My son went on his very first field trip yesterday. They went to a local orchard to celebrate the begining of autumn, despite the fact that it was in the 90's and positively sweltering. Also, due to a really bad spring frost they were not allowed to pick their own apples. No one seemed to mind though, as they were promised a bag of apples fromthe orchards when they left, and there were plenty of other activities to keep them occupied. BTW, if you've never had a fresh apple, you do not know what you are missing. They are so much better than those waxy things you get at the grocery store. If you live anywhere near and orchard, get yourself there right away and get you some fresh apples. Ditto, the fresh apple cider. Which, if you're dealing with 30 Kindergarteners would probably be much better if it were Irished up. I'm just throwing that out there. Because I'm concerned about my readers.
When the kids first arrived at the orchard, they were taken on a tractor ride through the orchard, where they could see the apples they could not pick. It was hot and there were a lot of bugs, which sent the girls, and several of the boys (my son included) into hysterics. Fun!
After the hot bug filled tractor ride, we got to watch an "Entertaining and Educational" show about apples. Now I have to give Billy Jo Bob Appleseed props here, because he tried to keep the energy up, but how long can you expect a group of 5 year olds to pay attention to a show about apples? Let's face it, you can wrap it up with the word "entertaining" all you like, but if it doesn't involve something exploding or being fired from a canon (I'll get back to this later), they're going to lose interest after about 2 minutes. Billy Joe Bob did make some good points and I'll concede that apples are awesome if you think about it. They are incredibly versatile and if there is anything better than warm dutch apple pie with vanilla ice cream on it, I haven't found it yet, but exciting? No. The kids were far more interested in throwing straw at each other from the bales they sat on, which let to much shushing and sit-downing from some very hot and irritable chaperones.
When Billy Jo Bob Appleseed released us from his happy apple prison we were off to the pig races. Oh, that's right, I said it. Pig races. I don't care who you are, if the words 'pig race' comes up, you want to see it. There were 4 races around a rather large mud track featuring such racers and Brad Pig, Angelina Jolie-Pig, Pigny Spears, Paris Hamton, Mario Hamdretti, Dale Porkheart, Jr, and many other celeb names altered to add pig/pork/ham/etc into them. Apparently they have a lot of time on the farm. The racing pigs are trained with oreo cookies. The pig who makes it around the track and back into the barn first gets the oreo. This is my kind of motivation. See, if my trainer offered me oreo cookies at the end of a session, I'd be much more into it. The third race, which featured potbellied pigs was my personal favorite. I have a dog named Pepper, who my mother swears up and down looks like a potbellied pig. Pepper is half pug and half shih tzu, and pure adorable. She *might* be a smidge overweight (her vet has the gall to call her obese), but I prefer to think of her as festively plump. Now that I've seen a potbellied pig up close (hm, a sentence I never thought to write), I can see the resemblance. Pepper would never run for food though. We bring the food to her, she does not go get it. This is the way it is. We've been trained well.
Pig races over, it was time for the mine shaft slide. This is a weird thing that only children would want to do and only bored farmers or frat boys would think up. It's a 3 foot round pipe buried in a hill. A big hill. More like a mountain really. The get into the pipe at the top (which they enter through a building that has been built to resemble a mine shaft-hence the name) and zoom down through the dark and shoot out the bottom of the hill. Sign me up. I stood at the bottom of the hill/mountain and waited. They came zipping down the slide like they had been greased and screaming like, well, 5 year olds. Once they caught their breaths, the first words out of their mouths were "Let's do it again!" and back up the hill/mountain they ran. This lasted for about 4 trips to the top before they were finally tired of running 5 minutes up the hill for a 10 second ride. We then decided to do my least favorite activity of the day: the petting zoo.
I have a serious aversion to petting zoos. It's not that I don't like animals. I do (I have 2 dogs after all), but farm animals are a different thing all together. For one thing, they stink. My dogs get bathed regularly. I don't think petting zoo animals get more than wet when it rains. Also, they are one step away from being wild animals. While I'm sure they're cared for very well, all I can think of is how many germs must be lurking on their stinky little bodies. And, when you feed them (Ack!), they get slobber all over your hands, and if that's not germ-a-poluza, I don't know what is. The kids of course thought this was awesome, because what kid doesn't love cute, germ ridden farm animals? Not one. The farm animals at this petting zoo included the usual assortment, like cows, pigs (Not the racing pigs, the petting pigs were fat and lazy and thought the pigs who ran for oreos were stupid. These kids will give you food and all you have to do is look at them and grunt. Stupid racing pigs. Think they're so much better than regular pigs. Who's laughing now Brad Pig? Who's laughing now?), chickens, mules, ponies, rabbits (who, let's face it, are only there for the cute factor) and for some inexplicable reason, a mini-camel. Given that we live in the mid-west and NOT the middle east, I'm not sure how the camel plays into the whole farm scenario, but the kids thought he was amazing so what do I know? Once they were done getting germed up good, I grabbed every kid I could get my non-germy hands on and wiped them down with anti-bacterial wipes. Would it be too much to expect a handwashing station?
Once I had used my entire supply of antibacterial wipes, we did thethe corn maze. The corn maze was fun, except for one, teeny, tiny thing: it made me sneeze like crazy. I was nearly blessed to death by a pack of overly polite kindergarteners. Me: achoo! Kids (in unison): Bless you C's mommy! Cute right? Now imagine it 800 times. You're starting to understand that Irish Cider thing aren't you? Yeah, I thought so. Lesson learned: I'm allergic to dry corn. Who knew? After the 3rd trip through the corn maze, it was time for the coolest part of the entire day: the Jack-O-Lobber. Remember what I said earlier about how apples would be exciting if they were shot from a canon? Well, multiply that by about a million and you have the Jack-O-Lobber. A cannon that shoots not apples, but pumpkins! A hydrolic pumpkin canon. Oh yeah! According to Red Hot Jose (the Mexican guy who actually shoots the canon), if they put enough pressure into the cannon, they can lob the pumpkins a little over 3 miles. I'm not sure if I believe this, but I so want to. I also want to see it, but they said the neightboring farm would not be pleased to have pumpkins suddenly appear out of nowhere, smashing to smithereens in their orchard. If I was the neighbor, I'd just clear a spot and make it a pumpkin patch. All those seeds are bound to produce something. Free pumpkins. What's not to like? The kids were crazy for the jack-o-lobber and squealed with delight when it shot off: whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Three pumpkins at once! The chaperones tried to look suitably impressed with the display of science and engineering, but what we were all secretly thinking was "Holy crap! That is awesome! I wonder if my kid's loudest toy would fit in the canon and how much they'd charge me to shoot it out?"
It was then time for some free play on the playground (read: the chaperones were tired and wanted to sit down in the shade ) and lunch. Before lunch, I of course hauled as many sweaty grubby kids as I could to the bathroom and scrubbed them down (several had wandered back over to the petty zoo, so you know I was't going to let them eat luch after touching those creatures). Once the kids had consumed their sugar laden lunches (I was seriously appauled at the food these kids had for lunch and the mystery of childhood obesity was suddenly solved), they picked up their bags of apples, piled on the bus (where these was much apple eating) and went back to school.
My son and I talked about his day over dinner and what he had seen and done. I asked what his favorite part of the day had been and he looked up, big tired eyes slightly out of focus and said firmly and excitedly: "Riding on a school bus!" That's my boy.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Happy Mabon
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 23, 2007.
Hello and happy Mabon. That would be the pagan holiday that celebrated the autumnal equinox. While it does not feel like autum here (92 for a high today), I still put out some autum decorations and ate some pomegranate which is a traditional Mabon food. I'll bet you didn't know that, did you? Why a pomegranate, you ask. Well, that would be because Persephone, that lovely young goddess who was kidnapped by Hades and brought down to the underworld to be his queen, ate 6 pomegranate seeds while she was with him, and bound herself to him by doing so. When Zeus forced Hades to release poor, hungry Persephone, Hades told Zeus that she had eaten them, and it was then decided that Persephone would spend 6 months of the year above ground with her mother Demeter, goddess of the earth (hence Spring and Summer) and 6 months below ground with Hades (Autumn and Winter). As the autumnal equinox is the start of her 6 months underground, the pomegranate is a traditional food to eat to celebrate the day. If you've ever eaten a pomegranate, you know this is no easy task. For one, you really do only eat the seeds (pomegranates are chock full of seeds). They are hard to get to though! I did mine out with a grapefruit spoon (in case you were wondering). I started thinking, as I was diging out my seeds, that it's a good thing Hades didn't try to drag me into the underworld and feed me pomegranate seeds. I'd have been like, "Um Hades, I'm sure these 6 seeds will be oh so delicious and really filling, but seriously, where are the Cool Ranch Doritos?" I mean really, if you're dragging someone off to be queen of the underworld, the least you could do is have some decent snack foods. It's all dark and dreary down there and the sattelite reception has to be dreadful. And how long can you spend gazing at the souls of the dead before you start going a bit bonkers? Cool Ranch Doritos can held alleviate some of the boredom. Plus, you could probably chuck them at the new souls coming in, just to freak them out. "Oh my gods! We're going to spend eternity having Doritos thrown at us? I should not have stepped in front of that donkey cart!" AND if you're underground, who's going to notice that you've gained a pound or twenty by eating bag after bag? It's dark down there (or so I hear). Hades probably would have tossed me back after my many demands ("Internet, Hades! I need my internet! You're the god of the freaking underworld and you still have is dial up?") and then there would be no autumn or winter (both of which I am rather fond of), so I suppose we should all be glad that poor Persephone was dragged off, ate her 6 seeds, and her mother, Demeter, decided that while Persephone was underground the earth would become barren and lifeless.
On that note, I wish you all a lovely Mabon and a wonderful auntum season.
Hello and happy Mabon. That would be the pagan holiday that celebrated the autumnal equinox. While it does not feel like autum here (92 for a high today), I still put out some autum decorations and ate some pomegranate which is a traditional Mabon food. I'll bet you didn't know that, did you? Why a pomegranate, you ask. Well, that would be because Persephone, that lovely young goddess who was kidnapped by Hades and brought down to the underworld to be his queen, ate 6 pomegranate seeds while she was with him, and bound herself to him by doing so. When Zeus forced Hades to release poor, hungry Persephone, Hades told Zeus that she had eaten them, and it was then decided that Persephone would spend 6 months of the year above ground with her mother Demeter, goddess of the earth (hence Spring and Summer) and 6 months below ground with Hades (Autumn and Winter). As the autumnal equinox is the start of her 6 months underground, the pomegranate is a traditional food to eat to celebrate the day. If you've ever eaten a pomegranate, you know this is no easy task. For one, you really do only eat the seeds (pomegranates are chock full of seeds). They are hard to get to though! I did mine out with a grapefruit spoon (in case you were wondering). I started thinking, as I was diging out my seeds, that it's a good thing Hades didn't try to drag me into the underworld and feed me pomegranate seeds. I'd have been like, "Um Hades, I'm sure these 6 seeds will be oh so delicious and really filling, but seriously, where are the Cool Ranch Doritos?" I mean really, if you're dragging someone off to be queen of the underworld, the least you could do is have some decent snack foods. It's all dark and dreary down there and the sattelite reception has to be dreadful. And how long can you spend gazing at the souls of the dead before you start going a bit bonkers? Cool Ranch Doritos can held alleviate some of the boredom. Plus, you could probably chuck them at the new souls coming in, just to freak them out. "Oh my gods! We're going to spend eternity having Doritos thrown at us? I should not have stepped in front of that donkey cart!" AND if you're underground, who's going to notice that you've gained a pound or twenty by eating bag after bag? It's dark down there (or so I hear). Hades probably would have tossed me back after my many demands ("Internet, Hades! I need my internet! You're the god of the freaking underworld and you still have is dial up?") and then there would be no autumn or winter (both of which I am rather fond of), so I suppose we should all be glad that poor Persephone was dragged off, ate her 6 seeds, and her mother, Demeter, decided that while Persephone was underground the earth would become barren and lifeless.
