal as quickly.
"Happy New Year to you too!" I chirped.
The teacher also was calling to see if my husband and I needed assistance providing Cortlen with an appropriate winter coat.
"This is what happens when you refuse to wear your coat to school," I explained to my son after the very awkward phone call ended.
I pretty much spent all afternoon wanting to crawl under a rock.
"Did you tell my teacher that coats make me sweaty?" my son wanted to know. In my defense, my son is exceptionally warm-blooded. He routinely sleds down our driveway in shorts.
"A rule is a rule," I told him, citing the school's policy on sub-freezing temperature attire.
After dinner, I made a specific point to hang Cortlen's winter coat on the closest hook next to the back door.
By bedtime, the coat was AWOL.
After thirty minutes, Cortlen still couldn't remember where he hid it.
My husband told him that if the coat didn't show up by tomorrow morning, then he would have to wear his sister's hot pink ski parka to school.
Mysteriously and quite miraculously, my son's memory was restored.
If only my tattered pride could heal as quickly.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Academic Wedding
One of my sisters is an aspiring academic. She also has a good sense of humor for letting me post this story. Over the holidays, she got engaged to another soon-to-be college professor.
When two academics get married, it's a sure bet that the wedding reception will include two things: twenty-five kinds of hummus and matching Navajo turquoise wedding bands.
My sister and her fiancé spent Christmas with our family. On the first night of their visit, I casually produced a copy of Modern Bride from my sofa's seat cushion. When my sister saw the magazine, she recoiled in disgust. Shortly thereafter I learned that contemporary American wedding culture is a bourgeois construct propagated by corporate greed.
"You are so disrespectful!" she snapped when I rolled my eyes.
The next afternoon, I told my sister that I was taking her to an art exhibit in the city. Instead, Camber and I took her to David's Bridal.
Surprisingly, my sister refused to get out of the car for ten minutes.
"I feel betrayed!" she barked through the window.
After much cajoling, my sister finally agreed to try on wedding dresses, but only ones that were unflattering and made in non-Communist countries.
She came out of the dressing room wearing a white sack.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"Do YOU like it?" I asked back.
"That dress is super ugly," said Camber.
My daughter pointed to a row of mannequins wearing floor-length gowns. My sister shook her head so forcefully that I feared it might roll off.
"Humor us," I ordered.
My sister agreed to try on a traditional wedding dress under the condition that she bypass the matching veil, lest she give someone the impression that she is actually getting married.
A few minutes later, she threw open the dressing room door. Camber and I gasped. My sister peered at herself in the full-length mirror. I held my breath, waiting for the tears.
They came, but were not accompanied by the words that I expected.
"I look beautiful," she said, finally, her eyes misting over. She seemed genuinely surprised by this revelation.
"If I do decide to wear a wedding dress," she told me on the way home, "Then I'm going to have to rethink my plan for the reception."
"I'm envisioning one with considerably less hummus," I said.
"What do you suggest instead?" she sneered. "A wedding cake?"
The horror.
When two academics get married, it's a sure bet that the wedding reception will include two things: twenty-five kinds of hummus and matching Navajo turquoise wedding bands.
My sister and her fiancé spent Christmas with our family. On the first night of their visit, I casually produced a copy of Modern Bride from my sofa's seat cushion. When my sister saw the magazine, she recoiled in disgust. Shortly thereafter I learned that contemporary American wedding culture is a bourgeois construct propagated by corporate greed.
"You are so disrespectful!" she snapped when I rolled my eyes.
The next afternoon, I told my sister that I was taking her to an art exhibit in the city. Instead, Camber and I took her to David's Bridal.
Surprisingly, my sister refused to get out of the car for ten minutes.
"I feel betrayed!" she barked through the window.
After much cajoling, my sister finally agreed to try on wedding dresses, but only ones that were unflattering and made in non-Communist countries.
She came out of the dressing room wearing a white sack.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"Do YOU like it?" I asked back.
"That dress is super ugly," said Camber.
My daughter pointed to a row of mannequins wearing floor-length gowns. My sister shook her head so forcefully that I feared it might roll off.
"Humor us," I ordered.
My sister agreed to try on a traditional wedding dress under the condition that she bypass the matching veil, lest she give someone the impression that she is actually getting married.
A few minutes later, she threw open the dressing room door. Camber and I gasped. My sister peered at herself in the full-length mirror. I held my breath, waiting for the tears.
They came, but were not accompanied by the words that I expected.
"I look beautiful," she said, finally, her eyes misting over. She seemed genuinely surprised by this revelation.
"If I do decide to wear a wedding dress," she told me on the way home, "Then I'm going to have to rethink my plan for the reception."
"I'm envisioning one with considerably less hummus," I said.
"What do you suggest instead?" she sneered. "A wedding cake?"
The horror.
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