Ok, at the risk of sounding Grinchlike, here are just a few of my holiday pet peeves:
1. Holiday e-cards. You know what I'm talking about. Rather than taking the time to buy a card and mail it, you simply send a card via email to a mass list. This drives me insane. The only part that makes it worse is when you insist you're doing it because you want to save some trees. Please. This is the one time of year (apart from birthdays) where it's actually fun to get mail. Don't ruin that. Please?
2. No thank you notes. I know, my insanity over thank you notes has been well documented. But seriously. If someone took the time to send you a gift, take the time to thank them for it. It will be appreciated. Trust me. And not via email, okay? Or even worse, on Facebook.
3. There are no words for how much I hate Toys R Us. Unfortunately it is a necessary evil in my life. But there is nothing more distasteful than being there this time of year, when people are grabbing crap off the shelves like they're a contestant in Supermarket Sweep. Not to get all Charlie Brown on you or anything, but the mass consumerism of the holiday season drives me nuts. Maybe I say that as a person who's children have more plastic crap that they never play with than there are people in certain nations. I just always end up leaving there feeling sad and depressed and like I need to do massive amounts of community service for underprivileged children. Immediately.
4. Gifts requiring assembly. Inevitably my husband and I have to do this on Christmas Eve, once the kids have gone to bed. It's always a disaster. The ONLY time my husband and I ever fight is when we're assembling bikes (or furniture from Ikea).
4. The post office. Enough said.
Thankfully there is more than enough good to outweigh the small annoyances. Time with the people I love most of all. The smell of cookies baking. Christmas carols (my personal favorite: O Holy Night). Our own family traditions that we keep to every year. And my children's faces when they discover Santa really did bring them what they asked for.
Wishing all of you a wonderful holiday season, full of love and laughter. :)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Aww!
I admit it. I'm a total sucker for a Royal Wedding. And seriously, how cute are they??
I remember vividly one Saturday morning back in 1981 watching cartoons...or maybe it had switched over to American Bandstand by then...when during a lead-in from a commercial break an "In the News" feature (a rehash of top news stories of the day that would be interesting to kids) featured the upcoming wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana.
I was absolutely hooked from that moment. She was so beautiful. And marrying a real Prince? That was (as the Archbishop of Canterbury so famously said on their wedding day) "the stuff of which fairy tales are made." I got up at dawn the morning of their wedding (this was pre-DVR, heck, even pre-VHS) and watched it live. I marveled at the real glass coach she rode in to the cathedral, giggled when they flubbed their lines from the nerves and eeeed when they went out on the Buckingham Palace balcony to kiss before the adoring crowds.
That summer day in 1981 was the beginning of my life as an anglophile. Or, more accurately, the beginning of my fascination with the English monarchy. Diana may have been what piqued my interest, but it quickly extended far beyond. I read everything I could, subscribed to Majesty and Royalty Monthly magazines, and started a memorabilia collection that includes Coronation programs and souvenirs from every monarch going back to Queen Victoria. And I can name every British monarch, in order, just as though I had grown up in London.
Of course I followed the soap opera of the current family along with everyone else at the time. And in a strange way they almost became part of my extended family...you know, those weird relatives that (had Facebook existed at the time) you would follow their crazy status updates and roll your eyes at the latest drama or laugh at the latest pictures they posted?
As I got older, other interests pushed the monarchy to the backburner. But on a day like this, I remember that time in my life and join millions of others in celebrating the joyous milestone of a boy (who, truth be told isn't that much younger than I am) that I watched grow up.
I'll be setting my alarm next year to watch live, just for old time's sake.
Oh, and he gave her his mother's ring!!! Could they be any cuter???
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Here's the story...
My kids have discovered The Brady Bunch. What this means for me:
1. Enduring my daughter's incessant Cindy impressions, complete with lisp.
2. Explaining that Cindy sitting in Carol's lap in the front seat of the family station wagon, with nary a seat belt to be found, as they drove to their first family camping trip was actually okay when the episode was filmed.
3. Explaining why the Bradys can't use their cell phones to get help when they got locked in a jail cell on the way to the Grand Canyon.
4. Cringing when the "Women's Lib" message of the club house episode (the one where the girls picket to be allowed inside the boys' backyard clubhouse) is horribly diluted by the resolution-- the girls and Carol scheme to build their own clubhouse, purposely being as inept as possible so the boys come to their rescue, and they can take their proper place in the kitchen making lemonade for their men.
5. Humming the Brady Bunch theme song to myself. Constantly.
6. Wishing that I never read Barry Williams' Growing Up Brady, so I could still enjoy the episodes without thinking of all the behind-the-scenes cross-Brady dating that was going on at the time.
Nevertheless, the kids love it. And at the risk of sounding totally ungroovy, I appreciate the wholesomeness. Lessons are learned. And siblings are bonded.
And I can't wait until they experience the full seventies horror of "The Silver Platters" and "The Brady Six."
Far out, man. Far out.
1. Enduring my daughter's incessant Cindy impressions, complete with lisp.
2. Explaining that Cindy sitting in Carol's lap in the front seat of the family station wagon, with nary a seat belt to be found, as they drove to their first family camping trip was actually okay when the episode was filmed.
3. Explaining why the Bradys can't use their cell phones to get help when they got locked in a jail cell on the way to the Grand Canyon.
4. Cringing when the "Women's Lib" message of the club house episode (the one where the girls picket to be allowed inside the boys' backyard clubhouse) is horribly diluted by the resolution-- the girls and Carol scheme to build their own clubhouse, purposely being as inept as possible so the boys come to their rescue, and they can take their proper place in the kitchen making lemonade for their men.
5. Humming the Brady Bunch theme song to myself. Constantly.
6. Wishing that I never read Barry Williams' Growing Up Brady, so I could still enjoy the episodes without thinking of all the behind-the-scenes cross-Brady dating that was going on at the time.
Nevertheless, the kids love it. And at the risk of sounding totally ungroovy, I appreciate the wholesomeness. Lessons are learned. And siblings are bonded.
And I can't wait until they experience the full seventies horror of "The Silver Platters" and "The Brady Six."
Far out, man. Far out.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Just. Keep. Writing.
The blank computer screen. The flashing cursor. Trying to figure out what the deep dark secret is going to be that I've set up so well in Chapter One. They can only mean one thing: a new novel is being born!
I started my third novel this week, as part of the annual exercise in masochism known as nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month). For the uninitiated, the idea is that you write a 50,000 word novel in one month-- namely November.
Of course as we all know, 50,000 words does not a novel make (it's more of a novella really), and I've taken to the pattern of making January and beyond my "nanorevmos" (National Novel Revising Months). That's the point were I look back, wonder what the hell was I thinking with that one character I introduced in Chapter Three but never mentioned again, bemoan my work as derivative, and become convinced that I am the worst writer who has ever pushed the save button. Only to ultimately bang it into shape, clean up the loose ends and finally feel reasonably confident (at around 100,000 words) that it's worth someone else's time to read. And then start the process all over again once they give me their feedback.
My first time around, I had no clue what I was doing. But that was a gift. I didn't know how hard it was going to be, just that I wanted to try and see what would happen. The second year I flew through it, mostly because I was happy to be working on something new. Because honestly, after a year you really get tired of people, even the ones that you've made up and do only what you tell them to do. But I had learned a tremendous amount through that first revision process, and my writing the second time was much crisper as a result.
This time, I went in with no real plot, nor a fleshed out idea for one. And yet I didn't panic. I think it's because I've done it before and I know the drill. I know what I need to do to stay on schedule (1,667 words per day, learn it, live it, love it), I've discovered all the tricks and I have no doubt I will finish. And sure enough, once I hit Day Two, I had a title and the beginnings of a real plot.
Nanowrimo has its naysayers, as a recent salon article made crystal clear. But the truth is that nanowrimo isn't just about writing. It's about taking on something daunting, that might even seem impossible, and finding out that you can accomplish it. It's about discovering who you are, the pure joy of creating and the ultimate realization that everything eventually works itself out if you Just Keep Writing. In many ways, nanowrimo is a metaphor for life. And a life-changing experience for those who see it though to the end.
I recently read a great quote: "You don't get to choose whether or not you're a writer. The only choice is to be a writer who writes or a writer who doesn't."
I choose to write.
I started my third novel this week, as part of the annual exercise in masochism known as nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month). For the uninitiated, the idea is that you write a 50,000 word novel in one month-- namely November.
Of course as we all know, 50,000 words does not a novel make (it's more of a novella really), and I've taken to the pattern of making January and beyond my "nanorevmos" (National Novel Revising Months). That's the point were I look back, wonder what the hell was I thinking with that one character I introduced in Chapter Three but never mentioned again, bemoan my work as derivative, and become convinced that I am the worst writer who has ever pushed the save button. Only to ultimately bang it into shape, clean up the loose ends and finally feel reasonably confident (at around 100,000 words) that it's worth someone else's time to read. And then start the process all over again once they give me their feedback.
My first time around, I had no clue what I was doing. But that was a gift. I didn't know how hard it was going to be, just that I wanted to try and see what would happen. The second year I flew through it, mostly because I was happy to be working on something new. Because honestly, after a year you really get tired of people, even the ones that you've made up and do only what you tell them to do. But I had learned a tremendous amount through that first revision process, and my writing the second time was much crisper as a result.
This time, I went in with no real plot, nor a fleshed out idea for one. And yet I didn't panic. I think it's because I've done it before and I know the drill. I know what I need to do to stay on schedule (1,667 words per day, learn it, live it, love it), I've discovered all the tricks and I have no doubt I will finish. And sure enough, once I hit Day Two, I had a title and the beginnings of a real plot.
Nanowrimo has its naysayers, as a recent salon article made crystal clear. But the truth is that nanowrimo isn't just about writing. It's about taking on something daunting, that might even seem impossible, and finding out that you can accomplish it. It's about discovering who you are, the pure joy of creating and the ultimate realization that everything eventually works itself out if you Just Keep Writing. In many ways, nanowrimo is a metaphor for life. And a life-changing experience for those who see it though to the end.
I recently read a great quote: "You don't get to choose whether or not you're a writer. The only choice is to be a writer who writes or a writer who doesn't."
I choose to write.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Take out your number 2 pencils
I'm a total sucker for authority. If you have a uniform, a post graduate degree, initials after your name or any combination thereof, I am convinced that you must know more than I do. Even if your specialized training was inter spliced with more tequila shots than you'd find in a Grey's Anatomy episode, I figure if someone gave you a degree, you are qualified to look down on me with scorn and derision.
Which must be why I completely freak out when dealing with the two Pillars of Parental Judgment-- the annual well child exam and parent/teacher conferences.
Oh, your child's annual check-up may seem innocuous enough. But that's only to the uninitiated. Especially once your delightful progeny are old enough to answer the doctor's questions on their own. Like this:
Q: Are you brushing your teeth 3 times a day?
A: No. Mommy is always telling me to skip it in the morning so we get to school on time.
Q: Are you eating well-balanced meals?
A: Uh huh. Last night I had a grilled cheese sandwich. The night before, a quesadilla!
You get the point. It feels like some sort of final exam of parenting. The doctor is firing questions at you and you can't even bullshit your answers because of the little narc you have sitting next to you on the exam table.
Parent-Teacher conferences are the same way, only much more terrifying. I'm convinced they make you sit in those tiny chairs just to keep you on your toes. What is that you say? My kid is an excellent folk dancer? But of course, my side of the family has always been quite coordinated! Oh, but s/he needs to work on math? Yes, well, his/her father's side never was very bright you know.
It's all quite exhausting. I think that must be why God invented wine.
Which must be why I completely freak out when dealing with the two Pillars of Parental Judgment-- the annual well child exam and parent/teacher conferences.
Oh, your child's annual check-up may seem innocuous enough. But that's only to the uninitiated. Especially once your delightful progeny are old enough to answer the doctor's questions on their own. Like this:
Q: Are you brushing your teeth 3 times a day?
A: No. Mommy is always telling me to skip it in the morning so we get to school on time.
Q: Are you eating well-balanced meals?
A: Uh huh. Last night I had a grilled cheese sandwich. The night before, a quesadilla!
You get the point. It feels like some sort of final exam of parenting. The doctor is firing questions at you and you can't even bullshit your answers because of the little narc you have sitting next to you on the exam table.
Parent-Teacher conferences are the same way, only much more terrifying. I'm convinced they make you sit in those tiny chairs just to keep you on your toes. What is that you say? My kid is an excellent folk dancer? But of course, my side of the family has always been quite coordinated! Oh, but s/he needs to work on math? Yes, well, his/her father's side never was very bright you know.
It's all quite exhausting. I think that must be why God invented wine.
Monday, October 11, 2010
What I said.
The request:
Write two or three sentences regarding the journey to womanhood and adulthood.
What I wrote (yeah I know, much longer than 2-3 sentences. Hey, I tried):
Love yourself. Yeah, yeah, you've heard it before. But it doesn't make it any less true. Love yourself. ALL of yourself-- including the parts you are certain could be better, faster, stronger, smaller, bigger, prettier, smarter, or less frizzy. We are all unique, and yet all the same. Embrace what makes you perfect, what makes you flawed, what makes you strive and what makes you retreat. Know you who are and who you are not, and never waste time nor tears trying to be who someone ELSE thinks you should. Loving yourself brings with it true power, freedom and inspiration.
Write two or three sentences regarding the journey to womanhood and adulthood.