On that note, I wish you all a lovely Mabon and a wonderful auntum season.
Swedish candy pushers
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted Septemeber 22, 2007
I have a lovely Swedish SUV that I call Elsa von Nordland. Elsa has lots of bells and whistles, including a lovely little message center that tells me random things I should know, like "Time for Regular Service." This is a nice feature because I no longer have to look up at the little sticker they place inside the windshield and think "Crap, I was due for an oil change 2000 miles ago." Elsa's service message came on the other day and yesterday I schlepped over to the local Swedish dealership (32 miles away) to get her oil changed. I spoke with one of the check in people and told him I did not have 3 hours to sit there waiting for an oil change (this is a total lie; I had all the time in the world, I just didn't want to sit there watching Judy Judy or Judge Roy Brown or some other show where stupid people sue each other for being stupid on the dealerships 5 foot plasma screen). Sean (that's his name) promised me they'd have me out in an hour and a half. Elsa's oil changes are something serious and involve far more than just oil apparently. I don't know exactly what, but I get a big long list of things they've done to her when I get the keys.
I sat in the waiting area watching not a "legal" show, but a rerun of The Price Is Right (thanks to an elderly lady who commandeered the remote) and the clock. At 12 (an hour and half after I arrived, SEAN) Elsa was not ready. Quelle surprise. I checked on her and was told it would only be a "little" longer. Ha! At 12:30, Elsa was still not ready and my stomach was sending out some serious messages to me and everyone within a 3 feet radius that it was HUNGRY. Grrrrrrr! It was like Audrey 2 was belting out "Feed me, Seymour" from my torso. Now, I should say that this Swedish dealership will give you candy if you want it. I'm not talking about that bowl of stale candy everyone sticks their grubby paws into and germing it up. Oh, no. They give you movie sized packages of real candy: M&M's (plain or peanut), Twizzlers, Skittles, Peppermint Patties, Mars bars or 3 different varieties of gum. And, they'll give you all you want. ALL. YOU. WANT. Also, they keep trying to give it to you, and if you don't take it, you are offending their Swedish sensitivity. Every 10-15 minutes, someone will walk through the waiting area and ask if you'd like some candy. Here's approximately what happened:
Dealership lady: You vould like some candy, ya?
Me: No thank you.
Dealership lady: Of course you vould. Here haf some. All you vant.
Me: Really, no, I don't want any.
Dealership lady: (Eying me warily) Vell, I'll check on you in a vile zen.
Fifteen minutes later:
Dealership lady: (who has head my stomach grumbling all the way from the glassed in office she sits in watching those of us in the waiting room, like some weird goldfish) You are hungry, ya? I still haf candy.
Me: I know. No thank you.
Dealership lady: (Dangling a bag of peanut M&M's in front of me) Eet it delicious!
Me: (Staring longingly at the 240 calorie pack of peanuty chocolatey goodness) Go away! I don't want your evil candy!
Dealership lady: You do!
Me: What is it with you people and your candy?
Dealership lady: Candy makes people happy. It is a fact.
Me: Well, it doesn't make me happy. I don't want it! (This is a total lie. Candy does make me happy)
Dealership lady: You vill! (Backs away laughing maniacally and shaking the bag at me)
Okay, maybe it didn't go down exactly like that (and don't ask why she had a German accent, instead of a Swedish one), but in my mind it totally did.
Anyway, for someone who's maintaining 1500 calories a day (which is HARD), one movie sized packet of candy can completely ruin it and send me into a tailspin of sugar and guilt. And apparently just thinking about it made me imagine some sort of crazy candy pushing fantasy.
At 1pm (1pm, SEAN-2 ½ hours after I arrived, SEAN) I was finally told Elsa Von Nordland was being washed (she loves a good wash) and would be brought around in a few minutes. I went up to the little glassed in desk (why the glass? I want to know) to sign my paperwork. The very nice lady (behind the glass) asked me yet again if I'd like some candy ("You know you vant it.") Oh, how I wanted that candy. I could almost taste it. I could feel the delicious candy coating melting in my mouth (not in my hands) making way for explosion of chocolate and peanut. My hands shook as I signed the payment slip and stared down the candy lady. Her eyes bore into mine. She knew how I wanted that candy. A mechanic came walking up and told me Elsa was sitting out front ready to go and I looked at the candy display one more time behind the glass. It called to me; mocked me; begged me. The candy lady held up a bag of M&M's (she's seen me staring longingly at the 2 foot, cardboard blue M&M who smiled so innocuously) and I shook my head turning away before I gave in. As I reached the front door, my stomach (which had been eyeing my liver), let out another rumble and I heard her mutter "You'll be back. Only 7000 miles and and ve'll see you again. You'll get some candy zen. Oh ya." Damn.
I have a lovely Swedish SUV that I call Elsa von Nordland. Elsa has lots of bells and whistles, including a lovely little message center that tells me random things I should know, like "Time for Regular Service." This is a nice feature because I no longer have to look up at the little sticker they place inside the windshield and think "Crap, I was due for an oil change 2000 miles ago." Elsa's service message came on the other day and yesterday I schlepped over to the local Swedish dealership (32 miles away) to get her oil changed. I spoke with one of the check in people and told him I did not have 3 hours to sit there waiting for an oil change (this is a total lie; I had all the time in the world, I just didn't want to sit there watching Judy Judy or Judge Roy Brown or some other show where stupid people sue each other for being stupid on the dealerships 5 foot plasma screen). Sean (that's his name) promised me they'd have me out in an hour and a half. Elsa's oil changes are something serious and involve far more than just oil apparently. I don't know exactly what, but I get a big long list of things they've done to her when I get the keys.
I sat in the waiting area watching not a "legal" show, but a rerun of The Price Is Right (thanks to an elderly lady who commandeered the remote) and the clock. At 12 (an hour and half after I arrived, SEAN) Elsa was not ready. Quelle surprise. I checked on her and was told it would only be a "little" longer. Ha! At 12:30, Elsa was still not ready and my stomach was sending out some serious messages to me and everyone within a 3 feet radius that it was HUNGRY. Grrrrrrr! It was like Audrey 2 was belting out "Feed me, Seymour" from my torso. Now, I should say that this Swedish dealership will give you candy if you want it. I'm not talking about that bowl of stale candy everyone sticks their grubby paws into and germing it up. Oh, no. They give you movie sized packages of real candy: M&M's (plain or peanut), Twizzlers, Skittles, Peppermint Patties, Mars bars or 3 different varieties of gum. And, they'll give you all you want. ALL. YOU. WANT. Also, they keep trying to give it to you, and if you don't take it, you are offending their Swedish sensitivity. Every 10-15 minutes, someone will walk through the waiting area and ask if you'd like some candy. Here's approximately what happened:
Dealership lady: You vould like some candy, ya?
Me: No thank you.
Dealership lady: Of course you vould. Here haf some. All you vant.
Me: Really, no, I don't want any.
Dealership lady: (Eying me warily) Vell, I'll check on you in a vile zen.
Fifteen minutes later:
Dealership lady: (who has head my stomach grumbling all the way from the glassed in office she sits in watching those of us in the waiting room, like some weird goldfish) You are hungry, ya? I still haf candy.
Me: I know. No thank you.
Dealership lady: (Dangling a bag of peanut M&M's in front of me) Eet it delicious!
Me: (Staring longingly at the 240 calorie pack of peanuty chocolatey goodness) Go away! I don't want your evil candy!
Dealership lady: You do!
Me: What is it with you people and your candy?
Dealership lady: Candy makes people happy. It is a fact.
Me: Well, it doesn't make me happy. I don't want it! (This is a total lie. Candy does make me happy)
Dealership lady: You vill! (Backs away laughing maniacally and shaking the bag at me)
Okay, maybe it didn't go down exactly like that (and don't ask why she had a German accent, instead of a Swedish one), but in my mind it totally did.
Anyway, for someone who's maintaining 1500 calories a day (which is HARD), one movie sized packet of candy can completely ruin it and send me into a tailspin of sugar and guilt. And apparently just thinking about it made me imagine some sort of crazy candy pushing fantasy.
At 1pm (1pm, SEAN-2 ½ hours after I arrived, SEAN) I was finally told Elsa Von Nordland was being washed (she loves a good wash) and would be brought around in a few minutes. I went up to the little glassed in desk (why the glass? I want to know) to sign my paperwork. The very nice lady (behind the glass) asked me yet again if I'd like some candy ("You know you vant it.") Oh, how I wanted that candy. I could almost taste it. I could feel the delicious candy coating melting in my mouth (not in my hands) making way for explosion of chocolate and peanut. My hands shook as I signed the payment slip and stared down the candy lady. Her eyes bore into mine. She knew how I wanted that candy. A mechanic came walking up and told me Elsa was sitting out front ready to go and I looked at the candy display one more time behind the glass. It called to me; mocked me; begged me. The candy lady held up a bag of M&M's (she's seen me staring longingly at the 2 foot, cardboard blue M&M who smiled so innocuously) and I shook my head turning away before I gave in. As I reached the front door, my stomach (which had been eyeing my liver), let out another rumble and I heard her mutter "You'll be back. Only 7000 miles and and ve'll see you again. You'll get some candy zen. Oh ya." Damn.
Yarrr! It's talk like a pirate day! Savvy?
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 19, 2007
Ahoy there me hearties! It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day! Did you know? I'll bet not. I want to know why we didn't get the day off! I've found a list on the internet of pirate speak for those of you who might need some help. I think it would be far more fun to LIVE like a pirate for the day. Let's commandeer some ships, drink some grog, forgo all personal hygene and hunt for booty (that's treasure to you landlubbers, get your minds out of the gutter). So, let's weigh anchor and have a peek at the list. Try to sprinkle as many of these words or phrases into your conversations today and see if anyone notices. If they do, exclaim "Blow me down!" and buy them some grog.
ARRRGHHHH" - this phrase shows general discontent. or it can also mean that someone is about to get wild- a.k.a. a battle cry.
"Ahoy, me hearties!" - Equivalent of "Hello, my friends!"
"Dogs ahoy!" - Equivalent of "Things to kill, straight ahead."
"Shiver me timbers!" - Like saying "Oh My!" like my legs are shaking
"Skuttle me Skippers" - Making a mistake and being judged for/by it.
"Avast ye varmint" - Stop right there young man because you're in big trouble.
"Weigh anchor!" - Let's go!
"Yarr." - I agree.
"Yarr!" - I see your point, and agree wholeheartedly.
"Yarr-ha-harr!" - You're right!
"Yarr?" - Excuse me, what did you say?
"Yarrgh" - I respectfully acknowledge that you are right and I am wrong
"Yaharr..." - a filler word.
"Blow me down!" - You don't say? How surprising.
"Savvy?" - Is that okay with you? Do you understand?
"Ahoy" - Call to attract attention, something akin to 'Hello, there!'
"Jack" - A flag or a sailor; showing how sailors would refer to their ship's colors as one of the crew. Hence Jack Tar for sailor and the Union Jack flag.
"Salmagundi" - A dish of chopped meat, eggs, anchovies, onions and anything else the cook can throw in; A piratical delicacy
"Weigh anchor! Hoist the mizzen!!!" - Basically adds on to Let's go!
"A merry yarn" - A good story
"Where be the treasure?" - Where is the treasure?
"Land Ahoy" - I see land
"Hoist the Colors!!" - Raise the flags.
Ahoy there me hearties! It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day! Did you know? I'll bet not. I want to know why we didn't get the day off! I've found a list on the internet of pirate speak for those of you who might need some help. I think it would be far more fun to LIVE like a pirate for the day. Let's commandeer some ships, drink some grog, forgo all personal hygene and hunt for booty (that's treasure to you landlubbers, get your minds out of the gutter). So, let's weigh anchor and have a peek at the list. Try to sprinkle as many of these words or phrases into your conversations today and see if anyone notices. If they do, exclaim "Blow me down!" and buy them some grog.
ARRRGHHHH" - this phrase shows general discontent. or it can also mean that someone is about to get wild- a.k.a. a battle cry.
"Ahoy, me hearties!" - Equivalent of "Hello, my friends!"
"Dogs ahoy!" - Equivalent of "Things to kill, straight ahead."
"Shiver me timbers!" - Like saying "Oh My!" like my legs are shaking
"Skuttle me Skippers" - Making a mistake and being judged for/by it.
"Avast ye varmint" - Stop right there young man because you're in big trouble.
"Weigh anchor!" - Let's go!
"Yarr." - I agree.
"Yarr!" - I see your point, and agree wholeheartedly.
"Yarr-ha-harr!" - You're right!
"Yarr?" - Excuse me, what did you say?
"Yarrgh" - I respectfully acknowledge that you are right and I am wrong
"Yaharr..." - a filler word.
"Blow me down!" - You don't say? How surprising.
"Savvy?" - Is that okay with you? Do you understand?
"Ahoy" - Call to attract attention, something akin to 'Hello, there!'
"Jack" - A flag or a sailor; showing how sailors would refer to their ship's colors as one of the crew. Hence Jack Tar for sailor and the Union Jack flag.
"Salmagundi" - A dish of chopped meat, eggs, anchovies, onions and anything else the cook can throw in; A piratical delicacy
"Weigh anchor! Hoist the mizzen!!!" - Basically adds on to Let's go!
"A merry yarn" - A good story
"Where be the treasure?" - Where is the treasure?
"Land Ahoy" - I see land
"Hoist the Colors!!" - Raise the flags.
Let's talk about me
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 17, 2007
Today, I'm going to talk about myself, because I just don't think I do that enough. :) Anyway, My 100 has gotten a response or two, so I decided to list a few more random things about me. BTW, if you read my blog (and I can see that a lot of you do), drop me a line. Say "hi" or "wow, you're nuts" or something. Let me know who you are.
On to random things:
I hate coffee. And I mean hate it. With a passion. I don't even like the smell of it, I hate it so much. Also, coffee breath is heinous. How can you people drink that crap?
I'm afraid of spiders but I won't kill them because they eat other bugs that I'm more afraid of. If there's a spider in my house I scoop it up on a piece of paper and take it outside.
I get ridiculously excited over the fall TV season. I am so excited about Journeyman I can barely contain myself. It stars the fantastic Kevin McKidd who I love. If you don't know who he is, he was Lucious Vorenus in Rome. His facial expressions alone are genius.
Deal or No Deal is one of my favorite shows because I like to bitch about how stupid the people on the show are. Stop being so damn greedy people and take the deal!
I have horrible sinuses. If I say I have a headache, I am not kidding. Take me seriously.
One of my college boyfriends (who I lived with for 8 months) left me for a man. And didn't tell me. I found out from a gay friend of mine. I was pissed. Leaving me for a man was one thing (talk about a blow to the ego), but finding out from someone else was another thing entirely.
I recently found out that another former boyfriend of mine is now gay. Coincidence?
I try to care about politics, because I think I should, but I just can't muster up the interest. I think the elections should be held on TV, a la American Idol. And the politicians should have to have an interesting talent. How cool would that be?
I don't like cats and think people who do are strange. I mean, cats don't like people, they're mean, they pee on stuff for fun and they stare at you all weird, like they're planning on eating you if you should die in the house and there's nothing else for them to snack on.
I like peanuts, but positively hate peanut butter. Even the smell of peanut butter icks me out. Isn't that odd?
My high school sweetheart took me to my first professional baseball game in Sept 1990 and I've been a die hard Cubs fan ever since. Go Cubs!
When I was in the 11th grade the powers that be took away the cushions to the furniture in the student lounge for some unremembered infraction. All that was left were the wood frames. It was damned uncomfortable. A friend of mine and I made a big sign that read "Welcome to Stalag 17" and hung it over the door to the lounge. The administrators went crazy. They asked the perpetrators to come forward, but we never did. I was nervouse for the next 3 months that we would get busted and suspended.
I drink hot tea, but hate it cold. I drink one cup of tea every morning and you do not want to be in my path if I haven't had it. Grrrrr!
There's more, but my sinuses are killing me so I'm off to bed. Where I don't like to be touched while trying to get to sleep. I am not a snuggler!
Today, I'm going to talk about myself, because I just don't think I do that enough. :) Anyway, My 100 has gotten a response or two, so I decided to list a few more random things about me. BTW, if you read my blog (and I can see that a lot of you do), drop me a line. Say "hi" or "wow, you're nuts" or something. Let me know who you are.
On to random things:
I hate coffee. And I mean hate it. With a passion. I don't even like the smell of it, I hate it so much. Also, coffee breath is heinous. How can you people drink that crap?
I'm afraid of spiders but I won't kill them because they eat other bugs that I'm more afraid of. If there's a spider in my house I scoop it up on a piece of paper and take it outside.
I get ridiculously excited over the fall TV season. I am so excited about Journeyman I can barely contain myself. It stars the fantastic Kevin McKidd who I love. If you don't know who he is, he was Lucious Vorenus in Rome. His facial expressions alone are genius.
Deal or No Deal is one of my favorite shows because I like to bitch about how stupid the people on the show are. Stop being so damn greedy people and take the deal!
I have horrible sinuses. If I say I have a headache, I am not kidding. Take me seriously.
One of my college boyfriends (who I lived with for 8 months) left me for a man. And didn't tell me. I found out from a gay friend of mine. I was pissed. Leaving me for a man was one thing (talk about a blow to the ego), but finding out from someone else was another thing entirely.
I recently found out that another former boyfriend of mine is now gay. Coincidence?
I try to care about politics, because I think I should, but I just can't muster up the interest. I think the elections should be held on TV, a la American Idol. And the politicians should have to have an interesting talent. How cool would that be?
I don't like cats and think people who do are strange. I mean, cats don't like people, they're mean, they pee on stuff for fun and they stare at you all weird, like they're planning on eating you if you should die in the house and there's nothing else for them to snack on.
I like peanuts, but positively hate peanut butter. Even the smell of peanut butter icks me out. Isn't that odd?
My high school sweetheart took me to my first professional baseball game in Sept 1990 and I've been a die hard Cubs fan ever since. Go Cubs!
When I was in the 11th grade the powers that be took away the cushions to the furniture in the student lounge for some unremembered infraction. All that was left were the wood frames. It was damned uncomfortable. A friend of mine and I made a big sign that read "Welcome to Stalag 17" and hung it over the door to the lounge. The administrators went crazy. They asked the perpetrators to come forward, but we never did. I was nervouse for the next 3 months that we would get busted and suspended.
I drink hot tea, but hate it cold. I drink one cup of tea every morning and you do not want to be in my path if I haven't had it. Grrrrr!
There's more, but my sinuses are killing me so I'm off to bed. Where I don't like to be touched while trying to get to sleep. I am not a snuggler!
My 100
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted Septemeber 12, 2007.
All the "cool bloggers" are doing the top 100, so I thought I'd post mine:
100. I am a true Aries.
99. I love Matt Lauer
98. I'm incredibly into the whole Today Throws a Wedding, though I never vote
97. Motorcyclists who don't wear helmets piss me off
96. I secretly hate the cool bloggers.
95. When I was in the 9th grade I changed a grade on my report card and my parents never knew (unless they read this blog).
94. I traded my BMW for a Volvo, and now sometimes wish I still had the BMW, even though I like the Volvo better
93. Feet creep me out
92. I couldn't watch the 2nd or 3rd LOTR movies because I spent the entire first movie staring at the hobbit's furry feet and it grossed me out