What I wrote (yeah I know, much longer than 2-3 sentences. Hey, I tried):
Love yourself. Yeah, yeah, you've heard it before. But it doesn't make it any less true. Love yourself. ALL of yourself-- including the parts you are certain could be better, faster, stronger, smaller, bigger, prettier, smarter, or less frizzy. We are all unique, and yet all the same. Embrace what makes you perfect, what makes you flawed, what makes you strive and what makes you retreat. Know you who are and who you are not, and never waste time nor tears trying to be who someone ELSE thinks you should. Loving yourself brings with it true power, freedom and inspiration.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Fatal flaws aren't just for heroes
My 8-year-old daughter's current obsession is with the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series of books. For the unfamiliar, basically they're about the idea that the Greek Gods are real (and apparently quite slutty) and have all kinds of children with humans, leading to a community of demigods or "half-bloods" who have to go on quests, fight monsters and basically save western civilization as we know it during their summer vacations.
My daughter particularly likes the demigod Annabeth Chase-- a brilliant (she is the teenage daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom, after all), beautiful, wannabe architect. In the second book, Annabeth and Percy are faced with the the notion of "fatal flaws"-- the one chink in the armor that leads to the ultimate downfall of all heroes. Annabeth's was hubris, Percy's was loyalty. Which led to a great conversation where my daughter asked me what I thought my fatal flaw was.
It was an interesting question, and one that I'm still not entirely sure what the answer to is. It's kinda like that classic job interview question..."what are your weaknesses?"...where you give a bullshit answer about being too much of a perfectionist and working too-hard and having too difficult of a time delegating to others. You know, things that aren't really weaknesses.
The problem is, we spend most of our lives oblivious to our "fatal flaws." Which, I suppose, is why the end up being fatal. Knowledge is power, and the more we understand ourselves the better people we can be.
So what's my fatal flaw? Well, like most people, it's easy for me to create a laundry list of what I think is wrong with me. (hair too frizzy! too tall! bad at math!) But if I had to create an umbrella concept for the "one" thing I think is really it, I would say it is this: I care too much about what other people think.
Of course there's a good side to that trait-- it's what leads me to remembering birthdays, or sending gifts for no reason or keeping in touch with practically every significant friend I've ever had. It makes me (I believe) a good listener and a good friend.
BUT.
It can also make me insecure. And overly sensitive. And too hesitant to stand up for myself for fear of upsetting someone else.
It's a double edged sword.
Because the simple fact is that often our greatest strengths are also our greatest weaknesses. Too much of any one thing isn't good. Like with most things in life, it's finding the balance that matters.
Oh, and for those who might be wondering? My daughter thinks that her fatal flaw is not being born an actual witch so she can attend Hogwarts.
Hey, that works too.
My daughter particularly likes the demigod Annabeth Chase-- a brilliant (she is the teenage daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom, after all), beautiful, wannabe architect. In the second book, Annabeth and Percy are faced with the the notion of "fatal flaws"-- the one chink in the armor that leads to the ultimate downfall of all heroes. Annabeth's was hubris, Percy's was loyalty. Which led to a great conversation where my daughter asked me what I thought my fatal flaw was.
It was an interesting question, and one that I'm still not entirely sure what the answer to is. It's kinda like that classic job interview question..."what are your weaknesses?"...where you give a bullshit answer about being too much of a perfectionist and working too-hard and having too difficult of a time delegating to others. You know, things that aren't really weaknesses.
The problem is, we spend most of our lives oblivious to our "fatal flaws." Which, I suppose, is why the end up being fatal. Knowledge is power, and the more we understand ourselves the better people we can be.
So what's my fatal flaw? Well, like most people, it's easy for me to create a laundry list of what I think is wrong with me. (hair too frizzy! too tall! bad at math!) But if I had to create an umbrella concept for the "one" thing I think is really it, I would say it is this: I care too much about what other people think.
Of course there's a good side to that trait-- it's what leads me to remembering birthdays, or sending gifts for no reason or keeping in touch with practically every significant friend I've ever had. It makes me (I believe) a good listener and a good friend.
BUT.
It can also make me insecure. And overly sensitive. And too hesitant to stand up for myself for fear of upsetting someone else.
It's a double edged sword.
Because the simple fact is that often our greatest strengths are also our greatest weaknesses. Too much of any one thing isn't good. Like with most things in life, it's finding the balance that matters.
Oh, and for those who might be wondering? My daughter thinks that her fatal flaw is not being born an actual witch so she can attend Hogwarts.
Hey, that works too.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
I'm still alive!
Has it really been almost 2 months since my last blog entry? I guess I shouldn't be surprised. These past few months have become known around these parts as "The Lost Summer" due to little things, like having to build a museum from scratch. But that's all over now, and I can finally concentrate on the important things...like getting pedicures and catching up on Real Housewives of DC.
A sample of the random thoughts that have been buzzing around my head these last few weeks,:
- I've decided that I can only be friends with people who have overcrowded bookcases. You know the kind I'm talking about...the ones where you start stacking books on top of the chosen ones that actually made the cut into a proper place on the shelf. We have 4 huge bookshelves in our living room filled to the brim (with less favored books stacked in boxes in our garage), as well as one in the family room. My kids too. Anyone who has exactly enough books to fit their bookshelves obviously only have them there for decoration and cannot be trusted.
- I don't like kindles. I like the feel of a book in my hand, the physical act of turning pages and that new book smell. I love cheesy cover art and the author's photo. I like to read the dedications and acknowledgments and decipher inside jokes. Yep, I'm a book nerd.
- I don't care if it IS 113 degrees outside. Walking down an urban street in a bikini is always a Glamour Don't. Even more so when it's paired with Uggs.
- Why is a high school reunion such a big deal? Is it because it's part of the popular culture and we feel obligated to attend? I agonized over whether or not I should go to mine. In the end, I decided it wasn't worth it. If I want to be in touch with you, I already am. *Bows at the altar of Facebook*. If I'm not, well, there's a reason for that.
- I love people who can make me laugh.
- Reciprocity is important in relationships. Sure, the balance will shift at certain points, but overall it should be balanced. Or to quote my friend Kim, "Life is a book and you are the author. If some of your characters aren't giving you what you need, kill them off in the next chapter." ;)
Well enough fun. I have to get back to some long-form writing. Time to finish off Novel #2 and send off to the masses (but first to the best editor a girl could have... my sister-in-law Lynn). Followed shortly by starting Novel #3, which I have just begun to plot outline in my head. No rest for the wicked...
A sample of the random thoughts that have been buzzing around my head these last few weeks,:
- I've decided that I can only be friends with people who have overcrowded bookcases. You know the kind I'm talking about...the ones where you start stacking books on top of the chosen ones that actually made the cut into a proper place on the shelf. We have 4 huge bookshelves in our living room filled to the brim (with less favored books stacked in boxes in our garage), as well as one in the family room. My kids too. Anyone who has exactly enough books to fit their bookshelves obviously only have them there for decoration and cannot be trusted.
- I don't like kindles. I like the feel of a book in my hand, the physical act of turning pages and that new book smell. I love cheesy cover art and the author's photo. I like to read the dedications and acknowledgments and decipher inside jokes. Yep, I'm a book nerd.
- I don't care if it IS 113 degrees outside. Walking down an urban street in a bikini is always a Glamour Don't. Even more so when it's paired with Uggs.
- Why is a high school reunion such a big deal? Is it because it's part of the popular culture and we feel obligated to attend? I agonized over whether or not I should go to mine. In the end, I decided it wasn't worth it. If I want to be in touch with you, I already am. *Bows at the altar of Facebook*. If I'm not, well, there's a reason for that.
- I love people who can make me laugh.
- Reciprocity is important in relationships. Sure, the balance will shift at certain points, but overall it should be balanced. Or to quote my friend Kim, "Life is a book and you are the author. If some of your characters aren't giving you what you need, kill them off in the next chapter." ;)
Well enough fun. I have to get back to some long-form writing. Time to finish off Novel #2 and send off to the masses (but first to the best editor a girl could have... my sister-in-law Lynn). Followed shortly by starting Novel #3, which I have just begun to plot outline in my head. No rest for the wicked...
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
For Stacey and Tanika...
...who both figured out immediately the reason why 2 of my main characters are named Emily and Christina (after Dickinson and Rosetti, respectively). I guess I'm not as mysterious as I think I am. So I promised them another excerpt from my 2nd novel. Which is not the very next chapter after what I posted last time. Sorry! But I have to leave some elements of suspense, don't I?
Enjoy!
*******
Spencer Smith is sitting right in front of me.
Audrey Whitney tried not to stare at the handsome actor sitting across her desk. She knew that the mature thing would be to pretend like A-list actors sat in her overly formal office chairs every day, and that this was not anything out of the ordinary. Like her next appointment was lunch with George Clooney or something. So she futiley attempted to forget about his piercing blue eyes, dark good looks and boyish smile. So what if he looks like he could be Clark Kent's better-looking brother she thought to herself. I am a professional woman. I will act...professionally.
While Cobble Hill was certainly no stranger to wealthy families, the glitz of Hollywood celebrity was something new. Most of their kids were part of family legacies that came from old money, which didn't exactly go hand-in-hand with the new money of former reality show stars turned legitimate actors. The New York actors typically sent their kids to city schools like The Spence School, Dalton, or even St. Anne's. Cobble Hill families were not typically featured on Page Six. And, speaking of Page Six, Audrey was an avid reader and as such was quite certain that Spencer Smith wasn't even married, let alone had a school-aged child that would be in need of a top-tier education.
Audrey was intrigued.
"Hello Mr. Smith," she said in what she hoped was a smooth, warm and yet detached tone. "What can I do for you this morning?" At the last minute she decided to add a smile, in case she had erred to far in the detached column. But then she had a fake and awkward smile on her face and just felt ridiculous so she rather abruptly stopped smiling. The end result would have been comical to anyone who happened to be watching. Thankfully, the only people in the immediate vicinity were Sookie Worthington and Emily Carlson, who judging by the look on Emily's face, were having a conversation she wanted to have no part in.
If Spencer noticed, he was gentlemanly about it. He unleashed the smile that had launched thousands of daydreams for women all over the country during the past couple of years and replied, "First of all, thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice Ms. Whitney." Audrey focused on the dimple in his right cheek to keep herself from blushing at the sound of him saying her name.
"Not a problem. My schedule was unusually light this morning," she lied, pushing the though of when she was going to go through all the applications for next year far out of her mind. Her already jampacked schedule was also impacted by her additional duties as acting Head of School while Mr. Boone took a sabaatical trekking in Nepal. There were at least 10 other things that she really should have been doing at that moment, aside from crushing on movie stars. But she decided that when Us Weekly's favorite cover boy calls your office to ask for an appointment, you push all other things aside. She was only human after all.
"Were you looking for an enrollment packet?" she began. "We've technically stopped accepting applications, as we already have 12 applicants for every incoming spot, but we can certainly consider making an exception."
Spencer laughed and shook his head. "I think you're supposed to actually have a child first...before you start enrolling them in school."
Audrey gave him a patient smile. "You would be surprised Mr. Smith. We have had parents on our school tours that haven't even conceived yet."
"Well, I haven't even thought of trying to conceive yet, so I think that means I still have some time." Spencer's voice was filled with humor, and Audrey wasn't entirely certain if he was laughing with her or at her. She decided she didn't care. Who exactly did he think he was? He may be a big deal in the outside world, but they were in her territory right now and she didn't appreciate his tone.
"Well, if you're not here to apply to our fine institution, I'm not exactly sure what else I, as the Director of Admissions, could possibly help you with," Audrey replied, her tone frosty.
Spencer was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't coming across as impolite. From everything I've heard, this is an amazing school. I just had no idea that the world of elementary school admissions was so cutthroat. It almost sounds like a movie audition."
Audrey laughed in spite of herself. "I'm sorry too. I sometimes forget how foreign our world can seem to people who aren't immersed in it. And yes, it is quite cutthroat. I think parenting is probably the most competitive sport there is."
"Do you have children Ms Whitney?"
Audrey shook her head. "Please, call me Audrey. And no, I have no children yet and I'm not even married. I went to Cobble Hill when I was a child though, and have worked here since I graduated from college. I've been around Type-A parents and their Type-A children for pretty much my entire life."
"It must be a great school if you wanted to come back to it and work here." Spencer's voice was tinged with curiosity.
Audrey reflected briefly on his words. The relative merits of Cobble Hill had precious little to do with her lifetime of service to the institution. But Admissions Director 101 demanded that she not let her personal dissatisfaction shine though in any way. "It's a top-notch school, with excellent arts and foreign language programs. Our goal is for each of our kindergarteners to become fluent in latin by the end of year, so they can then move on to formal study in the romance languages. Once they've mastered those by 3rd grade, we move on into intensive study of Mandarin." Audrey had parrotted these same sentiments so many times over the past few years that she barely had to listen to herself anymore.
Spencer looked at her with a bemused expression. "You can't be serious. Mandarin? Why would anyone chose that over Japanese?"
Audrey looked at him indignantly. "Our future leaders will need to be able to speak fluent Mandarin in order to compete in a 21st century world. Japanese has become far less relevant over the past two decades..."
"I was kidding," Spencer interrupted with a glint in his eye. "Honestly, all of that sounds very impressive. I only took a couple years of high school Spanish, and I think the only thing I remember is how to ask someone for directions to the library."
Audrey blushed. "So sorry. I really do have a sense of humor, I promise. I'm just not used to talking with other people who have one too."
Spencer let out a low chuckle and gestured at the sterile office environment around them. "I bet if they bothered to do a study they would discover that exposure to large amounts of mahogany and dark paneled walls directly correlates to the supression of the humor portion of the brain."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Audrey replied. "I used to be a fun person." She paused. "At least, relative to most of the people you find around here. Now, since we have established what you are not here to do, maybe it would be fruitful to discuss what you are here to do?"
"You mean, aside from enjoy the pleasure of your company?" Spencer asked.
"Yes, aside from that," Audrey replied wryly.
"Well, I am about to start shooting a new movie. Kind of a Dead Poet's Society meets Transformers. It's called Carpe Robot."
All Audrey could think was that sounded like the worst idea for a movie that she had ever heard of. "Hmm. Interesting concept," she lied.
Spencer smiled. "You can be honest. It's crap, and you can't believe millions of dollars are going to be spent making this stinking pile of shit arrive on the big screen."
Audrey laughed. "I wouldn't go that far. Let's just say it's not my cup of tea. I'm more of your 'stories about a true love that can never be' kinda girl."
"Of course you are. And I'm more of a sci-fi, graphic novel thinkpiece kinda guy myself. Luckily for me though, crap movies keep being made, or else I'd never be hired."
"I'm sure that's not true," Audrey protested.
"Oh it is true. Believe me. Actors in Hollywood are put into certain categories. I'm supposed to consider myself lucky that I made the jump from reality television in the first place. Once 20 million people watch you eat like cockroaches, it's hard for them to think of you reciting Shakespeare."
Audrey shuddered at the thought of eating bugs. She had never seen that particular episode, and was happy now that she hadn't. It definitely would have affected how much she wanted to kiss him at the very moment.
"So anyway," Spencer continued. "I'm in this movie, and I'm playing a teacher at a fancy east coast private school. Hence the Dead Poets Society reference. And I had this idea that it would be fun to do some research for the role."
"Research?"
"Yes. I want to come teach at Cobble Hill." Spencer looked at her expectantly.
"Teach? Here?" Audrey asked with surprise.
"Yes. The best way to learn about something is to actually do it. I did a google search and Cobble Hill was one of the first names that came up. For some reason I was just drawn to the place. Maybe because I grew up in the Cobble Hill neighborhood in Brooklyn. I don't know. I just thought I would contact you and see if you were interested in having me. I called the school, and they said that you were the person in charge of faculty hiring, as well as admissions, so I made an appointment. And here I am."
"But, and please excuse me if I am being impolite, but do you actually know how to teach? Our teachers all have graduate degrees. Many have taught at the college level prior to coming to Cobble Hill. What are your credentials?"
"To be perfectly honest, I don't really have any," Spencer looked sheepish. "But there are all kinds of things I know how to do. And real world experience is oftentimes far more valuable than anything you can get in a book."
Audrey considered his proposition. He really wasn't Cobble Hill faculty material, of that there was no doubt. At least from the academic standpoint. But the Admissions Director part of her brain knew that there would be a certain cache to having someone has well-known as Spencer Smith on staff, at least for one year. The recruting mileage they would get out of that would last for years to come. And the fact that he was famous and gorgeous were also no small considerations. She smiled.
"So tell me, what do you know about teaching drama Mr. Smith?"
Enjoy!
*******
Spencer Smith is sitting right in front of me.
Audrey Whitney tried not to stare at the handsome actor sitting across her desk. She knew that the mature thing would be to pretend like A-list actors sat in her overly formal office chairs every day, and that this was not anything out of the ordinary. Like her next appointment was lunch with George Clooney or something. So she futiley attempted to forget about his piercing blue eyes, dark good looks and boyish smile. So what if he looks like he could be Clark Kent's better-looking brother she thought to herself. I am a professional woman. I will act...professionally.
While Cobble Hill was certainly no stranger to wealthy families, the glitz of Hollywood celebrity was something new. Most of their kids were part of family legacies that came from old money, which didn't exactly go hand-in-hand with the new money of former reality show stars turned legitimate actors. The New York actors typically sent their kids to city schools like The Spence School, Dalton, or even St. Anne's. Cobble Hill families were not typically featured on Page Six. And, speaking of Page Six, Audrey was an avid reader and as such was quite certain that Spencer Smith wasn't even married, let alone had a school-aged child that would be in need of a top-tier education.
Audrey was intrigued.
"Hello Mr. Smith," she said in what she hoped was a smooth, warm and yet detached tone. "What can I do for you this morning?" At the last minute she decided to add a smile, in case she had erred to far in the detached column. But then she had a fake and awkward smile on her face and just felt ridiculous so she rather abruptly stopped smiling. The end result would have been comical to anyone who happened to be watching. Thankfully, the only people in the immediate vicinity were Sookie Worthington and Emily Carlson, who judging by the look on Emily's face, were having a conversation she wanted to have no part in.
If Spencer noticed, he was gentlemanly about it. He unleashed the smile that had launched thousands of daydreams for women all over the country during the past couple of years and replied, "First of all, thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice Ms. Whitney." Audrey focused on the dimple in his right cheek to keep herself from blushing at the sound of him saying her name.
"Not a problem. My schedule was unusually light this morning," she lied, pushing the though of when she was going to go through all the applications for next year far out of her mind. Her already jampacked schedule was also impacted by her additional duties as acting Head of School while Mr. Boone took a sabaatical trekking in Nepal. There were at least 10 other things that she really should have been doing at that moment, aside from crushing on movie stars. But she decided that when Us Weekly's favorite cover boy calls your office to ask for an appointment, you push all other things aside. She was only human after all.
"Were you looking for an enrollment packet?" she began. "We've technically stopped accepting applications, as we already have 12 applicants for every incoming spot, but we can certainly consider making an exception."
Spencer laughed and shook his head. "I think you're supposed to actually have a child first...before you start enrolling them in school."
Audrey gave him a patient smile. "You would be surprised Mr. Smith. We have had parents on our school tours that haven't even conceived yet."
"Well, I haven't even thought of trying to conceive yet, so I think that means I still have some time." Spencer's voice was filled with humor, and Audrey wasn't entirely certain if he was laughing with her or at her. She decided she didn't care. Who exactly did he think he was? He may be a big deal in the outside world, but they were in her territory right now and she didn't appreciate his tone.
"Well, if you're not here to apply to our fine institution, I'm not exactly sure what else I, as the Director of Admissions, could possibly help you with," Audrey replied, her tone frosty.
Spencer was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't coming across as impolite. From everything I've heard, this is an amazing school. I just had no idea that the world of elementary school admissions was so cutthroat. It almost sounds like a movie audition."
Audrey laughed in spite of herself. "I'm sorry too. I sometimes forget how foreign our world can seem to people who aren't immersed in it. And yes, it is quite cutthroat. I think parenting is probably the most competitive sport there is."
"Do you have children Ms Whitney?"
Audrey shook her head. "Please, call me Audrey. And no, I have no children yet and I'm not even married. I went to Cobble Hill when I was a child though, and have worked here since I graduated from college. I've been around Type-A parents and their Type-A children for pretty much my entire life."
"It must be a great school if you wanted to come back to it and work here." Spencer's voice was tinged with curiosity.
Audrey reflected briefly on his words. The relative merits of Cobble Hill had precious little to do with her lifetime of service to the institution. But Admissions Director 101 demanded that she not let her personal dissatisfaction shine though in any way. "It's a top-notch school, with excellent arts and foreign language programs. Our goal is for each of our kindergarteners to become fluent in latin by the end of year, so they can then move on to formal study in the romance languages. Once they've mastered those by 3rd grade, we move on into intensive study of Mandarin." Audrey had parrotted these same sentiments so many times over the past few years that she barely had to listen to herself anymore.
Spencer looked at her with a bemused expression. "You can't be serious. Mandarin? Why would anyone chose that over Japanese?"
Audrey looked at him indignantly. "Our future leaders will need to be able to speak fluent Mandarin in order to compete in a 21st century world. Japanese has become far less relevant over the past two decades..."
"I was kidding," Spencer interrupted with a glint in his eye. "Honestly, all of that sounds very impressive. I only took a couple years of high school Spanish, and I think the only thing I remember is how to ask someone for directions to the library."
Audrey blushed. "So sorry. I really do have a sense of humor, I promise. I'm just not used to talking with other people who have one too."
Spencer let out a low chuckle and gestured at the sterile office environment around them. "I bet if they bothered to do a study they would discover that exposure to large amounts of mahogany and dark paneled walls directly correlates to the supression of the humor portion of the brain."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Audrey replied. "I used to be a fun person." She paused. "At least, relative to most of the people you find around here. Now, since we have established what you are not here to do, maybe it would be fruitful to discuss what you are here to do?"
"You mean, aside from enjoy the pleasure of your company?" Spencer asked.
"Yes, aside from that," Audrey replied wryly.
"Well, I am about to start shooting a new movie. Kind of a Dead Poet's Society meets Transformers. It's called Carpe Robot."
All Audrey could think was that sounded like the worst idea for a movie that she had ever heard of. "Hmm. Interesting concept," she lied.
Spencer smiled. "You can be honest. It's crap, and you can't believe millions of dollars are going to be spent making this stinking pile of shit arrive on the big screen."
Audrey laughed. "I wouldn't go that far. Let's just say it's not my cup of tea. I'm more of your 'stories about a true love that can never be' kinda girl."
"Of course you are. And I'm more of a sci-fi, graphic novel thinkpiece kinda guy myself. Luckily for me though, crap movies keep being made, or else I'd never be hired."
"I'm sure that's not true," Audrey protested.
"Oh it is true. Believe me. Actors in Hollywood are put into certain categories. I'm supposed to consider myself lucky that I made the jump from reality television in the first place. Once 20 million people watch you eat like cockroaches, it's hard for them to think of you reciting Shakespeare."
Audrey shuddered at the thought of eating bugs. She had never seen that particular episode, and was happy now that she hadn't. It definitely would have affected how much she wanted to kiss him at the very moment.
"So anyway," Spencer continued. "I'm in this movie, and I'm playing a teacher at a fancy east coast private school. Hence the Dead Poets Society reference. And I had this idea that it would be fun to do some research for the role."
"Research?"
"Yes. I want to come teach at Cobble Hill." Spencer looked at her expectantly.
"Teach? Here?" Audrey asked with surprise.
"Yes. The best way to learn about something is to actually do it. I did a google search and Cobble Hill was one of the first names that came up. For some reason I was just drawn to the place. Maybe because I grew up in the Cobble Hill neighborhood in Brooklyn. I don't know. I just thought I would contact you and see if you were interested in having me. I called the school, and they said that you were the person in charge of faculty hiring, as well as admissions, so I made an appointment. And here I am."
"But, and please excuse me if I am being impolite, but do you actually know how to teach? Our teachers all have graduate degrees. Many have taught at the college level prior to coming to Cobble Hill. What are your credentials?"
"To be perfectly honest, I don't really have any," Spencer looked sheepish. "But there are all kinds of things I know how to do. And real world experience is oftentimes far more valuable than anything you can get in a book."
Audrey considered his proposition. He really wasn't Cobble Hill faculty material, of that there was no doubt. At least from the academic standpoint. But the Admissions Director part of her brain knew that there would be a certain cache to having someone has well-known as Spencer Smith on staff, at least for one year. The recruting mileage they would get out of that would last for years to come. And the fact that he was famous and gorgeous were also no small considerations. She smiled.
"So tell me, what do you know about teaching drama Mr. Smith?"
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
(more) work in progress
An excerpt from my second novel, still in revisions, which hopefully I will be able to put the finishing touches on AFTER my museum opens on 9.23. Enjoy! And if you don't, just lie to me and say you did.
*******
"Brr! It's freezing!" Christina laughed as she snuggled under the beige chenille blanket that she and her husband Brian always kept on their couch. It's real purpose was to cover up the stains that were frequently appearing (either at the hand of their 13-month-old twins, Naomi and Nadia, or else from the family dog Maggie). But on exceptionally cool Fall nights such as this one she was happy to have something at the ready to warm her up.
"I don't know what happened to Fall this year," her husband Brian agreed as he entered the room with a cup of peppermint tea that he handed to his appreciative wife. "We seem to have gone straight into Winter." He sat down on the old couch with her, and grabbed a piece of the blanket to cover himself.
"Hmm. I don't mind. I'm one of those freaks that love the cold," Christina laughed. "Besides," she continued, "what's there to complain about? The kids are sleeping and I have you to help keep me warm." She leaned closer to Brian and met his lips in a lingering kiss. They had been together nearly twenty years, ever since he surprised her and asked her to the 8th grade Harvest Dance. And even after all the time they had been together, he still managed to make her heart do backflips whenever he was near.
"You are definitely a freak," he agreed. "But you're my freak." And he leaned in for another kiss. As they broke apart, Christina placed her teacup on the coffee table and placed her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head. She was in her happy place.
"The kids go down easily?" he asked.
"They did," Christina said with wonder. "That's two nights in a row now. Maybe the sleepless nights are a thing of the past?"
Brian chuckled. "You're such an optimist."
"I'm not an optimist. Our children are gifted. I knew that from the moment they started crawling early and showed up that Portia Worthington during their Gymboree class."
"While I do approve of them outshining any child who has the misfortune to be named Portia, I must ask-- have I missed some new study? Since when is crawling a future indicator of brilliance?" he asked.
"When it's our children," she answered, and they both laughed.
Suddenly her bliss was interrupted by the piercing ring of the telephone. She couldn't imagine who would be calling so late. The babies awoke at the sound and begna to cry, almost as though they were echoing their mother's displeasure at the unwelcome interruption. Or else they heard her earlier pronouncements of their brilliance and wanted to make her pay for jinxing things.
Christina grabbed the phone, looked at the caller ID number and noticed, with annoyance, that it was her sister Emily on the other end. "Figures," she grumbled.
"You get it, I'll get the girls," Brian said, and he rose from the couch quickly. So quickly, in fact, that he knocked the tea all over the cofee table. "Hello?" Christina answered sharply, as she grabbed some paper towels to start blotting at the mess.
"Hey Chris? It's Em." Her big sister's voice seemed muffled and far away.
"Do you have any idea how late it is?" Christina demanded. "The girls were asleep, and Brian and I weren't too far behind them."
"I'm sorry," she replied, in a tone that made Christina think she wasn't really sorry at all. "But I have to get out of here."