93. I've had McDonalds in 5 countries outside of the US. I'm not proud of this.
92. I wish I were taller
91. I've never been to Vegas
90. I hate chocolate ice cream
89. I think chiffon is a crime against humanity (unless you're Ginger Rogers and in a 1930's or 40's movie)
88. I've stood on the Prime Meridian
89. I don't eat anything with 4 legs
88. I'm not a fan of poultry either, but I'll eat it on occasion
87. Really skinny people frighten me because I wonder where their organs are
86. I'm obsessed (OBSESSED!) with home makeover and house flipping shows
85. Red is my favorite color
84. My grandfather was born in 1899 and when I was little I thought he was the oldest person in the world
83. I read all of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books in less than 3 weeks (there are 13)
82. I started going grey around the age of 28
81. I got boobs the same time I started going grey and think it might have been some sort of trade off
80. I'm trying to be brief here, but find it incredibly hard. I always want to elaborate.
79. I was totally boy crazy in HS, so it's probably a good thing I went to an all girls school
78. My first car was a 1990 red Chevy Cavalier.
77. I still have the window sticker from my first car (it cost $9K)
76. I've driven on the Autobahn
75. I think speed limits suck
74. I've seen Strictly Ballroom about 20 times
73. Holiday Inn is my favorite movie
72. I think if you don't cry at the end of Going My Way, you're dead inside
71. I adore Bing Crosby
70. I hate when black and white movies are colorized
69. Typing this number made me snicker (because inside I'm still a stupid teenager)
68. I love plants and flowers, but do not have a green thumb
67. I cry every time I see a military homecoming
66. No one ever spells my name correctly
65. Because my parents spelled it weird (thanks guys)
64. I love the Regency period
63. I've seen the 6 hour BBC Pride and Prejudice at least 10 times
62. I long to be a published writer
61. I'm incredibly lazy about my writing
60. I've started, but not finished, 5 novels
59. I constantly have the urge to build a headboard out of plywood, chair padding and fabric, even though I know it will turn out terribly and I'm dangerous with tools
58. I applied to Yale on a dare and got in
57. I never told my parents because I knew we couldn't afford it
56. I regret not going there
55. I majored in theatrical design in college (because that's dead useful)
54. I was 18 when I lost my virginity
53. I kept a journal for 5 years when I was in HS and college
52. I get embarrassed when I read what I wrote
51. I treat my dogs like they are children
50. I can't believe I've still got 50 more to go
49. I hate the beach
48. I'm not a fan of summer
47. I love to watch the Biggest Loser and eat while doing so
46. I've been to Paris 5 times
45. I wear jeans almost every day if I can
44. Live fish scare me
43. I was on my HS literary magazine staff
42. I hate literary magazines because I often think they're pretentious
41. I can't hold my liquor
40. I love British History
39. Using cash feels weird
38. I talk too much
37. Sometimes I try to stop talking, but just can't
36. I cheated on my HS boyfriend and still feel a guilty. And yes, I told him about it.
35. Pompeii is number one on my list of places I want to see
34. I wish I spoke another language
33. I'm too lazy to learn one
32. Fall is my favorite time of year
31. Winter is my second favorite
30. Flying makes me sick
29. Ditto trains, cars and roller coasters, but not boats
28. I love roller coasters
27. I like how Willfurd Brimley practically yells at diabetics on those commercials
26. I watch way too much TV
25. My TV is almost always on because I've never seen anyone murdered in a movie while watching TV, so I figure if my TV is on, I'm safe
24. I read about 2-3 books a week
23. I'd probably be a millionaire if I borrowed books from the library instead of buying them
22. I've read all the Harry Potter books more than once
21. I got my last 4 HP books at midnight parties and read through the night to finish them
20. I got book 5 free because I came in second in a trivia contest. I lost first place to a 10 year old. The question I missed was from the movies, not the books though, so in my mind we tied.
19. I love clothes, but don't feel comfortable in trendy clothes
18. I've seen Les Mis 5 times and I cry every time
17. I wish I were a more creative cook
16. I own more than 40 pairs of shoes and love really high heels
15. I wish I lived in a large city
14. I know a million useless bits of trivia
13. I didn't think this list would be so hard
12. I see a shrink (shocking, I know)
11. Cereal is my favorite food in the world, despite the fact that I dislike milk (except in cereal)
And now for the 10 questions from the actor's studio:
10. What is your favorite word? Baronial
9. What is your least favorite word? Cocoa
8. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Burning candles
7. What turns you off? Bad smells
6. What is your favorite curse word? Damn
5. What noise or sound do you love? My son singing a song he's made up
4. What noise or sound do you hate? Scraping
3. What profession other than your own would you like to pursue? Editing
2. What profession would you not like to do? Nursing
1. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? "That'll do," accompanied by a slight smile, a head nod and perhaps a fruity drink with an umbrella
All the "cool bloggers" are doing the top 100, so I thought I'd post mine:
100. I am a true Aries.
99. I love Matt Lauer
98. I'm incredibly into the whole Today Throws a Wedding, though I never vote
97. Motorcyclists who don't wear helmets piss me off
96. I secretly hate the cool bloggers.
95. When I was in the 9th grade I changed a grade on my report card and my parents never knew (unless they read this blog).
94. I traded my BMW for a Volvo, and now sometimes wish I still had the BMW, even though I like the Volvo better
93. Feet creep me out
92. I couldn't watch the 2nd or 3rd LOTR movies because I spent the entire first movie staring at the hobbit's furry feet and it grossed me out
93. I've had McDonalds in 5 countries outside of the US. I'm not proud of this.
92. I wish I were taller
91. I've never been to Vegas
90. I hate chocolate ice cream
89. I think chiffon is a crime against humanity (unless you're Ginger Rogers and in a 1930's or 40's movie)
88. I've stood on the Prime Meridian
89. I don't eat anything with 4 legs
88. I'm not a fan of poultry either, but I'll eat it on occasion
87. Really skinny people frighten me because I wonder where their organs are
86. I'm obsessed (OBSESSED!) with home makeover and house flipping shows
85. Red is my favorite color
84. My grandfather was born in 1899 and when I was little I thought he was the oldest person in the world
83. I read all of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books in less than 3 weeks (there are 13)
82. I started going grey around the age of 28
81. I got boobs the same time I started going grey and think it might have been some sort of trade off
80. I'm trying to be brief here, but find it incredibly hard. I always want to elaborate.
79. I was totally boy crazy in HS, so it's probably a good thing I went to an all girls school
78. My first car was a 1990 red Chevy Cavalier.
77. I still have the window sticker from my first car (it cost $9K)
76. I've driven on the Autobahn
75. I think speed limits suck
74. I've seen Strictly Ballroom about 20 times
73. Holiday Inn is my favorite movie
72. I think if you don't cry at the end of Going My Way, you're dead inside
71. I adore Bing Crosby
70. I hate when black and white movies are colorized
69. Typing this number made me snicker (because inside I'm still a stupid teenager)
68. I love plants and flowers, but do not have a green thumb
67. I cry every time I see a military homecoming
66. No one ever spells my name correctly
65. Because my parents spelled it weird (thanks guys)
64. I love the Regency period
63. I've seen the 6 hour BBC Pride and Prejudice at least 10 times
62. I long to be a published writer
61. I'm incredibly lazy about my writing
60. I've started, but not finished, 5 novels
59. I constantly have the urge to build a headboard out of plywood, chair padding and fabric, even though I know it will turn out terribly and I'm dangerous with tools
58. I applied to Yale on a dare and got in
57. I never told my parents because I knew we couldn't afford it
56. I regret not going there
55. I majored in theatrical design in college (because that's dead useful)
54. I was 18 when I lost my virginity
53. I kept a journal for 5 years when I was in HS and college
52. I get embarrassed when I read what I wrote
51. I treat my dogs like they are children
50. I can't believe I've still got 50 more to go
49. I hate the beach
48. I'm not a fan of summer
47. I love to watch the Biggest Loser and eat while doing so
46. I've been to Paris 5 times
45. I wear jeans almost every day if I can
44. Live fish scare me
43. I was on my HS literary magazine staff
42. I hate literary magazines because I often think they're pretentious
41. I can't hold my liquor
40. I love British History
39. Using cash feels weird
38. I talk too much
37. Sometimes I try to stop talking, but just can't
36. I cheated on my HS boyfriend and still feel a guilty. And yes, I told him about it.
35. Pompeii is number one on my list of places I want to see
34. I wish I spoke another language
33. I'm too lazy to learn one
32. Fall is my favorite time of year
31. Winter is my second favorite
30. Flying makes me sick
29. Ditto trains, cars and roller coasters, but not boats
28. I love roller coasters
27. I like how Willfurd Brimley practically yells at diabetics on those commercials
26. I watch way too much TV
25. My TV is almost always on because I've never seen anyone murdered in a movie while watching TV, so I figure if my TV is on, I'm safe
24. I read about 2-3 books a week
23. I'd probably be a millionaire if I borrowed books from the library instead of buying them
22. I've read all the Harry Potter books more than once
21. I got my last 4 HP books at midnight parties and read through the night to finish them
20. I got book 5 free because I came in second in a trivia contest. I lost first place to a 10 year old. The question I missed was from the movies, not the books though, so in my mind we tied.
19. I love clothes, but don't feel comfortable in trendy clothes
18. I've seen Les Mis 5 times and I cry every time
17. I wish I were a more creative cook
16. I own more than 40 pairs of shoes and love really high heels
15. I wish I lived in a large city
14. I know a million useless bits of trivia
13. I didn't think this list would be so hard
12. I see a shrink (shocking, I know)
11. Cereal is my favorite food in the world, despite the fact that I dislike milk (except in cereal)
And now for the 10 questions from the actor's studio:
10. What is your favorite word? Baronial
9. What is your least favorite word? Cocoa
8. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Burning candles
7. What turns you off? Bad smells
6. What is your favorite curse word? Damn
5. What noise or sound do you love? My son singing a song he's made up
4. What noise or sound do you hate? Scraping
3. What profession other than your own would you like to pursue? Editing
2. What profession would you not like to do? Nursing
1. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? "That'll do," accompanied by a slight smile, a head nod and perhaps a fruity drink with an umbrella
Putting your pants on the wrong way
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted September 10, 2007
Have you ever put your pants on the wrong way? I'm not talking about backwards here, I'm not 5, so stop your snickering. What I mean is the way you put them on. I always put my right leg in first, followed by my left, but for some unkown reason, one day I put the left leg in first, then the right. It was weird and wrong. I immediately felt the strangeness of standing with my left leg in the pants and my right not. Freaky. If you've ever done it, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The whole day felt strange and I wondered if it was because I had somehow screwed up what is essentially part of a daily ritual. Professional sports players have rituals where they do certain things certain ways before every game, and many people do exactly the same thing in the same order before a big test or presentation, hoping that because they did it before and had good luck, the same thing will happen again. By putting my pants on the wrong way I somehow screwed up my karmic energy and my day was just slightly off kilter. The next day, I made sure I put them on the normal way (right leg, then left), and all was well. If you haven't ever put your pants on the wrong way, try it tomorow. You'll see I'm right.
Have you ever put your pants on the wrong way? I'm not talking about backwards here, I'm not 5, so stop your snickering. What I mean is the way you put them on. I always put my right leg in first, followed by my left, but for some unkown reason, one day I put the left leg in first, then the right. It was weird and wrong. I immediately felt the strangeness of standing with my left leg in the pants and my right not. Freaky. If you've ever done it, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The whole day felt strange and I wondered if it was because I had somehow screwed up what is essentially part of a daily ritual. Professional sports players have rituals where they do certain things certain ways before every game, and many people do exactly the same thing in the same order before a big test or presentation, hoping that because they did it before and had good luck, the same thing will happen again. By putting my pants on the wrong way I somehow screwed up my karmic energy and my day was just slightly off kilter. The next day, I made sure I put them on the normal way (right leg, then left), and all was well. If you haven't ever put your pants on the wrong way, try it tomorow. You'll see I'm right.
First Day of School
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted August 22, 2007
My baby started kindergarten today. He was so excited, but I drug my feet up the stairs like I was going to meet my executioner. I didn't want him to go to school. He's been going to daycare for the last 2 years, so I was used to him being away from me and vice versa, but daycare and school are two entirely different things. Daycare is for babies and toddlers. School is for kids who are growing up. Last night we checked all his school supplies (again), made sure his uniform was ready (again), and talked about all the cool things he'd be doing (again). When I tucked him in, I knew it was the last time I was tucking in my baby. Today he would be a big boy.
He bounded out of bed early this morning and told me he needed to get dressed and go right away. I convinced him that he really needed to eat and brush his teeth first, but as soon as these were accomplished he was pulling on his clothes, grabbing his 'packpack' and tapping his foot by the front door. If he wore a watch I swear he would have been tapping a finger on the face of it and clearing his throat. When we got to school, he walked in, said hello to his teacher, look curiously at the other kids in his class (many of whom were crying) and started pulling out crayons to color the page she'd placed on his little desk. I took a ton of photos (Of his desk, his cubby, the picture he was coloring, anything I could think of really), until it was eventually time for me to leave. He gave me a hug and kiss and asked if I was going to pick him up after school (I assured him I would) and then he told me he'd see me later. I was dismissed. By a 5 year old. I walked slowly down the hall and steps and somehow managed to get myself into my car with relatively dry eyes. Once the car door was firmly closed I broke down and cried. Cried for myself, not him. I know kids are supposed to go to school, but it wasn't supposed to happen so soon. Today he took the first steps towards leaving and going on with his own life. Oh, I know we have many more years before he actually goes away to college (and there will probably be plenty of days when I can't wait for college), but today marked the begining of a new life for him. A life that would take him a little further from me with every day that passes. I am incredibly proud of him and how well he handled his first day at school, and knew this was inevitable, but part of me longs for that little baby and toddler who was happiest when he was with me and there was nothing to do, but play, sing and cuddle.
My baby started kindergarten today. He was so excited, but I drug my feet up the stairs like I was going to meet my executioner. I didn't want him to go to school. He's been going to daycare for the last 2 years, so I was used to him being away from me and vice versa, but daycare and school are two entirely different things. Daycare is for babies and toddlers. School is for kids who are growing up. Last night we checked all his school supplies (again), made sure his uniform was ready (again), and talked about all the cool things he'd be doing (again). When I tucked him in, I knew it was the last time I was tucking in my baby. Today he would be a big boy.
He bounded out of bed early this morning and told me he needed to get dressed and go right away. I convinced him that he really needed to eat and brush his teeth first, but as soon as these were accomplished he was pulling on his clothes, grabbing his 'packpack' and tapping his foot by the front door. If he wore a watch I swear he would have been tapping a finger on the face of it and clearing his throat. When we got to school, he walked in, said hello to his teacher, look curiously at the other kids in his class (many of whom were crying) and started pulling out crayons to color the page she'd placed on his little desk. I took a ton of photos (Of his desk, his cubby, the picture he was coloring, anything I could think of really), until it was eventually time for me to leave. He gave me a hug and kiss and asked if I was going to pick him up after school (I assured him I would) and then he told me he'd see me later. I was dismissed. By a 5 year old. I walked slowly down the hall and steps and somehow managed to get myself into my car with relatively dry eyes. Once the car door was firmly closed I broke down and cried. Cried for myself, not him. I know kids are supposed to go to school, but it wasn't supposed to happen so soon. Today he took the first steps towards leaving and going on with his own life. Oh, I know we have many more years before he actually goes away to college (and there will probably be plenty of days when I can't wait for college), but today marked the begining of a new life for him. A life that would take him a little further from me with every day that passes. I am incredibly proud of him and how well he handled his first day at school, and knew this was inevitable, but part of me longs for that little baby and toddler who was happiest when he was with me and there was nothing to do, but play, sing and cuddle.
And so it ends...
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted July 24, 2007
I admit it, I was one of those crazy people at a book store Friday night waiting to get my hands on a copy of the last Harry Potter book. I was number 17 out of more than 500, mostly adults. When the clock struck midnight, a great cheer went up and the clerks began opeing the boxes and passing out books. I was out the door at 12:04am and at home reading by 12:15. Stopping only to catch a few hours of much needed sleep and trivial things like food, I closed the back cover at 2pm the next afternoon. The book was fantastic and felt like reading an action movie, but when it was over, I felt, as many other fans have expressed, sad because it was over. Many of the readers have been with the series for 7-10 years and after having read more than 4000 pages felt these characters were friends and reading the final chapter was something of a loss. Some people I know have termed it PPD-Post Potter Depression and I wonder if perhaps psychologist offices won't soon be flooded with its sufferers.
It seems silly to a lot of people to be so attached to a series of books, but it was nice to see young people reading such huge books and being excited about the next installment. It was fun to go to midnight parties and speculate what would happen and it was nice to see people line up for a book instead of a video game or a phone. If JK Rowling has accomplished one thing, it was to instill a love of reading in many, both children and adults and she should be commended for it. And now, I'm off to mourn not only the characters who died but the end of an era.
I admit it, I was one of those crazy people at a book store Friday night waiting to get my hands on a copy of the last Harry Potter book. I was number 17 out of more than 500, mostly adults. When the clock struck midnight, a great cheer went up and the clerks began opeing the boxes and passing out books. I was out the door at 12:04am and at home reading by 12:15. Stopping only to catch a few hours of much needed sleep and trivial things like food, I closed the back cover at 2pm the next afternoon. The book was fantastic and felt like reading an action movie, but when it was over, I felt, as many other fans have expressed, sad because it was over. Many of the readers have been with the series for 7-10 years and after having read more than 4000 pages felt these characters were friends and reading the final chapter was something of a loss. Some people I know have termed it PPD-Post Potter Depression and I wonder if perhaps psychologist offices won't soon be flooded with its sufferers.
It seems silly to a lot of people to be so attached to a series of books, but it was nice to see young people reading such huge books and being excited about the next installment. It was fun to go to midnight parties and speculate what would happen and it was nice to see people line up for a book instead of a video game or a phone. If JK Rowling has accomplished one thing, it was to instill a love of reading in many, both children and adults and she should be commended for it. And now, I'm off to mourn not only the characters who died but the end of an era.
Fair's fair
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted June 9, 2007
Yesterday my sinuses were causing me all sorts of trouble, so I did what any other red blooded American would do: I vegged on the sofa, moaned and channel surfed. Well really, what else is there to do when you feel like your skull is 2 sizes too large for your skin? While flipping through the 525 channels of absolutely nothing, I had a sneezing fit (so not sexy) and had stopped on the Maury Povich Show. Ah, how the mighty have fallen. The show was about men who wanted their wives to be made over into sexy vixens. Well, damn, I had to watch that! I sat through an entire hour of man after man bitching and moaning about how his wife had let herself go and blah, blah, blah. Now I have to admit, this is a big pet peeve of mine. Why is it that women think after they're married or in a long term relationship that it's okay to stop taking care of themselves? Seriously, brush your damn hair and get out of the sweats! My problem with the show was that every man on there wanted his wife to look like Angelina Jolie, but guess what? None of them looked like Brad Pitt. This is where the show made me mad. Men, even older men expect women to look like the skinny girls in the magazine (even though we all know they're airbrushed and electronically enhanced), but it's perfectly fine for them to get the beer belly, a permanant 8 o'clock shadow (5 o'clock shadow can be sexy, but 8 o'clock-not so much), and think that belching and farting is funny.
The average American woman is currently a size 12-14, which is far larger than the models that grace the cover of Maxim. Men don't want the average woman though, they want the Maxim girl. The average American male, by the way is 5'9 and weighs in at 180 pounds. That's hardly svelt boys.
I have nothing against someone wanting their partner to look good, but fair's fair. If men want women to look like Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba, then they need to hit the gym and come home looking like Brad Pitt or George Cloony.
Yesterday my sinuses were causing me all sorts of trouble, so I did what any other red blooded American would do: I vegged on the sofa, moaned and channel surfed. Well really, what else is there to do when you feel like your skull is 2 sizes too large for your skin? While flipping through the 525 channels of absolutely nothing, I had a sneezing fit (so not sexy) and had stopped on the Maury Povich Show. Ah, how the mighty have fallen. The show was about men who wanted their wives to be made over into sexy vixens. Well, damn, I had to watch that! I sat through an entire hour of man after man bitching and moaning about how his wife had let herself go and blah, blah, blah. Now I have to admit, this is a big pet peeve of mine. Why is it that women think after they're married or in a long term relationship that it's okay to stop taking care of themselves? Seriously, brush your damn hair and get out of the sweats! My problem with the show was that every man on there wanted his wife to look like Angelina Jolie, but guess what? None of them looked like Brad Pitt. This is where the show made me mad. Men, even older men expect women to look like the skinny girls in the magazine (even though we all know they're airbrushed and electronically enhanced), but it's perfectly fine for them to get the beer belly, a permanant 8 o'clock shadow (5 o'clock shadow can be sexy, but 8 o'clock-not so much), and think that belching and farting is funny.
The average American woman is currently a size 12-14, which is far larger than the models that grace the cover of Maxim. Men don't want the average woman though, they want the Maxim girl. The average American male, by the way is 5'9 and weighs in at 180 pounds. That's hardly svelt boys.
I have nothing against someone wanting their partner to look good, but fair's fair. If men want women to look like Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba, then they need to hit the gym and come home looking like Brad Pitt or George Cloony.
Prom-2 legit
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted May 14, 2007
I imagine that prom season must be the bread and butter of limo companies. All year, it's maybe a wedding or bachelorette party here and there, but come prom seaon: boom! Money, money,money, money! (You're going to be singing that all night, now, aren't you?) They are doing well right now as we seem to be smack in the middle of yet another year of proms. I've seen teenage girls at the nail salons getting their tips and toes done to match their dresses and sheepish looking boys stopping at the tux shop in the mall to pick up whatever is deemed fashionable this year. I've seen them all dressed up pretending to be adult at many restaurants around town and climbing in and out of the afore mentioned limos, trying to look like they know what they're doing. They're all so damn cute. I want to tell them to take lots of pictures and write down as much as they can in their journals or on their blogs, because prom really is an awesome thing.
My own prom (now 16 years ago this month) was held at the Metropolitan Club in the Sears Tower. It was amazing fun. The search for the perfect dress dominated all conversations my friends and I had in the months leading up to prom. Mine was a red strapless number with three tiers of ruffles to the knees (sadly, straight floor length gowns were not at all the thing in 1991). I had dyed to match shoes and handbag, a red and black prom garter with a charm engraved with the date and my and my dates initials, and spent 3 hours getting ready on the day of the big event. My date wore black peg pants (Hammer pants for those of you who remember back that far), a red tie and cummerbund and white tails. He was the epitome of 1991 cool. And I thought the cutest thing I'd ever seen. After a million photos at my house (which I am now grateful for), we drove to my friend's house and took more photos and hopped into a white stretch limo (4 couples total) and headed to downtown Chicago. The theme was Moondance (a song by Van Morrison that the DJ did NOT have). Dinner was served after we'd all had plenty of time to compliment (real or fake) everyone we knew on her dress and date (I went to an all girls school) and then we danced to all the popular songs (and yes,did all the embarassing dances), made out and had what we thought was a very grown up good time. After the prom we took a carriage ride through downtown, made out some more, and then the limo took us all back to my friend's house where we changed clothes, ate pizza and watched movies until dawn (mostly though we made out in seperate corners under blankets). At dawn the Mother's Club set up a sunrise breakfast on the Lake Forest beach and we all headed over for more fun, including romping on the beach, playing at the playground and making out where the chaperones couldn't see us (see a pattern here?). I made it home around noon and collapsed onto my bed fully clothed and slept until 8 or 9 that night when I had to get up and tell my mom everything (except the making out bits, though I'm sure she probably knew). Prom is one of those nights you dont forget. It's the last dance you go to during high school, and a last chance to party with friends you're not likely to see much of after graduation and an important part of American teen culture. Sixteen years after my own prom, I can recall it with vivid clarity, as though it were just yesterday and cherish the memories (big hair, pouffy dress and all). When I see the modern day prom goers I always smile and think back to my own special night and hope they have as much fun as I did.