It was always the same. Emily had fled to Chicago years ago and never could be bothered to come back, despite Christina's hints that she needed help taking care of their parents. It was hard enough being a new mom and taking care of her growing family. She didn't have time for full-time parent care as well. She needed Emily to help step up and shoulder some of the responsibility. She had reluctantly arrived in Willow Glen the previous day, having left her own baby back in Chicago with her husband. The unspoken signal by such a move was I am not planning on staying long, so don't expect much from me.
"What happened this time?" Christina asked warily.
"I just don't want to be here," Emily whimpered.
"Yes, we are all very clear on how this town doesn't meet to your lofty expectations," Christina replied.
"Don't be like that. I'm sorry. I just-- can't. I can't. I miss my husband. I miss my baby. I miss my life. I need to leave."
"Then leave. What's stopping you?"
"The fact that I don't have a car," Emily replied sheepishly. "I was hoping...hoping that you could come get me and I could stay with you for the night. I've already checked online. There's a flight back to O'Hare in the morning. I just don't want to be in this house another moment."
Christina sighed in exasperation. "It's late. The girls are asleep. Or at least they were until you decided to wake them up in the name of your own selfishness. And it's cold out. I really don't feel like going out to get you. Can't you get a cab or borrow mom's car or something?"
"This is Willow Glen," Emily reminded her. "The cabs stop coming at 6:30."
"Exaggerate much?"
"Fine then. 7:30," Emily replied, and in spite of herself, Christina laughed. Her sister was infuriating at times, but she loved her deeply. Their childhood had been challenging, in the way that only childhoods could be, and they were forever bonded because of it.
"And I don't want mom to know I'm leaving, so taking her car is out of the question," Emily continued.
"You're sneaking out? How old are you anyway?" Christina demanded.
"Old enough to know I have to get out of here. Will you help me? Please?"
Christina glanced at the clock on the wall. She was helpless whenever Emily started begging. "Fine. I'll be there in 10 minutes. Wait outside. If I have to be cold, so do you." She hung up and saw Brian on the landing with their two girls. he looked at her with amusement.
"And where are you going exactly?" he asked.
"One guess. And her name starts with an 'Em' and ends with an 'ily.' She needs me to pick her up at mom and dad's."
"Right now?"
"Don't waste your breath. I've already been through this with her. Besides, you know her. If I don't come soon she'll hitchike back to Chicago."
"Well, you're not going alone. We'll bundle up the girls and all go together."
"No, you don't have to do that," she protested. I don't want to take the girls out at this hour."
"They're up now. And you know the only thing that is the surefire cure to get them back asleep once they've awoken is a ride in the car. Come on. We'll all pick up your wayward sister together."
Christina looked at her daughters, who looked as though they were ready for endless rounds of "I'm a little teapot" before they slept. Brian did have a point. The girls would be out before they reached Emily, which would make it a much more pleasant night once they returned.
"Fine, you win."
He kissed her on the nose. "We both do. Now let's go. The sooner we head out, the sooner I have you back under that blanket," he grinned.
"Hold that thought," Christina laughed.
The roads of Willow Glen were practically deserted at this late hour. Brian hummed The Wiggles classic "Fruit Salad" under his breath as he turned their minivan onto the main road that linked their home to her parents' house. The distance wasn't far-- only a little over two miles-- but Christina understood why Emily wouldn't want to walk it in the dark. No one ever seemed to walk anywhere in their small town. Emily used to joke that people drove their cars to the end of the driveway to get their newspaper in the morning. And, of course, use it as a launching off point for her latest diatribe about how Chicago was infinitely superior to Willow Glen.
"Stop singing that song or else I'll have it in my head all night," she protested. Brian grinned at her sheepishly.
What happened next seemed to ufurl in slow motion, and yet all Christina would ever recall during the years that followed were moments frozen in time. There was no soundtrack to the slideshow in her memory, and everything was muddled, almost like she was viewing it from underwater.
The headlights from the oncoming car that was travelling to fast, in the wrong lane.
Brian's face as he realized what was happening, and him swerving to get out of the way, just a moment too late.
The car flipping. Rolling. Making it's way down the hillside. Finally coming to a stop and bursting into flames.
The face of a stranger, pulling her out to safety before she was consumed by the flames.
Her screaming, begging the stranger to help save her family.
Until finally, the car explodes, taking her heart, her life along with it.
And then her world turns completely black.
*******
"Brr! It's freezing!" Christina laughed as she snuggled under the beige chenille blanket that she and her husband Brian always kept on their couch. It's real purpose was to cover up the stains that were frequently appearing (either at the hand of their 13-month-old twins, Naomi and Nadia, or else from the family dog Maggie). But on exceptionally cool Fall nights such as this one she was happy to have something at the ready to warm her up.
"I don't know what happened to Fall this year," her husband Brian agreed as he entered the room with a cup of peppermint tea that he handed to his appreciative wife. "We seem to have gone straight into Winter." He sat down on the old couch with her, and grabbed a piece of the blanket to cover himself.
"Hmm. I don't mind. I'm one of those freaks that love the cold," Christina laughed. "Besides," she continued, "what's there to complain about? The kids are sleeping and I have you to help keep me warm." She leaned closer to Brian and met his lips in a lingering kiss. They had been together nearly twenty years, ever since he surprised her and asked her to the 8th grade Harvest Dance. And even after all the time they had been together, he still managed to make her heart do backflips whenever he was near.
"You are definitely a freak," he agreed. "But you're my freak." And he leaned in for another kiss. As they broke apart, Christina placed her teacup on the coffee table and placed her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head. She was in her happy place.
"The kids go down easily?" he asked.
"They did," Christina said with wonder. "That's two nights in a row now. Maybe the sleepless nights are a thing of the past?"
Brian chuckled. "You're such an optimist."
"I'm not an optimist. Our children are gifted. I knew that from the moment they started crawling early and showed up that Portia Worthington during their Gymboree class."
"While I do approve of them outshining any child who has the misfortune to be named Portia, I must ask-- have I missed some new study? Since when is crawling a future indicator of brilliance?" he asked.
"When it's our children," she answered, and they both laughed.
Suddenly her bliss was interrupted by the piercing ring of the telephone. She couldn't imagine who would be calling so late. The babies awoke at the sound and begna to cry, almost as though they were echoing their mother's displeasure at the unwelcome interruption. Or else they heard her earlier pronouncements of their brilliance and wanted to make her pay for jinxing things.
Christina grabbed the phone, looked at the caller ID number and noticed, with annoyance, that it was her sister Emily on the other end. "Figures," she grumbled.
"You get it, I'll get the girls," Brian said, and he rose from the couch quickly. So quickly, in fact, that he knocked the tea all over the cofee table. "Hello?" Christina answered sharply, as she grabbed some paper towels to start blotting at the mess.
"Hey Chris? It's Em." Her big sister's voice seemed muffled and far away.
"Do you have any idea how late it is?" Christina demanded. "The girls were asleep, and Brian and I weren't too far behind them."
"I'm sorry," she replied, in a tone that made Christina think she wasn't really sorry at all. "But I have to get out of here."
It was always the same. Emily had fled to Chicago years ago and never could be bothered to come back, despite Christina's hints that she needed help taking care of their parents. It was hard enough being a new mom and taking care of her growing family. She didn't have time for full-time parent care as well. She needed Emily to help step up and shoulder some of the responsibility. She had reluctantly arrived in Willow Glen the previous day, having left her own baby back in Chicago with her husband. The unspoken signal by such a move was I am not planning on staying long, so don't expect much from me.
"What happened this time?" Christina asked warily.
"I just don't want to be here," Emily whimpered.
"Yes, we are all very clear on how this town doesn't meet to your lofty expectations," Christina replied.
"Don't be like that. I'm sorry. I just-- can't. I can't. I miss my husband. I miss my baby. I miss my life. I need to leave."
"Then leave. What's stopping you?"
"The fact that I don't have a car," Emily replied sheepishly. "I was hoping...hoping that you could come get me and I could stay with you for the night. I've already checked online. There's a flight back to O'Hare in the morning. I just don't want to be in this house another moment."
Christina sighed in exasperation. "It's late. The girls are asleep. Or at least they were until you decided to wake them up in the name of your own selfishness. And it's cold out. I really don't feel like going out to get you. Can't you get a cab or borrow mom's car or something?"
"This is Willow Glen," Emily reminded her. "The cabs stop coming at 6:30."
"Exaggerate much?"
"Fine then. 7:30," Emily replied, and in spite of herself, Christina laughed. Her sister was infuriating at times, but she loved her deeply. Their childhood had been challenging, in the way that only childhoods could be, and they were forever bonded because of it.
"And I don't want mom to know I'm leaving, so taking her car is out of the question," Emily continued.
"You're sneaking out? How old are you anyway?" Christina demanded.
"Old enough to know I have to get out of here. Will you help me? Please?"
Christina glanced at the clock on the wall. She was helpless whenever Emily started begging. "Fine. I'll be there in 10 minutes. Wait outside. If I have to be cold, so do you." She hung up and saw Brian on the landing with their two girls. he looked at her with amusement.
"And where are you going exactly?" he asked.
"One guess. And her name starts with an 'Em' and ends with an 'ily.' She needs me to pick her up at mom and dad's."
"Right now?"
"Don't waste your breath. I've already been through this with her. Besides, you know her. If I don't come soon she'll hitchike back to Chicago."
"Well, you're not going alone. We'll bundle up the girls and all go together."
"No, you don't have to do that," she protested. I don't want to take the girls out at this hour."
"They're up now. And you know the only thing that is the surefire cure to get them back asleep once they've awoken is a ride in the car. Come on. We'll all pick up your wayward sister together."
Christina looked at her daughters, who looked as though they were ready for endless rounds of "I'm a little teapot" before they slept. Brian did have a point. The girls would be out before they reached Emily, which would make it a much more pleasant night once they returned.
"Fine, you win."
He kissed her on the nose. "We both do. Now let's go. The sooner we head out, the sooner I have you back under that blanket," he grinned.
"Hold that thought," Christina laughed.
The roads of Willow Glen were practically deserted at this late hour. Brian hummed The Wiggles classic "Fruit Salad" under his breath as he turned their minivan onto the main road that linked their home to her parents' house. The distance wasn't far-- only a little over two miles-- but Christina understood why Emily wouldn't want to walk it in the dark. No one ever seemed to walk anywhere in their small town. Emily used to joke that people drove their cars to the end of the driveway to get their newspaper in the morning. And, of course, use it as a launching off point for her latest diatribe about how Chicago was infinitely superior to Willow Glen.
"Stop singing that song or else I'll have it in my head all night," she protested. Brian grinned at her sheepishly.
What happened next seemed to ufurl in slow motion, and yet all Christina would ever recall during the years that followed were moments frozen in time. There was no soundtrack to the slideshow in her memory, and everything was muddled, almost like she was viewing it from underwater.
The headlights from the oncoming car that was travelling to fast, in the wrong lane.
Brian's face as he realized what was happening, and him swerving to get out of the way, just a moment too late.
The car flipping. Rolling. Making it's way down the hillside. Finally coming to a stop and bursting into flames.
The face of a stranger, pulling her out to safety before she was consumed by the flames.
Her screaming, begging the stranger to help save her family.
Until finally, the car explodes, taking her heart, her life along with it.
And then her world turns completely black.
Friday, July 16, 2010
I knew I was an adult when...
...I bought my first piece of furniture that didn't require me to assemble it myself
...when I heard a child say "mom" and I didn't look over my shoulder to see who they're talking to
...I realized that if I wanted a pet I could just buy one and didn't need anyone's permission
...I could eat frozen waffles for dinner if I wanted to
...the CEO of a Fortune 500 company asked for my opinion on an potential ad campaign
...the idea of taking a nap sounded like heaven on earth
..."because I said so" became a perfectly rational and reasonable argument
...I got excited by the idea of re-landscaping my yard
...when I heard a child say "mom" and I didn't look over my shoulder to see who they're talking to
...I realized that if I wanted a pet I could just buy one and didn't need anyone's permission
...I could eat frozen waffles for dinner if I wanted to
...the CEO of a Fortune 500 company asked for my opinion on an potential ad campaign
...the idea of taking a nap sounded like heaven on earth
..."because I said so" became a perfectly rational and reasonable argument
...I got excited by the idea of re-landscaping my yard
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I'm so sorry, can you remind me of your name again?
I have many flaws, but perhaps the worst is my terrible memory for names.
And I'm not exaggerating. I can't tell you how many times someone I "know" comes up to me to start a conversation-- be it at the kid's school or at a party or in a store-- and I literally have no clue who they are.
Sadly, it's not just casual acquaintances either. We've become friendly with the parents (two men) of one of my son's friend's, and despite having spent time with them at their house and on several day trips I still always forget which one is John and which one is Matt. And now it's just too embrassing to ask. Not that I would remember even if they told me. My husband of course knows, and he's constantly reminding me, but the minute after he tells me I've promptly forgotten it again.
I've tried every trick in the book-- I repeat someone's name silently in my head when introduced to someone new, I try to pick some feature about them to help me remember. But no, nothing. I literally forget someone's name the very moment it's come out of their mouth.
This is an especially bad trait in my line of work, where relationship building and schmoozing clients is key. I've learned in meetings to surreptitiously make notes on my notepad to help me not embarrass myself. But no matter what I do, I can't seem to solve it.
There is one exception-- if the person is wearing a name tag. I'm a visual learner, and even have a photographic memory. So if I see something just once, it's stuck in my brain forever. So while I might not remember someone's name, I'll invariably remember what they were wearing, where we were standing when we were talking and who else was around at the time.
But until the day comes when I can insist that the world wear name tags, I'm stuck nodding my head and smiling and pretending I have a clue who you are. While in reality I'm just hoping I don't make too big of a fool of myself.