I imagine that prom season must be the bread and butter of limo companies. All year, it's maybe a wedding or bachelorette party here and there, but come prom seaon: boom! Money, money,money, money! (You're going to be singing that all night, now, aren't you?) They are doing well right now as we seem to be smack in the middle of yet another year of proms. I've seen teenage girls at the nail salons getting their tips and toes done to match their dresses and sheepish looking boys stopping at the tux shop in the mall to pick up whatever is deemed fashionable this year. I've seen them all dressed up pretending to be adult at many restaurants around town and climbing in and out of the afore mentioned limos, trying to look like they know what they're doing. They're all so damn cute. I want to tell them to take lots of pictures and write down as much as they can in their journals or on their blogs, because prom really is an awesome thing.
My own prom (now 16 years ago this month) was held at the Metropolitan Club in the Sears Tower. It was amazing fun. The search for the perfect dress dominated all conversations my friends and I had in the months leading up to prom. Mine was a red strapless number with three tiers of ruffles to the knees (sadly, straight floor length gowns were not at all the thing in 1991). I had dyed to match shoes and handbag, a red and black prom garter with a charm engraved with the date and my and my dates initials, and spent 3 hours getting ready on the day of the big event. My date wore black peg pants (Hammer pants for those of you who remember back that far), a red tie and cummerbund and white tails. He was the epitome of 1991 cool. And I thought the cutest thing I'd ever seen. After a million photos at my house (which I am now grateful for), we drove to my friend's house and took more photos and hopped into a white stretch limo (4 couples total) and headed to downtown Chicago. The theme was Moondance (a song by Van Morrison that the DJ did NOT have). Dinner was served after we'd all had plenty of time to compliment (real or fake) everyone we knew on her dress and date (I went to an all girls school) and then we danced to all the popular songs (and yes,did all the embarassing dances), made out and had what we thought was a very grown up good time. After the prom we took a carriage ride through downtown, made out some more, and then the limo took us all back to my friend's house where we changed clothes, ate pizza and watched movies until dawn (mostly though we made out in seperate corners under blankets). At dawn the Mother's Club set up a sunrise breakfast on the Lake Forest beach and we all headed over for more fun, including romping on the beach, playing at the playground and making out where the chaperones couldn't see us (see a pattern here?). I made it home around noon and collapsed onto my bed fully clothed and slept until 8 or 9 that night when I had to get up and tell my mom everything (except the making out bits, though I'm sure she probably knew). Prom is one of those nights you dont forget. It's the last dance you go to during high school, and a last chance to party with friends you're not likely to see much of after graduation and an important part of American teen culture. Sixteen years after my own prom, I can recall it with vivid clarity, as though it were just yesterday and cherish the memories (big hair, pouffy dress and all). When I see the modern day prom goers I always smile and think back to my own special night and hope they have as much fun as I did.
Smoking of the fitness trail
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 25, 2007
I walk almost every morning at a park near my house (weather permitting, then it's to the boring gym). I like the park, because it's pretty and outdoors and there's lots of interesting things (like crazy geese who will run at you if you get to close to....something, I'm not sure what) and of course there are the people. I love to people watch and the park is a great place to do so. I've seen moms with little tiny babies in strollers, older people, overwight people, skinny people, young people jogging (inside I hate them because I can't run too-damn bad knee), and all sorts of other random people out and about walking the trail, feeding the geese and ducks or just enjoying the weather. Yesterday I passed an portly older man walking with a cup of coffee. I found this amusing for some reason and went around him as he was walking at something slightly slower than a stroll. A while later I noticed he was somehow in front of me again (shortcut!) and there was a weird smell. I thought it was just something in the air until I got closer and realized not only was he still drinking his morning coffee, but now puffing away on a smelly cigar. My first thought was ewwww. I hate smoking in any form, but to smoke on a fitness trail? Pure sacrilige. Anyone who got near Fidel instantly started hacking and coughing (seriously-imagine briskly walking or even running into a big cloud of thick cigar smoke-gross!). They all increased their speed to get around him as quickly as possible, most waving thier hands in fron tof them to ward off the offending smell. I wonder what could have possesed him to smoke on a fitness trail? I mean the word 'fitness' is right there in the title! It's not like it's a big secret. Oh, sorry, this is a fitness trail? Silly me! If you're tying to get fit, I applaud you, but please, save your smoking for a more appropriate place.
I walk almost every morning at a park near my house (weather permitting, then it's to the boring gym). I like the park, because it's pretty and outdoors and there's lots of interesting things (like crazy geese who will run at you if you get to close to....something, I'm not sure what) and of course there are the people. I love to people watch and the park is a great place to do so. I've seen moms with little tiny babies in strollers, older people, overwight people, skinny people, young people jogging (inside I hate them because I can't run too-damn bad knee), and all sorts of other random people out and about walking the trail, feeding the geese and ducks or just enjoying the weather. Yesterday I passed an portly older man walking with a cup of coffee. I found this amusing for some reason and went around him as he was walking at something slightly slower than a stroll. A while later I noticed he was somehow in front of me again (shortcut!) and there was a weird smell. I thought it was just something in the air until I got closer and realized not only was he still drinking his morning coffee, but now puffing away on a smelly cigar. My first thought was ewwww. I hate smoking in any form, but to smoke on a fitness trail? Pure sacrilige. Anyone who got near Fidel instantly started hacking and coughing (seriously-imagine briskly walking or even running into a big cloud of thick cigar smoke-gross!). They all increased their speed to get around him as quickly as possible, most waving thier hands in fron tof them to ward off the offending smell. I wonder what could have possesed him to smoke on a fitness trail? I mean the word 'fitness' is right there in the title! It's not like it's a big secret. Oh, sorry, this is a fitness trail? Silly me! If you're tying to get fit, I applaud you, but please, save your smoking for a more appropriate place.
Coloring inside the lines
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 17, 2007
My son's preschool has started sending home homework recently. Yes, preschool. Yes, homework. It's pretty simple stuff (mostly coloring certain letters different colors and writing one capital and one lower case letter) and he loves to do it, so I don't mind, other than, well, he's 4 and it seems awfully young for homework. He's so proud of himself every night after he's finished and has written his "F" and "f" and colored the picture of a fish or whatever that days letter happens to be, that I go along with it and tell him he's a genius (which secretly, I think he might be, but then again, I am his mom, so I could be the tiniest bit biased). He gets his homework back at the end of every day with a "Good Job" and a sticker on it, which is really the big payoff, but one day about 2 weeks ago, I got a small note attached to his homework that read: Mom, he really needs to work on staying inside the lines. At first I thought, yeah, he does, and we worked very hard on coloring inside the lines, despite the fact that this made homework far less fun and much more like, well, homework. I watched him every night, small pink tongue poking out slightly between pursed lips, firece concentration on his face, and a fat crayon clutched ever so tightly in his little hand, and thought, Why? He's only 4, why does he have to color inside the lines? Coloring inside the lines was frustrating for him and heartbreaking for me to watch as I could see the look of disappointment cross his face every time he went over one of those sacred lines. I finally decided I'd had enough; he'd had enough. Damn the lines, damn the teachers, grab those crayons and go wild! He has the rest of his life to worry about staying inside the lines, so why shouldn't I let him be a kid now and color wherever he wants (within reason of course, I am NOT about scrubbing crayon from walls, though he's never even attempted it)? The first day we took his homework in with colors here and there, and bleeding into each other, I attached a note to it for the teacher that read: I know he's colored outside the lines and I'm cool with it. He's very proud of his work. Think of it as impressionism ~Mom
My son's preschool has started sending home homework recently. Yes, preschool. Yes, homework. It's pretty simple stuff (mostly coloring certain letters different colors and writing one capital and one lower case letter) and he loves to do it, so I don't mind, other than, well, he's 4 and it seems awfully young for homework. He's so proud of himself every night after he's finished and has written his "F" and "f" and colored the picture of a fish or whatever that days letter happens to be, that I go along with it and tell him he's a genius (which secretly, I think he might be, but then again, I am his mom, so I could be the tiniest bit biased). He gets his homework back at the end of every day with a "Good Job" and a sticker on it, which is really the big payoff, but one day about 2 weeks ago, I got a small note attached to his homework that read: Mom, he really needs to work on staying inside the lines. At first I thought, yeah, he does, and we worked very hard on coloring inside the lines, despite the fact that this made homework far less fun and much more like, well, homework. I watched him every night, small pink tongue poking out slightly between pursed lips, firece concentration on his face, and a fat crayon clutched ever so tightly in his little hand, and thought, Why? He's only 4, why does he have to color inside the lines? Coloring inside the lines was frustrating for him and heartbreaking for me to watch as I could see the look of disappointment cross his face every time he went over one of those sacred lines. I finally decided I'd had enough; he'd had enough. Damn the lines, damn the teachers, grab those crayons and go wild! He has the rest of his life to worry about staying inside the lines, so why shouldn't I let him be a kid now and color wherever he wants (within reason of course, I am NOT about scrubbing crayon from walls, though he's never even attempted it)? The first day we took his homework in with colors here and there, and bleeding into each other, I attached a note to it for the teacher that read: I know he's colored outside the lines and I'm cool with it. He's very proud of his work. Think of it as impressionism ~Mom
Fergie Rules
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 12, 2007
Some morning DJ was griping and moaning about many modern pop stars today and seems to have some personal beef with Fergie (of the Black Eyed Peas, not the Duchess of York). He went on and on about how she (and other pop stars) are turning teenage girls into a bunch of stupid tramps (their words, not mine). Now hold on a second! Sure, Brittany and Paris are trampy (and dillusional about their own popularity IMHO), and Christina used to be naughty, but now thinks she lives in the 1950's (and that she is black), but Fergie? Come one, she provides a valuable service. She has single handedly taught thousands of vacuous teenagers that there is something called the London Bridge (though they don't know why it wants to go down) and how to spell "delicious" and "glamorous" and her own name (she should look up tasty though, as there is no "e" in it the last time I checked). How may other current musicians can claim such loft educational additions to their music? Sure, the Bay City Rollers taught everyone in the 70's how to spell "Saturday" and Tommy Tutone helped us all to remember Jenny's phone number (867-5309eyiyine), but that was what? 25-30 years ago! Fergie is picking up the slack right now. If a girl wants to be delicious and glamourous (and really, who doesn't?) she should at least know how to spell them. Lay off Fergie morning DJ, she's making spelling cool.