And I'm not exaggerating. I can't tell you how many times someone I "know" comes up to me to start a conversation-- be it at the kid's school or at a party or in a store-- and I literally have no clue who they are.
Sadly, it's not just casual acquaintances either. We've become friendly with the parents (two men) of one of my son's friend's, and despite having spent time with them at their house and on several day trips I still always forget which one is John and which one is Matt. And now it's just too embrassing to ask. Not that I would remember even if they told me. My husband of course knows, and he's constantly reminding me, but the minute after he tells me I've promptly forgotten it again.
I've tried every trick in the book-- I repeat someone's name silently in my head when introduced to someone new, I try to pick some feature about them to help me remember. But no, nothing. I literally forget someone's name the very moment it's come out of their mouth.
This is an especially bad trait in my line of work, where relationship building and schmoozing clients is key. I've learned in meetings to surreptitiously make notes on my notepad to help me not embarrass myself. But no matter what I do, I can't seem to solve it.
There is one exception-- if the person is wearing a name tag. I'm a visual learner, and even have a photographic memory. So if I see something just once, it's stuck in my brain forever. So while I might not remember someone's name, I'll invariably remember what they were wearing, where we were standing when we were talking and who else was around at the time.
But until the day comes when I can insist that the world wear name tags, I'm stuck nodding my head and smiling and pretending I have a clue who you are. While in reality I'm just hoping I don't make too big of a fool of myself.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Take this job and shove it. Or not.
I was recently reminded of my 2 summers spent working at a local theme park when I was a teenager. I worked in a gift shop located just inside the park gates, which meant that we were not only the stop first thing in the morning for forgotten sunscreen, hats and fanny packs (this was the 80s), but also the last chance stop for exhausted parents to buy their screaming children a souvenir on their way to the parking lot. Yes, I had to wear a ridiculous outfit as my daily uniform, but the worst part of the job was the fact that (since it was a Paramount-owned park) the original car from Wayne's World was right outside our doors and it played Bohemian Rhapsody and top volume on a continual loop. Which might not seem too bad, except for when you realize that I was there for 8 hours at a time. To this day I can't hear that song without shuddering.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the only side effect. I've never been able to look at theme parks in quite the same way since because I know too much. I know how they all have a huge problem with rats. And rat droppings. In food areas. Or just how little training the ride operators actually get. And even the major side perk-- unlimited free admission to the park-- wasn't much of a benefit when the last thing you wanted to do was to spend your off hours at your job.
I've had some other interesting jobs as well. My first-ever job for pay (aside from the occasional babysitting gig) was as a sales associate at the Gap when I was 15-years-old. To this day, I can fold t-shirts and sweaters like nobodies business-- all exactly the same size and without the folding board. Very handy.
There were others too...like a receptionist at an auto dealership when I was in college (great for doing homework), or working at the front desk of a hotel (hotel guests can be mean). And then of course there was the time in college when my roommate and I decided the most lucrative job would be becoming serial game show contestants. That's a story for another blog, but we appeared on them all. I have a collection of my lovely parting gifts.
The funny part is that I've worked in my chosen profession for 16 years now, and have been fairly successful, but my best work-related memories are all associated with these silly little one-off jobs from my youth. I can still tell the stories from those days with total recall. The pay was awful, the perks were few, but the memories are forever.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the only side effect. I've never been able to look at theme parks in quite the same way since because I know too much. I know how they all have a huge problem with rats. And rat droppings. In food areas. Or just how little training the ride operators actually get. And even the major side perk-- unlimited free admission to the park-- wasn't much of a benefit when the last thing you wanted to do was to spend your off hours at your job.
I've had some other interesting jobs as well. My first-ever job for pay (aside from the occasional babysitting gig) was as a sales associate at the Gap when I was 15-years-old. To this day, I can fold t-shirts and sweaters like nobodies business-- all exactly the same size and without the folding board. Very handy.
There were others too...like a receptionist at an auto dealership when I was in college (great for doing homework), or working at the front desk of a hotel (hotel guests can be mean). And then of course there was the time in college when my roommate and I decided the most lucrative job would be becoming serial game show contestants. That's a story for another blog, but we appeared on them all. I have a collection of my lovely parting gifts.
The funny part is that I've worked in my chosen profession for 16 years now, and have been fairly successful, but my best work-related memories are all associated with these silly little one-off jobs from my youth. I can still tell the stories from those days with total recall. The pay was awful, the perks were few, but the memories are forever.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Wax on, wax off
In light of my children's contstant begging to see the sacrilege known as the Karate Kid remake, I decided the time had finally come to introduce them to Mr. Miyagi and Daniel Larusso. In other words, I wanted to make sure they saw the original Karate Kid before sullying its good name with a remake filled with kung fu, Jackie Chan and Jaden Smith.
Recently I remembered what a cultural touchstone this movie was for my generation when friend of mine posted a photo of her infant son in a kimono and titled it, "my little Cobra Kai." Another friend had commented with "sweep the leg Johnny," and immediately memories of bonsai trees, Reseda and beachside crane poses flooded my mind.
The kids were immediately enthralled, but it was clear what a different world they live in than poor Daniel Larusso:
1. When the Larussos pull up to their classic midcentury LA apartment building at the beginning of the movie, my daughter turned to me and asked, "is that a motel or something?" When I told her it was an apartment building, she she replied, "but they're going to live there? Why?"
2. As the Cobra Kais beat up Daniel for the 3rd time, my son asked me, "don't they have police in this land so that those bully boys can go to jail?"
3. After pretty much every scene, the kids wanted to know, "why are those cars that they drive so old?"
4. At one point, to prove what a modern, liberated guy he is, Daniel tells his girlfriend Alli (played by the fab Elisabeth Shue) that "this is the eighties." To which my daughter asked me, "what are the eighties?"
5. And let's not even get started on the questions they asked about the video game arcade and eighties fashions.
Nevertheless, somethings are universal. And as the final scene faded into the credits, and the story about finding balance in your life and with the universe ended, my kids were jumping up and down with excitement over Daniel's one-footed victory, practicing their own crane poses and saying "that was the most awesome movie ever!" My daughter even confided in me later that she thought Ralph Macchio was pretty cute.
My work here is done. At least for today. Next up: Adventures in Babysitting.
Recently I remembered what a cultural touchstone this movie was for my generation when friend of mine posted a photo of her infant son in a kimono and titled it, "my little Cobra Kai." Another friend had commented with "sweep the leg Johnny," and immediately memories of bonsai trees, Reseda and beachside crane poses flooded my mind.
The kids were immediately enthralled, but it was clear what a different world they live in than poor Daniel Larusso:
1. When the Larussos pull up to their classic midcentury LA apartment building at the beginning of the movie, my daughter turned to me and asked, "is that a motel or something?" When I told her it was an apartment building, she she replied, "but they're going to live there? Why?"
2. As the Cobra Kais beat up Daniel for the 3rd time, my son asked me, "don't they have police in this land so that those bully boys can go to jail?"
3. After pretty much every scene, the kids wanted to know, "why are those cars that they drive so old?"
4. At one point, to prove what a modern, liberated guy he is, Daniel tells his girlfriend Alli (played by the fab Elisabeth Shue) that "this is the eighties." To which my daughter asked me, "what are the eighties?"
5. And let's not even get started on the questions they asked about the video game arcade and eighties fashions.
Nevertheless, somethings are universal. And as the final scene faded into the credits, and the story about finding balance in your life and with the universe ended, my kids were jumping up and down with excitement over Daniel's one-footed victory, practicing their own crane poses and saying "that was the most awesome movie ever!" My daughter even confided in me later that she thought Ralph Macchio was pretty cute.
My work here is done. At least for today. Next up: Adventures in Babysitting.
Monday, May 24, 2010
And so it ends.
Ok, I know what you're thinking. The last thing the world needs is another post-Lost finale blog attempting to decipher what it all means. And certainly not one from someone who has no special insight into the show. After all, I'm just a fan. But as a fan, and as someone who has been a fan since Jack first opened his eyes on the island six years ago, I felt like I needed to organize my thoughts around what I have experienced with this show. Not just during last night's 5 1/2 hour extravaganza, but for the past six years. So indulge me.
And I'm sure this is fairly obvious, but this blog is referential to finale spoilers. If it's still on your DVR and you're spending today actively avoiding hearing anything about the show, leave now. You've been warned.
Hmm. What to make of it all? There have always been two sides to Lost-- the actual physical narrative of what was happening with the island and then the larger picture of "what does it all mean?" The creators have always been such amazing storytellers that we have often gotten ourselves too caught up in the first part. We've been dissecting episodes like we're some sort of CSI team for years, looking for answers. What are the numbers? What's in the hatch? Why does Richard never age? Who are The Others, and so on and so on. Many of those answers we've received over the years. But a few questions still remain. Why? Because, just like in real life, some things are just unanswerable.
But that doesn't mean that viewers should feel like the writers copped out, or didn't deliver what they promised. The show has never really been just about the physical timeline of the mysterious island. The bigger and more compelling story has always been about the characters' own journeys.
So what do I think it all meant? Well, for starters, that there is no one path to enlightenment. Our spiritual leaders are no different than the rest of us, despite any rituals they may have undertaken. All you need to be a leader (a la Hurley and Jack in the finale) is for someone to believe in you. As Hurley said when he drank the water and became the Island's protector, "that's it?" He was clearly waiting for some sort of revelation to overcome him, one where he finally had all of the answers. But none was forthcoming. But then Jack grinned and repeated the words that Jacob had said to him," you're just like me now." Again, no one is more special or more enlightened than anyone else. They're just willing to step up, shoulder the burden and help us all make sense of our own lives.
One of the recurring sayings on this show over the past few seasons is "what happened, happened." You can't change the past. All you can do is move on from it. "Dead is dead." We all carry our baggage like a tether through this life, and we need to learn to let it go so we can truly be happy and free. We're more than the sum total of our parts. We're more than what other people tell us that we are. Our potential is limited only by our belief in ourselves.
A particularly telling moment last night was when Alternate Universe Locke told Ben that he forgave him outside of the all-faiths house of worship. While that meant a lot to Ben, he still wasn't able to move on. Why? Because he still needed to forgive himself first. He needed to "let it go."
We're all heading toward the same place, but how we get there is different. It's the journey, not the destination. Is it guided by faith or reason? Free will or predetermination? Hippie, Dharma-like communal living or stricter religious dogma? The answer for me is a mix of all of the above. But we can't do it alone. In Jack's infamous first-season speech, "live together or die alone." We have to learn to get along with each other, despite our differences. We need to learn to trust each other. We need to love each other. And we need to learn to ask each other for help when we need it.
Whether we know it or not, just like the Lostaways, our lives are all interconnected. What affects one of us affects us all...in ways we may never understand. Life isn't fair. Good people die (I'm still not over Sun and Jin), "bad" people triumph. But in the end, if Lost has told us anything, it's that no one is all good and no one is all bad. Particularly telling for me, however, was when Richard saw he had his first gray hair and was finally ready to truly live. Perhaps Lost is telling us is that it's the transient nature of life that makes it ultimately worth living.
As Christian Shepherd reminded us last night, we all have to go sometime. It's the one certainty in life. But if it's true that time and space cease to matter when that happens and that we're allowed to rejoin those select and most important few that we've loved and lost on our journey to whatever's next, well, it's not quite such a bitter pill to swallow.
There were many things I loved about last night-- particularly the awakenings of Sun and Jin and Charlie and Claire. And there were things that felt forced, like Sayid and Shannon. I mean, c'mon, we all know Nadia was is soulmate. But the moment that resonated with me the most was when Enlightened-Kate tells Not-Yet-Enlightened-Jack that she missed him. After seeing the end, that moment was so powerful. She got off the island. She lived a life. She did things. Presumably helped Claire raise Aaron. But the loss of Jack left a hole in her heart that she carried with her until their souls were reunited in death.
Cheezy? Perhaps just a bit. But my biggest takeaway about last night's finale was that it was ultimately about love. The ones we love are never truly lost to us. And if we can get out of our own way, we don't have to lose ourselves either.
Well done guys.
And I'm sure this is fairly obvious, but this blog is referential to finale spoilers. If it's still on your DVR and you're spending today actively avoiding hearing anything about the show, leave now. You've been warned.
Hmm. What to make of it all? There have always been two sides to Lost-- the actual physical narrative of what was happening with the island and then the larger picture of "what does it all mean?" The creators have always been such amazing storytellers that we have often gotten ourselves too caught up in the first part. We've been dissecting episodes like we're some sort of CSI team for years, looking for answers. What are the numbers? What's in the hatch? Why does Richard never age? Who are The Others, and so on and so on. Many of those answers we've received over the years. But a few questions still remain. Why? Because, just like in real life, some things are just unanswerable.
But that doesn't mean that viewers should feel like the writers copped out, or didn't deliver what they promised. The show has never really been just about the physical timeline of the mysterious island. The bigger and more compelling story has always been about the characters' own journeys.
So what do I think it all meant? Well, for starters, that there is no one path to enlightenment. Our spiritual leaders are no different than the rest of us, despite any rituals they may have undertaken. All you need to be a leader (a la Hurley and Jack in the finale) is for someone to believe in you. As Hurley said when he drank the water and became the Island's protector, "that's it?" He was clearly waiting for some sort of revelation to overcome him, one where he finally had all of the answers. But none was forthcoming. But then Jack grinned and repeated the words that Jacob had said to him," you're just like me now." Again, no one is more special or more enlightened than anyone else. They're just willing to step up, shoulder the burden and help us all make sense of our own lives.
One of the recurring sayings on this show over the past few seasons is "what happened, happened." You can't change the past. All you can do is move on from it. "Dead is dead." We all carry our baggage like a tether through this life, and we need to learn to let it go so we can truly be happy and free. We're more than the sum total of our parts. We're more than what other people tell us that we are. Our potential is limited only by our belief in ourselves.