Historical Note: The bridge shown in Fergie's video for "London Bridge" is actually Tower Bridge (though most people think it's London Bridge). The actual London Bridge (or at least the version built in the early 1800's) now resides in Lake Havasue, AZ. New London Bridge (built to replace Old London Bridge which was more than 600 years by 1800) could not support the weight of an early 1900's expansion nor the ever increasing traffic over the Thames River and was sinking at a rate of 1 inch every eight years. In the 1960's the City of London decided to sell New London Bridge and replace it with a more modern structure. When the bridge was dismantled, each piece was numbered and shipped to Lake Havasue where it was reassembled and is now the second biggest tourist attraction behine the Grand Canyon. Now you know.
Some morning DJ was griping and moaning about many modern pop stars today and seems to have some personal beef with Fergie (of the Black Eyed Peas, not the Duchess of York). He went on and on about how she (and other pop stars) are turning teenage girls into a bunch of stupid tramps (their words, not mine). Now hold on a second! Sure, Brittany and Paris are trampy (and dillusional about their own popularity IMHO), and Christina used to be naughty, but now thinks she lives in the 1950's (and that she is black), but Fergie? Come one, she provides a valuable service. She has single handedly taught thousands of vacuous teenagers that there is something called the London Bridge (though they don't know why it wants to go down) and how to spell "delicious" and "glamorous" and her own name (she should look up tasty though, as there is no "e" in it the last time I checked). How may other current musicians can claim such loft educational additions to their music? Sure, the Bay City Rollers taught everyone in the 70's how to spell "Saturday" and Tommy Tutone helped us all to remember Jenny's phone number (867-5309eyiyine), but that was what? 25-30 years ago! Fergie is picking up the slack right now. If a girl wants to be delicious and glamourous (and really, who doesn't?) she should at least know how to spell them. Lay off Fergie morning DJ, she's making spelling cool.
Historical Note: The bridge shown in Fergie's video for "London Bridge" is actually Tower Bridge (though most people think it's London Bridge). The actual London Bridge (or at least the version built in the early 1800's) now resides in Lake Havasue, AZ. New London Bridge (built to replace Old London Bridge which was more than 600 years by 1800) could not support the weight of an early 1900's expansion nor the ever increasing traffic over the Thames River and was sinking at a rate of 1 inch every eight years. In the 1960's the City of London decided to sell New London Bridge and replace it with a more modern structure. When the bridge was dismantled, each piece was numbered and shipped to Lake Havasue where it was reassembled and is now the second biggest tourist attraction behine the Grand Canyon. Now you know.
My personal shame
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 11, 2007
It finally happened today. I don't know what went wrong. I was there, I knew what I wanted, knew what I needed, and yet, the passion had just...gone out of me. I could see it right in front of me, smell the sweet, pungent odor, and feel the warmth beneath my fingers, and yet, nothing. No excitement, no ripple of pleasure, no enthusiasm, no catch in my breath, no sigh of satisfaction. The horror of what was happening hit me with a force that nearly knocked me over. I tried so hard to work up some excitement, but I simply had no desire. I was defeated and bored. I wasn't interested in buying shoes! Tragic isn't it?
I had heard this could happen. Heard stories of friends who had had the same problem but never thought it could happen to me. The thought was positively laughable. I had done it so many times in the past without thinking it was almost second nature. I had practically turned it into a sport. Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a professional shoe shopper. Hell, if it were an Olympic sport, I would take the gold every time (though I'd have to stay out of the pros to keep my eligibility). My friends envy me my endurance and enthusiasm. Today though I couldn't even make a qualifying round. I wanted to cry, but couldn't muster the strength. I was deflated; spent. I had failed. I couldn't find any shoes I was even interested in. The ennui was all encompassing.
So now my shame is laid bare for all the world to see: for the first time in my memory, I couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to buy new shoes. I stood there surrounded by thousands of pairs of beautiful, shiny, jeweled, heeled, glittery shoes, and I might as well have been staring at row after row of Birkenstocks or worse Crocks. It was such a shock to my system that I actually had to sit down on one of those low uncomfortable little benches with the mirrors I've used so many times to admire a pair of 4" heeled strappy sandals hugging my feet, showing off my arches to perfection and making my calves look like they should be showcased in an art exhibit. Shoes can change your whole day, your whole outlook and on a few occasions, even your whole life (trust me, every woman can tell you about the shoes that changed her life), so how could I fail to find something to make my heart skip a beat? Perhaps because I was there for the sole purpose (no pun intended) of buying new gym shoes. I've put a couple of hundred miles on mine and really need new ones, but they're just so boring to buy. Yeah, sure, they try to make them fun and fancy by adding color or even a bit of lamé piping, but this does NOT make them exciting (shoe companies take note: even with colored piping and holographic panels, they are still gym shoes and therefore dull). I left the store with no purchases (a first for me), but vowed to be back another day, debit card in hand and feet ready to be well shod, even if it is only to run around the track. With God as my witness I shall never leave a shoe store empty handed again! (My apologies to Margaret Mitchell).
It finally happened today. I don't know what went wrong. I was there, I knew what I wanted, knew what I needed, and yet, the passion had just...gone out of me. I could see it right in front of me, smell the sweet, pungent odor, and feel the warmth beneath my fingers, and yet, nothing. No excitement, no ripple of pleasure, no enthusiasm, no catch in my breath, no sigh of satisfaction. The horror of what was happening hit me with a force that nearly knocked me over. I tried so hard to work up some excitement, but I simply had no desire. I was defeated and bored. I wasn't interested in buying shoes! Tragic isn't it?
I had heard this could happen. Heard stories of friends who had had the same problem but never thought it could happen to me. The thought was positively laughable. I had done it so many times in the past without thinking it was almost second nature. I had practically turned it into a sport. Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a professional shoe shopper. Hell, if it were an Olympic sport, I would take the gold every time (though I'd have to stay out of the pros to keep my eligibility). My friends envy me my endurance and enthusiasm. Today though I couldn't even make a qualifying round. I wanted to cry, but couldn't muster the strength. I was deflated; spent. I had failed. I couldn't find any shoes I was even interested in. The ennui was all encompassing.
So now my shame is laid bare for all the world to see: for the first time in my memory, I couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to buy new shoes. I stood there surrounded by thousands of pairs of beautiful, shiny, jeweled, heeled, glittery shoes, and I might as well have been staring at row after row of Birkenstocks or worse Crocks. It was such a shock to my system that I actually had to sit down on one of those low uncomfortable little benches with the mirrors I've used so many times to admire a pair of 4" heeled strappy sandals hugging my feet, showing off my arches to perfection and making my calves look like they should be showcased in an art exhibit. Shoes can change your whole day, your whole outlook and on a few occasions, even your whole life (trust me, every woman can tell you about the shoes that changed her life), so how could I fail to find something to make my heart skip a beat? Perhaps because I was there for the sole purpose (no pun intended) of buying new gym shoes. I've put a couple of hundred miles on mine and really need new ones, but they're just so boring to buy. Yeah, sure, they try to make them fun and fancy by adding color or even a bit of lamé piping, but this does NOT make them exciting (shoe companies take note: even with colored piping and holographic panels, they are still gym shoes and therefore dull). I left the store with no purchases (a first for me), but vowed to be back another day, debit card in hand and feet ready to be well shod, even if it is only to run around the track. With God as my witness I shall never leave a shoe store empty handed again! (My apologies to Margaret Mitchell).
Just a number-gettin golder is awesome
Transferred from myspace. Originally posted April 9, 2007.
I turned thirty-four at the end of last month. 34! I know! When I was a teenager, the thought of being thirty (let alone thirty-four) was terrifying. Thirty was old. Practically infirm. Who wanted to be thirty? Blech. All the good stuff in your life happened in your late teens and twenties, right? You graduated high school, got to vote for the first time, went away to college, got to drink (legally), graduated college, got your first job, got married (generally), bought a house, had kids and then you turned thirty. What was supposed to happen after thrity? PTA, soccer games, the minutia of daily life in the suburbs, and boredom. Wheee! Sign me up. The closer I got to the dreaded thirty though, the less it looked like the death sentence I'd once supposed it to be and the more it looked like something I wanted to explore. Well, really, what was the alternative? Once I actually hit the big 3-0 it wasn't awful. I actually kind of liked it. Thirty was bad ass! No one ever told me that in my thirties I'd be more comfortable in my own skin than I'd ever been before. No one ever told me that I'd be more confident or self assured or outspoken. My friends all felt the same after their milestone birthday. Why had we thought thirty was old? Thirty wasn't old. Thirty was awesome. It was like we had been let into some secret society where we could say what we wanted, be what we wanted, do what we wanted (and for some of my friends WHO they wanted), and not be worried about what anyone else thought. Hell, yeah! Thirty was not the kiss of death, but rather a pass into a world of possibilities. It's been said in recent years (mostly by Oprah and her over fifty crowd) that fifty is the new thirty, which would make all us thirty-somethings teenagers. Take that size 2 belly baring high schoolers! Guess what? We thirty-somethings can drink, have sex, buy expensive shoes, drive nice cars and we don't have to live with our parents or worry about acne. Haha! It's liberating and fun and seems to get better with each year. Thirty-four? Bring it on. Forty? I'll be seeing you in a few years. Get ready.
I turned thirty-four at the end of last month. 34! I know! When I was a teenager, the thought of being thirty (let alone thirty-four) was terrifying. Thirty was old. Practically infirm. Who wanted to be thirty? Blech. All the good stuff in your life happened in your late teens and twenties, right? You graduated high school, got to vote for the first time, went away to college, got to drink (legally), graduated college, got your first job, got married (generally), bought a house, had kids and then you turned thirty. What was supposed to happen after thrity? PTA, soccer games, the minutia of daily life in the suburbs, and boredom. Wheee! Sign me up. The closer I got to the dreaded thirty though, the less it looked like the death sentence I'd once supposed it to be and the more it looked like something I wanted to explore. Well, really, what was the alternative? Once I actually hit the big 3-0 it wasn't awful. I actually kind of liked it. Thirty was bad ass! No one ever told me that in my thirties I'd be more comfortable in my own skin than I'd ever been before. No one ever told me that I'd be more confident or self assured or outspoken. My friends all felt the same after their milestone birthday. Why had we thought thirty was old? Thirty wasn't old. Thirty was awesome. It was like we had been let into some secret society where we could say what we wanted, be what we wanted, do what we wanted (and for some of my friends WHO they wanted), and not be worried about what anyone else thought. Hell, yeah! Thirty was not the kiss of death, but rather a pass into a world of possibilities. It's been said in recent years (mostly by Oprah and her over fifty crowd) that fifty is the new thirty, which would make all us thirty-somethings teenagers. Take that size 2 belly baring high schoolers! Guess what? We thirty-somethings can drink, have sex, buy expensive shoes, drive nice cars and we don't have to live with our parents or worry about acne. Haha! It's liberating and fun and seems to get better with each year. Thirty-four? Bring it on. Forty? I'll be seeing you in a few years. Get ready.