A particularly telling moment last night was when Alternate Universe Locke told Ben that he forgave him outside of the all-faiths house of worship. While that meant a lot to Ben, he still wasn't able to move on. Why? Because he still needed to forgive himself first. He needed to "let it go."
We're all heading toward the same place, but how we get there is different. It's the journey, not the destination. Is it guided by faith or reason? Free will or predetermination? Hippie, Dharma-like communal living or stricter religious dogma? The answer for me is a mix of all of the above. But we can't do it alone. In Jack's infamous first-season speech, "live together or die alone." We have to learn to get along with each other, despite our differences. We need to learn to trust each other. We need to love each other. And we need to learn to ask each other for help when we need it.
Whether we know it or not, just like the Lostaways, our lives are all interconnected. What affects one of us affects us all...in ways we may never understand. Life isn't fair. Good people die (I'm still not over Sun and Jin), "bad" people triumph. But in the end, if Lost has told us anything, it's that no one is all good and no one is all bad. Particularly telling for me, however, was when Richard saw he had his first gray hair and was finally ready to truly live. Perhaps Lost is telling us is that it's the transient nature of life that makes it ultimately worth living.
As Christian Shepherd reminded us last night, we all have to go sometime. It's the one certainty in life. But if it's true that time and space cease to matter when that happens and that we're allowed to rejoin those select and most important few that we've loved and lost on our journey to whatever's next, well, it's not quite such a bitter pill to swallow.
There were many things I loved about last night-- particularly the awakenings of Sun and Jin and Charlie and Claire. And there were things that felt forced, like Sayid and Shannon. I mean, c'mon, we all know Nadia was is soulmate. But the moment that resonated with me the most was when Enlightened-Kate tells Not-Yet-Enlightened-Jack that she missed him. After seeing the end, that moment was so powerful. She got off the island. She lived a life. She did things. Presumably helped Claire raise Aaron. But the loss of Jack left a hole in her heart that she carried with her until their souls were reunited in death.
Cheezy? Perhaps just a bit. But my biggest takeaway about last night's finale was that it was ultimately about love. The ones we love are never truly lost to us. And if we can get out of our own way, we don't have to lose ourselves either.
Well done guys.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Forget Kathy, I say it's mine.
Last weekend was the 17th anniversary of the day my husband finally admitted to me that he had liked me for months and wanted to ask me out on a date. All these years later, every detail of that evening is still permanently etched in my mind...what I was wearing, what he was wearing, the sound of his voice, what exactly he said and the look on my roommate's face when I gave her the complete download later that evening.
As it turned out, that was the last first date I ever accepted. We were inseparable for the rest of the spring and the following summer. But that Fall a separation loomed, as I was going to be working and living all the way across the country for 4 months. In all of our immature angst it seemed heartbreaking at the time. And this was pre-email, so all we could do was call and write to each other. Which ended up giving me the greatest possible gift-- a box of love letters from my future husband.
One of my favorites was when he admitted that whenever he really missed me, he put on his Walk-Man (yes), and put in his Simon & Garfunkel cassette tape (yes again) to listen to a song that reminded him so completely of me-- Kathy's Song. And then he wrote down the lyrics:
I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.
And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.
My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day.
And a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme.
And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.
I mean really. If I didn't already know in my heart that I was going to marry this man someday at that point, that letter probably would have sealed the deal.
So happy anniversary to my husband. I'm so glad I said "yes." :)
As it turned out, that was the last first date I ever accepted. We were inseparable for the rest of the spring and the following summer. But that Fall a separation loomed, as I was going to be working and living all the way across the country for 4 months. In all of our immature angst it seemed heartbreaking at the time. And this was pre-email, so all we could do was call and write to each other. Which ended up giving me the greatest possible gift-- a box of love letters from my future husband.
One of my favorites was when he admitted that whenever he really missed me, he put on his Walk-Man (yes), and put in his Simon & Garfunkel cassette tape (yes again) to listen to a song that reminded him so completely of me-- Kathy's Song. And then he wrote down the lyrics:
I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.
And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.
My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day.
And a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme.
And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.
I mean really. If I didn't already know in my heart that I was going to marry this man someday at that point, that letter probably would have sealed the deal.
So happy anniversary to my husband. I'm so glad I said "yes." :)
Monday, May 17, 2010
Recent reminders that I'm old
1. Receiving a text invitation for a party that starts at 10pm and requests that guests "bring [their] mood altering drug of choice" immediately makes me think that I'd much rather stay home in my jammies and watch tv.
2. Watching Real Housewives of NY exhausts me. I mean, if you don't like someone, stop expending so much energy talking about them and move on already.
3. I have a daughter that's old enough to be fun to hang out with.
4. I say things like, "I remember when a single scoop of Thrifty's ice cream was a nickel."
5. I actually understand the stock market.
6. When I get together with my friends, we talk about accountants, tax write-offs and home remodeling projects.
7. The people I went to high school with look really, really old in their Facebook pictures.
8. I'm technically old enough to be Kristen Stewart's mother.
9. When I wake up with a random ache or pain I don't wonder what caused it.
10. Madonna is 51. FIFTY-ONE.
2. Watching Real Housewives of NY exhausts me. I mean, if you don't like someone, stop expending so much energy talking about them and move on already.
3. I have a daughter that's old enough to be fun to hang out with.
4. I say things like, "I remember when a single scoop of Thrifty's ice cream was a nickel."
5. I actually understand the stock market.
6. When I get together with my friends, we talk about accountants, tax write-offs and home remodeling projects.
7. The people I went to high school with look really, really old in their Facebook pictures.
8. I'm technically old enough to be Kristen Stewart's mother.
9. When I wake up with a random ache or pain I don't wonder what caused it.
10. Madonna is 51. FIFTY-ONE.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Mother's Day
One of the unexpected fringe benefits of being a mom is that you get to form close friendships with the parents of your kids' friends. I spent part of the past weekend talking to one such friend about her mother who was losing her lengthy battle with cancer.
This was not our first conversation on the subject and she knew that I understood first-hand what she was going through, having lost my own mother to cancer 8 years ago. So while I was deeply saddened for her, I was not surprised when she sent me an email yesterday to let me know that her mother had finally passed.
"What is it like" she asked me, "to live your life without a mom?"
The short answer? It sucks. Especially at this time of year when the entire country seems to orient itself around showing mothers how much they are loved. As I told a different friend once, "it feels like somehow you don't count anymore." Because the person who cares the most in this world about the minutia of what makes you YOU no longer exists.
Our mothers are what ground us. They are our constant touchstones as we grow, experience, and change. Whether we think they were perfect or we want to make sure we turn out nothing like them, they set the stage for everything that comes next. Good or bad, no one loves you like your mother does.
My mom died when my first child was 6 weeks old. So I never had that person to remind me in the dog days of newborn parenting that I used to cry just as much as my daughter was crying now. Or that I was hard to potty train too. Or who could instantly recall my first word or how I used to get in trouble for talking instead of napping in preschool. There's no one around to tell me that I'm doing everything all wrong.
It never really gets easier or goes away. But if I've learned anything from the past 8 years it's that I do have a mom. I may not be able to pick up the phone and call her but she's still there. She's there in every single thing I do-- in the term of endearment I use for my daughter (the same one she used to call me), or in the songs I sing my kids to sleep every night. She's there when I make her enchilada recipe or when I introduce my kids to the Gidget movies that she introduced to me. And she's there just by me being the person that I am.
Thank you mom, from the bottom of my heart. I love you.
This was not our first conversation on the subject and she knew that I understood first-hand what she was going through, having lost my own mother to cancer 8 years ago. So while I was deeply saddened for her, I was not surprised when she sent me an email yesterday to let me know that her mother had finally passed.
"What is it like" she asked me, "to live your life without a mom?"
The short answer? It sucks. Especially at this time of year when the entire country seems to orient itself around showing mothers how much they are loved. As I told a different friend once, "it feels like somehow you don't count anymore." Because the person who cares the most in this world about the minutia of what makes you YOU no longer exists.
Our mothers are what ground us. They are our constant touchstones as we grow, experience, and change. Whether we think they were perfect or we want to make sure we turn out nothing like them, they set the stage for everything that comes next. Good or bad, no one loves you like your mother does.
My mom died when my first child was 6 weeks old. So I never had that person to remind me in the dog days of newborn parenting that I used to cry just as much as my daughter was crying now. Or that I was hard to potty train too. Or who could instantly recall my first word or how I used to get in trouble for talking instead of napping in preschool. There's no one around to tell me that I'm doing everything all wrong.
It never really gets easier or goes away. But if I've learned anything from the past 8 years it's that I do have a mom. I may not be able to pick up the phone and call her but she's still there. She's there in every single thing I do-- in the term of endearment I use for my daughter (the same one she used to call me), or in the songs I sing my kids to sleep every night. She's there when I make her enchilada recipe or when I introduce my kids to the Gidget movies that she introduced to me. And she's there just by me being the person that I am.
Thank you mom, from the bottom of my heart. I love you.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Things that make me laugh
1. Flight of the Conchords
2. Sue Sylvester
3. When my kids inadvertently say the wrong word (like my son saying he wanted to help his sister with her "diarrhea" instead of her "diorama."
4. My husband. Truly the funniest person I know, even if he doesn't show that side unless he knows you well.
5. My Uncle Dan
6. Usually any conversation with my closest girlfriends
7. Gordon Ramsay screaming at Hell's Kitchen contestants
8. Modern Family
9. What's up Doc? Fab movie starring myBarbra.
10. Watching people play Wii tennis
2. Sue Sylvester
3. When my kids inadvertently say the wrong word (like my son saying he wanted to help his sister with her "diarrhea" instead of her "diorama."
4. My husband. Truly the funniest person I know, even if he doesn't show that side unless he knows you well.
5. My Uncle Dan
6. Usually any conversation with my closest girlfriends
7. Gordon Ramsay screaming at Hell's Kitchen contestants
8. Modern Family
9. What's up Doc? Fab movie starring myBarbra.
10. Watching people play Wii tennis
Things that make me cry
1. Steel Magnolias
2. When Eponine dies in Marius' arms after singing "A Little Fall of Rain"
3. When one of my children does something that fills them with a sense of accomplishment
4. Pretty much the entire last hour of The Joy Luck Club
5. The children's book, Someday
6. Listening to "Full of Grace" by Sarah MacLachlan or "In My Daughter's Eyes" by Martina McBride or "Baby Mine" by Bette Midler
7. When my husband surprises me and does something all romantic and schmoopy
8. Anything written by Jodi Picoult
9. Last season's Grey's Anatomy finale
10. When amazing things happen to deserving people
Basically, I'm a total sap.
2. When Eponine dies in Marius' arms after singing "A Little Fall of Rain"
3. When one of my children does something that fills them with a sense of accomplishment
4. Pretty much the entire last hour of The Joy Luck Club
5. The children's book, Someday
6. Listening to "Full of Grace" by Sarah MacLachlan or "In My Daughter's Eyes" by Martina McBride or "Baby Mine" by Bette Midler
7. When my husband surprises me and does something all romantic and schmoopy
8. Anything written by Jodi Picoult
9. Last season's Grey's Anatomy finale
10. When amazing things happen to deserving people
Basically, I'm a total sap.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Letting my geek flag fly
Yesterday I was driving to pick up my kids when one of my all-time favorite songs came on the radio. It's not a song that I'd ever admit to liking publicly, but in the privacy of my own car with no one around, I was happy to loudly sing along.
Which got me to thinking, I have all kinds of secret shames that only the people closest to me know anything about.
Until now.
Song: After All, by Peter Cetera and Cher. Now, in all fairness, at the time this song came out in 1986, it was totally socially acceptable in many social circles to like Peter Cetera. Just not in mine. I was way-too-cool indie alt-rock girl back then, so I'd never have admitted it to anyone, save for the fact that since it appeared as the theme of a pre-jail Robert Downey Jr flick (and at the height of my crush on him). I love this song. I know it's crap. But I love it. And I have been known to do it as a duet with my GBFF during karaoke from time to time. Ahem.
Movie: The American President. Ok, I've already established in this blog that I have crazy love for Annette Bening. But that still shouldn't be enough to excuse how many times I've watched this cheezy and entirely formulaic movie. I mean, I've literally seen pieces of this movie hundreds of times. I'm physically incapable of flipping by it on tv and not stopping and watching it. My husband calls it a sickness. I call it my crack.
TV Show(s): Assorted what-used-to-be-the-WB teen dramas. Had mad love back in the day for Dawson's Creek (Pacey/Joey 4eva!), Felicity and Buffy. I even have the complete sets of DVDs for all of them, even though I've never opened the DC or Felicity ones. Buffy though, is a different story. My favorite thing to do on the rare occasions when I'm home sick is to watch selected episodes from Seasons 1-3, since I was a die hard Buffy/Angel fan ("I can stay in town for as long as you want me/How's forever? Does forever work for you?") sniff, sniff.
Books: I do love myself some Twilight (the books, not the movies, which are awful). Actually, come to think of it, the books are pretty awful too. But in a good way. At least that's what I tell myself so I can still sleep at night.
Food: I love grilled cheese. So much so that my excitement was palpable when a grilled cheese restaurant opened near my house. I also love peanut butter and jelly. In case you were wondering, yes, I am a grown-up.
My, that was rather freeing. Even if I've suddenly realized that I'm pretty much still a 13-year-old girl at heart.
Which got me to thinking, I have all kinds of secret shames that only the people closest to me know anything about.
Until now.
Song: After All, by Peter Cetera and Cher. Now, in all fairness, at the time this song came out in 1986, it was totally socially acceptable in many social circles to like Peter Cetera. Just not in mine. I was way-too-cool indie alt-rock girl back then, so I'd never have admitted it to anyone, save for the fact that since it appeared as the theme of a pre-jail Robert Downey Jr flick (and at the height of my crush on him). I love this song. I know it's crap. But I love it. And I have been known to do it as a duet with my GBFF during karaoke from time to time. Ahem.
Movie: The American President. Ok, I've already established in this blog that I have crazy love for Annette Bening. But that still shouldn't be enough to excuse how many times I've watched this cheezy and entirely formulaic movie. I mean, I've literally seen pieces of this movie hundreds of times. I'm physically incapable of flipping by it on tv and not stopping and watching it. My husband calls it a sickness. I call it my crack.
TV Show(s): Assorted what-used-to-be-the-WB teen dramas. Had mad love back in the day for Dawson's Creek (Pacey/Joey 4eva!), Felicity and Buffy. I even have the complete sets of DVDs for all of them, even though I've never opened the DC or Felicity ones. Buffy though, is a different story. My favorite thing to do on the rare occasions when I'm home sick is to watch selected episodes from Seasons 1-3, since I was a die hard Buffy/Angel fan ("I can stay in town for as long as you want me/How's forever? Does forever work for you?") sniff, sniff.
Books: I do love myself some Twilight (the books, not the movies, which are awful). Actually, come to think of it, the books are pretty awful too. But in a good way. At least that's what I tell myself so I can still sleep at night.
Food: I love grilled cheese. So much so that my excitement was palpable when a grilled cheese restaurant opened near my house. I also love peanut butter and jelly. In case you were wondering, yes, I am a grown-up.
My, that was rather freeing. Even if I've suddenly realized that I'm pretty much still a 13-year-old girl at heart.
Friday, April 9, 2010
An American in Paris
Here are just a few things I learned on my recent sojourn to Paris:
1. If the French give you the option to take an elevator instead of the stairs, DO IT. They are not wussy Americans. Nope, the French only provide assisted elevation if it's is really necessary. Like if the alternative is walking up 300+ windy stairs left over from the time of the French revolution.
2. Panhandling in Paris is an art form. It's not like here, where someone holds up a dingy sign or says a feeble "change please" from time to time. Oh no. It's like it's own form of theater, fully ingrained in the gypsy culture. They emote. They have props. They play the accordion and throw themselves at your feet, weeping. They have just the right amount of dirt on their cheeks to invoke comparisons to Eponine. I gave many a spare Euro, just for the entertainment value alone.
3. There is such a thing as rabbit's milk. And it apparently is not just for bunnies. And don't get me started on the horse's milk. Finding the appropriate jug at the cereal section of the breakfast buffet each morning was always an adventure.
4. The French take their chocolate very seriously. And I mean very seriously. In the days leading up to Easter, the chocolate shops on every corner had displays that cost the equivalent of $1800. And the lines were just out the door.
5. It's amazing that French children survive long enough to grow up to be French adults. While they may take their chocolate seriously, they don't take the same care with their playground safety. It became a running joke during our trip of how many unsafe playground rides could we find (and then naturally record video of our kids risking their lives doing it too). No soft, squishy surfacing to break their falls. Oh no. They have things like the 50-feet-tall "Eiffel Tower" climbing structures that span over nothing but hard concrete. Or strange zip cord thingies that lead to countless children kicking each other in the head or falling on top of each other.
6. I don't recognize the French version of my kids. They literally had to be dragged out of the Greek antiquities wing of the Louvre. They walked miles and miles every day without complaint. And they voluntarily ate Moroccan food, even though things were "touching each other" on their plates.
7. French kids are different than American kids. Putting aside the fact that we never actually saw any (unless we were at a playground), or that waiters patted my son on the head like he was a dog when we entered a restaurant. I'll never forget when a waiter assured me they had kid-friendly cuisine, only to point to the "calf's head sandwich" on the menu. Um, yeah, no.
8. The global economy isn't always a good thing. Last time I was in Paris (15 years ago), I remember feeling as though I had stepped into another reality. It was just so different from what I knew. This time, notsomuch. It had the same feeling as any world-class city, and you couldn't walk a block without seeing a Gap, McDonalds or Starbucks. The toy stores sold all the same made in china crap I can buy here, but for 3 times the price. And most amazingly, the locals were thrilled to speak English to us. As one waiter told my son, "speaking French gets you no place in this world. If you want to succeed, you must speak English." Kinda sad.
9. The French love themselves some carousels. Rain or shine, the lines were lengthy at every carousel we went to.
10. When all else fails, use your kids for personal gain. Lots of airplane travel and airport security headaches often could lead to short tempers for my family. My secret? Find a sympathetic looking airline employee, put on my sweetest (yet beleaguered-looking) mom expression and ordered the kids to look pathetic. Inevitably someone takes pity on me and we move to the front of the line. Don't knock it. It's what got me out of the Dallas airport after we missed our connection home, and the only flight out was completely booked. Somehow, they miraculously found room for us.
And now, back to my regularly scheduled life. But, at least we'll always have Paris.
1. If the French give you the option to take an elevator instead of the stairs, DO IT. They are not wussy Americans. Nope, the French only provide assisted elevation if it's is really necessary. Like if the alternative is walking up 300+ windy stairs left over from the time of the French revolution.
2. Panhandling in Paris is an art form. It's not like here, where someone holds up a dingy sign or says a feeble "change please" from time to time. Oh no. It's like it's own form of theater, fully ingrained in the gypsy culture. They emote. They have props. They play the accordion and throw themselves at your feet, weeping. They have just the right amount of dirt on their cheeks to invoke comparisons to Eponine. I gave many a spare Euro, just for the entertainment value alone.
3. There is such a thing as rabbit's milk. And it apparently is not just for bunnies. And don't get me started on the horse's milk. Finding the appropriate jug at the cereal section of the breakfast buffet each morning was always an adventure.
4. The French take their chocolate very seriously. And I mean very seriously. In the days leading up to Easter, the chocolate shops on every corner had displays that cost the equivalent of $1800. And the lines were just out the door.
5. It's amazing that French children survive long enough to grow up to be French adults. While they may take their chocolate seriously, they don't take the same care with their playground safety. It became a running joke during our trip of how many unsafe playground rides could we find (and then naturally record video of our kids risking their lives doing it too). No soft, squishy surfacing to break their falls. Oh no. They have things like the 50-feet-tall "Eiffel Tower" climbing structures that span over nothing but hard concrete. Or strange zip cord thingies that lead to countless children kicking each other in the head or falling on top of each other.
6. I don't recognize the French version of my kids. They literally had to be dragged out of the Greek antiquities wing of the Louvre. They walked miles and miles every day without complaint. And they voluntarily ate Moroccan food, even though things were "touching each other" on their plates.
7. French kids are different than American kids. Putting aside the fact that we never actually saw any (unless we were at a playground), or that waiters patted my son on the head like he was a dog when we entered a restaurant. I'll never forget when a waiter assured me they had kid-friendly cuisine, only to point to the "calf's head sandwich" on the menu. Um, yeah, no.
8. The global economy isn't always a good thing. Last time I was in Paris (15 years ago), I remember feeling as though I had stepped into another reality. It was just so different from what I knew. This time, notsomuch. It had the same feeling as any world-class city, and you couldn't walk a block without seeing a Gap, McDonalds or Starbucks. The toy stores sold all the same made in china crap I can buy here, but for 3 times the price. And most amazingly, the locals were thrilled to speak English to us. As one waiter told my son, "speaking French gets you no place in this world. If you want to succeed, you must speak English." Kinda sad.
9. The French love themselves some carousels. Rain or shine, the lines were lengthy at every carousel we went to.
10. When all else fails, use your kids for personal gain. Lots of airplane travel and airport security headaches often could lead to short tempers for my family. My secret? Find a sympathetic looking airline employee, put on my sweetest (yet beleaguered-looking) mom expression and ordered the kids to look pathetic. Inevitably someone takes pity on me and we move to the front of the line. Don't knock it. It's what got me out of the Dallas airport after we missed our connection home, and the only flight out was completely booked. Somehow, they miraculously found room for us.
And now, back to my regularly scheduled life. But, at least we'll always have Paris.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
For Tim.
and in the end
the love you take
is equal to
the love you make
I had fully intended for my first new blog after my trip to be all about Paris (and that is still on the agenda). But upon my return, I was hit hard by the news that one of my favorite teachers from my high school days, Tim Shannon, had died suddenly on Monday night from a heart attack.
He was only 49-years-old.
Thousands went to a candelight vigil for him at the high school last night, but distance made it impossible for me to attend. So instead, I spent the night iChatting about him with some friends who also lived too far away to make the trip. It was an evening full of laughter, reminiscing and tears. Regardless though, I still feel like I should have been there.
So Tim, this is for you.
Tim first arrived at my high school during my Sophomore year to run the drama department. He immediately stood out from the rest of the faculty, and not just because of his youth. First of all, he wasn't "Mr. Shannon," he was "Tim." And he didn't just listen to you...he heard you.
Having your opinion matter is important to anyone, but it's especially crucial to a teenager. You have all this stuff going on inside of you, but it can oftentimes feel as though no one takes you seriously. But not Tim. If you had an opinion, he encouraged you to express it. It was okay to disagree with him. And you may just be 15-years-old, but you mattered. Drama is all about camaraderie and teamwork. You are, for all intents and purposes, a family. And Tim made it very clear that no one was a more important part of the family than anyone else.
He could also be indulgent. I was part of a group of 4 girls (*waves to Bridget, Lisa and Whitny*)that were probably a thorn in his side, even though you'd never know it. We were always talking when we should have been listening. We took what should have been simple warm-up exercises and turned them into mini-Broadway productions. We never just took his direction at face value, but questioned him at every turn. But Tim just took us in stride. He even told Bridget that she was on the wrong side of things, and should really direct instead of act. Funny thing? That's exactly what she's doing now. Tim just knew.
I've had countless teachers in my life, but Tim is one of the few that "stuck." The things he taught me over 20 years ago are the skills I still use in my life today-- honor, commitment, trust, kindness, compassion, selflessness and the need for occasional improv skills.
We had just recently reconnected on Facebook, where I was happy to see that, even today, he was still everyone's favorite teacher. I have an email he sent me a few weeks ago, where he told me how proud he was of me and how my life has turned out. I've read that email more than a dozen times over the last couple of days, and I feel so fortunate to have had the chance to hear from him one last time.
His Facebook page has now turned into a memorial of sorts, with hundreds of people posting their memories and love. His death has just rocked the lives of everyone who knew him. But through the grief, I also feel a sense of awe-- talk about making a difference. How many of us can say that we literally made a tangible impact in thousands of lives? Which is why the lyrics from that Beatles song have been swirling around in my head since I received the news. And through our love for Tim, and his love for us, we've all also managed to reconnect with each other. That will be part of his legacy.
Tim made us feel like we mattered. And as a result, Tim mattered to us.
Tim had a tradition, where all of the actors painted their name and graduation year on a brick wall backstage. "This way," he said, "you'll live on here forever."
Much the way Tim will live on forever in the hearts of each of us who were fortunate enough to know him, and to have him care about us.
Rest in peace my friend.
the love you take
is equal to
the love you make
I had fully intended for my first new blog after my trip to be all about Paris (and that is still on the agenda). But upon my return, I was hit hard by the news that one of my favorite teachers from my high school days, Tim Shannon, had died suddenly on Monday night from a heart attack.
He was only 49-years-old.
Thousands went to a candelight vigil for him at the high school last night, but distance made it impossible for me to attend. So instead, I spent the night iChatting about him with some friends who also lived too far away to make the trip. It was an evening full of laughter, reminiscing and tears. Regardless though, I still feel like I should have been there.
So Tim, this is for you.
Tim first arrived at my high school during my Sophomore year to run the drama department. He immediately stood out from the rest of the faculty, and not just because of his youth. First of all, he wasn't "Mr. Shannon," he was "Tim." And he didn't just listen to you...he heard you.
Having your opinion matter is important to anyone, but it's especially crucial to a teenager. You have all this stuff going on inside of you, but it can oftentimes feel as though no one takes you seriously. But not Tim. If you had an opinion, he encouraged you to express it. It was okay to disagree with him. And you may just be 15-years-old, but you mattered. Drama is all about camaraderie and teamwork. You are, for all intents and purposes, a family. And Tim made it very clear that no one was a more important part of the family than anyone else.
He could also be indulgent. I was part of a group of 4 girls (*waves to Bridget, Lisa and Whitny*)that were probably a thorn in his side, even though you'd never know it. We were always talking when we should have been listening. We took what should have been simple warm-up exercises and turned them into mini-Broadway productions. We never just took his direction at face value, but questioned him at every turn. But Tim just took us in stride. He even told Bridget that she was on the wrong side of things, and should really direct instead of act. Funny thing? That's exactly what she's doing now. Tim just knew.
I've had countless teachers in my life, but Tim is one of the few that "stuck." The things he taught me over 20 years ago are the skills I still use in my life today-- honor, commitment, trust, kindness, compassion, selflessness and the need for occasional improv skills.
We had just recently reconnected on Facebook, where I was happy to see that, even today, he was still everyone's favorite teacher. I have an email he sent me a few weeks ago, where he told me how proud he was of me and how my life has turned out. I've read that email more than a dozen times over the last couple of days, and I feel so fortunate to have had the chance to hear from him one last time.
His Facebook page has now turned into a memorial of sorts, with hundreds of people posting their memories and love. His death has just rocked the lives of everyone who knew him. But through the grief, I also feel a sense of awe-- talk about making a difference. How many of us can say that we literally made a tangible impact in thousands of lives? Which is why the lyrics from that Beatles song have been swirling around in my head since I received the news. And through our love for Tim, and his love for us, we've all also managed to reconnect with each other. That will be part of his legacy.