The American Dream?
Transferred from mySpace:
ETA: I no longer own the BMW-I traded it for a Volvo
Did you know that you can now get washers and dryers in 'designer' colors? Seriously, designer color washers and dryers. WHY? We have gone from the land of plenty to the land of too damn much. The dealership where take my car for service has a car "spa." Car. Spa. For $500+ (depending on the model) you can get the top of the line service with q-tip detailing. Let me just say right now in the interest of full disclosure, that I do drive a BMW, so call me a hypocrite when it comes to my bitching here, but I have never, ever paid $500 to have my car detailed.
I look around every day and see expanding waist lines caused by bigger portions, bigger cars that use too much gas (and rarely carry more than 2 or 3 people despite the advent of 3rd row seating), and McMansions that are so big families can be in the same house and not even know it, and wonder what happened? Is that the American dream? Is this really what the founding fathers had in mind when they fled England over 2 centuries ago? A land full the of spoiled, fat and ignorant? How many Americans speak a foreign language? How many can barely speak their native tongue? How many know who the Prime Minister of Canada is? How many can even find Canada on a map?
Americans are beoming nationalists again, which as we discovered in the early 1940's can be very dangerous. For the most part, if it doesn't happen to us directly, we don't seem to care. Even Sept. 11 seems to have faded into a distant memory for most. Something we see on the news every few months and mark with a moment of silence on the anniversary. Dec 7 was a date that would live in infamy, but I bet you the majority of people under the age of 50 have almost no idea what happened that day. We simply have no respect for anything anymore.
The rest of the world is rapidly following our lead in consumerism and eating and values, which is quite possibly the biggest crime against humanity in history.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm not upset about being American and I'm not anti-American. Americans do a lot of good around the world. When disaster strikes another country, we're right there to help, even if no one ever remembers that. My problem is that we are a ridiculously wealthy country, but we have fallen somewhere along the way. I'm not talking about politics here, I'm talking about losing our core sense of self in this over driven over scheduled, over hectic lifestyle we lead thinking we're living the American dream. It's exhausting
ETA: I no longer own the BMW-I traded it for a Volvo
Did you know that you can now get washers and dryers in 'designer' colors? Seriously, designer color washers and dryers. WHY? We have gone from the land of plenty to the land of too damn much. The dealership where take my car for service has a car "spa." Car. Spa. For $500+ (depending on the model) you can get the top of the line service with q-tip detailing. Let me just say right now in the interest of full disclosure, that I do drive a BMW, so call me a hypocrite when it comes to my bitching here, but I have never, ever paid $500 to have my car detailed.
I look around every day and see expanding waist lines caused by bigger portions, bigger cars that use too much gas (and rarely carry more than 2 or 3 people despite the advent of 3rd row seating), and McMansions that are so big families can be in the same house and not even know it, and wonder what happened? Is that the American dream? Is this really what the founding fathers had in mind when they fled England over 2 centuries ago? A land full the of spoiled, fat and ignorant? How many Americans speak a foreign language? How many can barely speak their native tongue? How many know who the Prime Minister of Canada is? How many can even find Canada on a map?
Americans are beoming nationalists again, which as we discovered in the early 1940's can be very dangerous. For the most part, if it doesn't happen to us directly, we don't seem to care. Even Sept. 11 seems to have faded into a distant memory for most. Something we see on the news every few months and mark with a moment of silence on the anniversary. Dec 7 was a date that would live in infamy, but I bet you the majority of people under the age of 50 have almost no idea what happened that day. We simply have no respect for anything anymore.
The rest of the world is rapidly following our lead in consumerism and eating and values, which is quite possibly the biggest crime against humanity in history.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm not upset about being American and I'm not anti-American. Americans do a lot of good around the world. When disaster strikes another country, we're right there to help, even if no one ever remembers that. My problem is that we are a ridiculously wealthy country, but we have fallen somewhere along the way. I'm not talking about politics here, I'm talking about losing our core sense of self in this over driven over scheduled, over hectic lifestyle we lead thinking we're living the American dream. It's exhausting
I love Paris...exhibitionism
Transferred from myspace:
I love Paris in the spring time,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in the winter,
when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer,
when it sizzles....
After a few cocktails last night I came to a conclusion about blogs and why people write them: exhibitionism! Deep down, we're all exhibitionists and blogging is the easiest (and most discreet way) to go about it. Face it, we all want to be seen and heard, and blogging gives us the opportunity to do so without stepping out of our protective little world. I had my own thrilling, real-life exibitionist moment a few years ago in Paris that gave me a unique insight on all this. I didn't realize I was on exhibit in the begining, but when I did, I did nothing to stop it, and found it quite exciting.
Our hotel was a small one on a side street near the Gare du Nord, and so typically Frech it lacked only a mime in a striped shirt and red bandana to make it look like a movie set. The innkeeper completed the feel by wearing a beret, smoking like a chimney and stroking a black cat sitting next to him on the counter. Our room was on the third floor with two sets of French doors (I wonder if they just call them doors?) that opened to what was more a ledge than a balcony, but afforded us fantastic views of the bustling street and cafes below and geranium draped balconies and stovepipe chimneys of the apartment building across from us.
It was an unusually warm September and our hotel, like most in Europe had no air conditioning (air conditioning is the crutch of the American), so we kept our French doors opened to keep the room cool. After a day of sight seeing and trying desperately NOT to be the "dirty American" (living in Europe a few years it's easy to see how Americans get this reputation-nasty little buggers we can be), we went back to the hotel to shower and rest before a typically late Parisian dinner. During our rest, things began to get amorous (as they do in Paris) and it wasn't too long before we were stripped of clothes and frolicing on the bed. At some point, I turned my head towards the French doors and caught the eye of a tall, dark haired man standing on the balcony of the apartment directly opposite our room. My first reaction of course was one of shock, but he tilted his head to the side and smiled slightly and all my reservations fell away. I know I should have been mortified at being "caught" but I wasn't. I liked it. A lot. I actually enjoyed this stranger watching me in the act of sex. It was exhillerating! The sex became even more exciting. I became more aware of my body and what I was doing. I was starring in my own little play and the show was hot. I was a sex goddess! I was an exhibitionist! What an amazing thing. When it was over and we were both still slick with sweat, I looked over and the stranger was still standing there, still smiling, and drinking a glass of deep red wine, which he raised in a salute before turning to go inside.
Of the sex I've had in my life, this one encounter is one of the ones that truly stands out in my mind, and I find just thinking back on it can turn me on. I certainly don't want to be watched every time I have sex, because that would just be exhausting, but having someone read my musings is an easy way to exhibit myself. A safe way because I'm not really there. You're looking into my mind without looking into my eyes. Exhibiting, while hiding. Being on display without being on display. Exhilerating.
I wonder what ever happened to that cheeky Parisian on the balcony. I wonder if he often watches the hotel across from him and catches other tourists in the act.
I love Paris in the spring time....
I love Paris in the spring time,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in the winter,
when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer,
when it sizzles....
After a few cocktails last night I came to a conclusion about blogs and why people write them: exhibitionism! Deep down, we're all exhibitionists and blogging is the easiest (and most discreet way) to go about it. Face it, we all want to be seen and heard, and blogging gives us the opportunity to do so without stepping out of our protective little world. I had my own thrilling, real-life exibitionist moment a few years ago in Paris that gave me a unique insight on all this. I didn't realize I was on exhibit in the begining, but when I did, I did nothing to stop it, and found it quite exciting.
Our hotel was a small one on a side street near the Gare du Nord, and so typically Frech it lacked only a mime in a striped shirt and red bandana to make it look like a movie set. The innkeeper completed the feel by wearing a beret, smoking like a chimney and stroking a black cat sitting next to him on the counter. Our room was on the third floor with two sets of French doors (I wonder if they just call them doors?) that opened to what was more a ledge than a balcony, but afforded us fantastic views of the bustling street and cafes below and geranium draped balconies and stovepipe chimneys of the apartment building across from us.
It was an unusually warm September and our hotel, like most in Europe had no air conditioning (air conditioning is the crutch of the American), so we kept our French doors opened to keep the room cool. After a day of sight seeing and trying desperately NOT to be the "dirty American" (living in Europe a few years it's easy to see how Americans get this reputation-nasty little buggers we can be), we went back to the hotel to shower and rest before a typically late Parisian dinner. During our rest, things began to get amorous (as they do in Paris) and it wasn't too long before we were stripped of clothes and frolicing on the bed. At some point, I turned my head towards the French doors and caught the eye of a tall, dark haired man standing on the balcony of the apartment directly opposite our room. My first reaction of course was one of shock, but he tilted his head to the side and smiled slightly and all my reservations fell away. I know I should have been mortified at being "caught" but I wasn't. I liked it. A lot. I actually enjoyed this stranger watching me in the act of sex. It was exhillerating! The sex became even more exciting. I became more aware of my body and what I was doing. I was starring in my own little play and the show was hot. I was a sex goddess! I was an exhibitionist! What an amazing thing. When it was over and we were both still slick with sweat, I looked over and the stranger was still standing there, still smiling, and drinking a glass of deep red wine, which he raised in a salute before turning to go inside.
Of the sex I've had in my life, this one encounter is one of the ones that truly stands out in my mind, and I find just thinking back on it can turn me on. I certainly don't want to be watched every time I have sex, because that would just be exhausting, but having someone read my musings is an easy way to exhibit myself. A safe way because I'm not really there. You're looking into my mind without looking into my eyes. Exhibiting, while hiding. Being on display without being on display. Exhilerating.
I wonder what ever happened to that cheeky Parisian on the balcony. I wonder if he often watches the hotel across from him and catches other tourists in the act.
I love Paris in the spring time....
A blog of my own
Transferred from myspace:
I've been reading blogs for quite a while now and considered getting my own, but wondered, what would I write about? I now have my own space and I sit and stare at the screen wondering, does anybody care what I think? Does anybody really care what anyone else thinks? I really don't (with very few exceptions), so why should anyone care what I think? Why do people blog, I wonder? Does it make them feel important to know that others are going to read it? Are we all really just looking for validation? Are we looking for our 15 minutes of fame? Are we looking for some small slice of immortality? What do we hope to accomplish by blogging? I'm going to have to think on it. First though, I think I'm going to have a cocktail. Perhaps that will open my mind up and I'll have something interesting to blog about. ;)
I've been reading blogs for quite a while now and considered getting my own, but wondered, what would I write about? I now have my own space and I sit and stare at the screen wondering, does anybody care what I think? Does anybody really care what anyone else thinks? I really don't (with very few exceptions), so why should anyone care what I think? Why do people blog, I wonder? Does it make them feel important to know that others are going to read it? Are we all really just looking for validation? Are we looking for our 15 minutes of fame? Are we looking for some small slice of immortality? What do we hope to accomplish by blogging? I'm going to have to think on it. First though, I think I'm going to have a cocktail. Perhaps that will open my mind up and I'll have something interesting to blog about. ;)
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