Tim made us feel like we mattered. And as a result, Tim mattered to us.
Tim had a tradition, where all of the actors painted their name and graduation year on a brick wall backstage. "This way," he said, "you'll live on here forever."
Much the way Tim will live on forever in the hearts of each of us who were fortunate enough to know him, and to have him care about us.
Rest in peace my friend.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
My secret shame
I have a confession to make.
There's something that I've had a problem with my entire adult life.
I know better, and I've made so many attempts at kicking the habit. But to no avail. And so I find myself here, at this moment, looking my demon straight in the face and realizing I'm powerless against it.
They say that the first step is to admit you have a problem. So here I am, admitting it for all the world (or at least the couple dozen of you that read my blog) to see.
So, here it goes...
I hate to pack.
Without fail, the night before every trip I've ever been on, I'm up until the wee hours of the morning packing, because I just can't make myself do it until a deadline is staring me in the face. Oh, I'll have the best of intentions, but I inevitably find myself turning on Craig Fergueson as background noise, emptying out the suitcase that I never unpacked from the last trip we went on and wondering where my life went so horribly wrong.
I'm about to embark on a trip to Paris with some close friends who are equally as Type-A as I am. The difference is, while I'm packing impaired, their Type-Aness extends into the travel arena. They've been checking the weather forecast for weeks. They started vacation shopping months ago. They've packed contingency clothes in case something happens to the ones they've brought. They have a carryon bag just filled with snacks and crafts for their kids on the plane. They have lists a mile long of things to do before the trip that they've been systematically crossing off. They finished packing yesterday.
As for me? I made a list. But then I left it at work. Hopefully I'll still remember to pack underwear and socks, which were the only things that actually seemed to make it on the list before I got distracted and stopped making it. I started to pack some bags this morning, but then I noticed an Us Weekly I hadn't read yet, and since I had to finish it before I could stick it in the recycling bin, it made good sense to stop what I was doing and sit down to read. It was essentially the same thing as cleaning. It was pre-cleaning.
Somehow though, I've managed to get most of it done anyway. The problem is, the closer I get to the finish, the more inclined I am to do things like, say, blog.
So as you go to sleep tonight, say a little prayer for me, as you can be certain that I am still awake, attempting to figure out where we put the electrical outlet adapter and if it's bad to give my kids expired graham crackers as airplane snacks.
Au revoir mes amis!
There's something that I've had a problem with my entire adult life.
I know better, and I've made so many attempts at kicking the habit. But to no avail. And so I find myself here, at this moment, looking my demon straight in the face and realizing I'm powerless against it.
They say that the first step is to admit you have a problem. So here I am, admitting it for all the world (or at least the couple dozen of you that read my blog) to see.
So, here it goes...
I hate to pack.
Without fail, the night before every trip I've ever been on, I'm up until the wee hours of the morning packing, because I just can't make myself do it until a deadline is staring me in the face. Oh, I'll have the best of intentions, but I inevitably find myself turning on Craig Fergueson as background noise, emptying out the suitcase that I never unpacked from the last trip we went on and wondering where my life went so horribly wrong.
I'm about to embark on a trip to Paris with some close friends who are equally as Type-A as I am. The difference is, while I'm packing impaired, their Type-Aness extends into the travel arena. They've been checking the weather forecast for weeks. They started vacation shopping months ago. They've packed contingency clothes in case something happens to the ones they've brought. They have a carryon bag just filled with snacks and crafts for their kids on the plane. They have lists a mile long of things to do before the trip that they've been systematically crossing off. They finished packing yesterday.
As for me? I made a list. But then I left it at work. Hopefully I'll still remember to pack underwear and socks, which were the only things that actually seemed to make it on the list before I got distracted and stopped making it. I started to pack some bags this morning, but then I noticed an Us Weekly I hadn't read yet, and since I had to finish it before I could stick it in the recycling bin, it made good sense to stop what I was doing and sit down to read. It was essentially the same thing as cleaning. It was pre-cleaning.
Somehow though, I've managed to get most of it done anyway. The problem is, the closer I get to the finish, the more inclined I am to do things like, say, blog.
So as you go to sleep tonight, say a little prayer for me, as you can be certain that I am still awake, attempting to figure out where we put the electrical outlet adapter and if it's bad to give my kids expired graham crackers as airplane snacks.
Au revoir mes amis!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Pull out your dancing shoes
Dancing with the Stars is back! Or as it's known in my house, Dancing with the Moderately Recognizable! Here are my thoughts on the season so far:
Chad Ochocinco and Cheryl:
I wanted to dislike him on general principle (he's friends with Terrell Owens after all), but I was pleasantly surprised. He's kinda cute and surprisingly humble. And he's got rhythm. Plus, I love Cheryl. I'm hoping he lasts for a long time, despite those lower-than-deserved scores last night.
Shannen Doherty and Mark:
Full confession: I'm a Brenda girl and I never forgave Kelly and Dylan for betraying her like that. So I need her to last longer than Jennie Garth did on her season. She looked a little stiff and nervous last night, but I thought she did great. And I'm totally cheering her on.
Erin Andrews and Maks:
Despite being a sports nut, I had no idea who this girl was. My husband was the one had to tell me. Sidenote: I find it so interesting how the same guy who laughs at me for knowing things like Shannen and Pamela Anderson share an ex-husband, could tell me all kinds of details about this woman. In any event, thought she did fine, but she made no real impression. She's lucky she got paired with the hotness that is Maks. He'll definitely extend her shelf life for another few weeks.
Jake Pav-something and Chelsie:
Don't watch The Bachelor, so no clue who this guy is either. Love Chelsie (although I'd still rather watch reruns of her performances on SYTYCD than anything she's done on this show). I guess they were OK. I admit I started texting at this point.
Evan Lysacek and Anna:
He's really good, if kinda stiff and expressionless. Anna has worked miracles before (Jerry Rice in the finals anyone?) so with his natural talent they have a good shot to go far. Is he still dating Nastia Liukin? If so, my daughter will be on Team Evan.
Niecy Nash and Louis:
Another person I had no idea who she was. Seriously, I clearly need to get out more. I have no memory of her dancing, but she's funny and friends with Jesse Tyler Ferguson. Bonus points!
Nicole Scher-something and Derek:
Yeah, again, never heard of her. And Derek bugs me. I fast forwarded.
Buzz Aldrin and Ashly:
First off, yay for Ashly being back! She was always my husband's favorite. I don't know if that means he secretly wishes he'd married a ballroom dancing Mormon, but I'm okay with it. And that adorable dirty old man Buzz. So what if he can't dance? He's 80-years-old people. And he's been on the freaking moon. And he drinks Tang. It's all good.
Kate Gosselin and Tony:
We've all heard the rumors-- she's a diva, doesn't socialize with the cast. But we can't hate her based on just rumor. Instead we must hate her based on what we know to be fact-- bad hair extensions, way too much pink in that dress and copping a total attitude during the judging portion. My poor Tony. Someday he'll get a partner he can win with.
Aiden Turner and Edyta:
That much pretty in one place isn't fair. Thankfully God balanced it out by making sure he had no dancing ability to speak of.
Pamela Anderson and NewGuy:
Was she drunk?
So far I'm pulling for Ochocinco and Shannen. And of course Tom Bergeron, because he rocks. Who are your faves?
Chad Ochocinco and Cheryl:
I wanted to dislike him on general principle (he's friends with Terrell Owens after all), but I was pleasantly surprised. He's kinda cute and surprisingly humble. And he's got rhythm. Plus, I love Cheryl. I'm hoping he lasts for a long time, despite those lower-than-deserved scores last night.
Shannen Doherty and Mark:
Full confession: I'm a Brenda girl and I never forgave Kelly and Dylan for betraying her like that. So I need her to last longer than Jennie Garth did on her season. She looked a little stiff and nervous last night, but I thought she did great. And I'm totally cheering her on.
Erin Andrews and Maks:
Despite being a sports nut, I had no idea who this girl was. My husband was the one had to tell me. Sidenote: I find it so interesting how the same guy who laughs at me for knowing things like Shannen and Pamela Anderson share an ex-husband, could tell me all kinds of details about this woman. In any event, thought she did fine, but she made no real impression. She's lucky she got paired with the hotness that is Maks. He'll definitely extend her shelf life for another few weeks.
Jake Pav-something and Chelsie:
Don't watch The Bachelor, so no clue who this guy is either. Love Chelsie (although I'd still rather watch reruns of her performances on SYTYCD than anything she's done on this show). I guess they were OK. I admit I started texting at this point.
Evan Lysacek and Anna:
He's really good, if kinda stiff and expressionless. Anna has worked miracles before (Jerry Rice in the finals anyone?) so with his natural talent they have a good shot to go far. Is he still dating Nastia Liukin? If so, my daughter will be on Team Evan.
Niecy Nash and Louis:
Another person I had no idea who she was. Seriously, I clearly need to get out more. I have no memory of her dancing, but she's funny and friends with Jesse Tyler Ferguson. Bonus points!
Nicole Scher-something and Derek:
Yeah, again, never heard of her. And Derek bugs me. I fast forwarded.
Buzz Aldrin and Ashly:
First off, yay for Ashly being back! She was always my husband's favorite. I don't know if that means he secretly wishes he'd married a ballroom dancing Mormon, but I'm okay with it. And that adorable dirty old man Buzz. So what if he can't dance? He's 80-years-old people. And he's been on the freaking moon. And he drinks Tang. It's all good.
Kate Gosselin and Tony:
We've all heard the rumors-- she's a diva, doesn't socialize with the cast. But we can't hate her based on just rumor. Instead we must hate her based on what we know to be fact-- bad hair extensions, way too much pink in that dress and copping a total attitude during the judging portion. My poor Tony. Someday he'll get a partner he can win with.
Aiden Turner and Edyta:
That much pretty in one place isn't fair. Thankfully God balanced it out by making sure he had no dancing ability to speak of.
Pamela Anderson and NewGuy:
Was she drunk?
So far I'm pulling for Ochocinco and Shannen. And of course Tom Bergeron, because he rocks. Who are your faves?
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I am mother, hear me roar
In the 8 years that I've been a parent, I've learned that the hardest thing for me to handle is watching another kid be mean to my child. I never know the proper ettiquette for those situations. Do I intervene, or let the kids work it out amongst themselves? Is it appropriate for me to discipline someone else's child? Given that I'm non-confrontational in nature (unless seriously provoked, and then, watch out), I usually end up talking to my child afterward about how they can handle themselves if it should ever happen again.
Today, however, was another matter.
My son was invited to a classmate's birthday party, which involved a 1-hour drive (each way) up a dirt-road, the last half of which was on a windy 1-lane mountain road with a maximum speed limit of 5 mph. It was also LA marathon-day, which meant it took 3 times longer than usual to get anywhere. Needless to say, by the time we arrived, I was in desperate need of an adult beverage. Clearly I wasn't the only one, as the first thing the hosts said to me upon arrival was they were sorry the facility didn't allow alcohol.
During the course of the party, I watched a child (who claims that my son is his best friend) go out of his way to be mean to him. Even when my son tried to ignore him and go play with other kids, he kept it up. I finally had enough, gave him the patented "mom" glare, and said "back off my kid you little psycho or I'm going to kick your ass."
OK, not really.
What I told this child was that a true friend is someone who makes you feel good about yourself, not someone that tears you down. And that if he couldn't find a way to treat my son with kindness, my son was going to eventually choose to have nothing to do with him any longer. And explained to him what 'empathy' meant.
And then I tattled on him to his mother. :)
It was all quite satisfying. And then I realized that I need to make sure I put theory into practice in my own life. True friends make you feel good about yourself. I think a spring cleaning of my own relationships is definitely in order. Life is too short, and I'm too busy to nurture relationships with people who aren't good for me.
And then maybe I'll tattle on them to their mothers, just for good measure.
Today, however, was another matter.
My son was invited to a classmate's birthday party, which involved a 1-hour drive (each way) up a dirt-road, the last half of which was on a windy 1-lane mountain road with a maximum speed limit of 5 mph. It was also LA marathon-day, which meant it took 3 times longer than usual to get anywhere. Needless to say, by the time we arrived, I was in desperate need of an adult beverage. Clearly I wasn't the only one, as the first thing the hosts said to me upon arrival was they were sorry the facility didn't allow alcohol.
During the course of the party, I watched a child (who claims that my son is his best friend) go out of his way to be mean to him. Even when my son tried to ignore him and go play with other kids, he kept it up. I finally had enough, gave him the patented "mom" glare, and said "back off my kid you little psycho or I'm going to kick your ass."
OK, not really.
What I told this child was that a true friend is someone who makes you feel good about yourself, not someone that tears you down. And that if he couldn't find a way to treat my son with kindness, my son was going to eventually choose to have nothing to do with him any longer. And explained to him what 'empathy' meant.
And then I tattled on him to his mother. :)
It was all quite satisfying. And then I realized that I need to make sure I put theory into practice in my own life. True friends make you feel good about yourself. I think a spring cleaning of my own relationships is definitely in order. Life is too short, and I'm too busy to nurture relationships with people who aren't good for me.
And then maybe I'll tattle on them to their mothers, just for good measure.
Monday, March 15, 2010
After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same
A friend posted a Facebook status update recently about how using her KitchenAid mixer to make a 5th birthday cake for her twin daughters made her think of the group of friends who gave it to her as a wedding gift. As part of that group, her post made me feel both nostalgic and horrified (has that much time really passed that the girls are now 5?), and sure enough, almost immediately all of us came out of the woodwork to post our memories and snark.
In a very Ya-Ya Sisterhood way, our little group even has a secret name (in our defense, when you're in your early twenties, lots of things seem like a good idea). And adding to the silliness, each of us has our own secret code name. So ingrained are these names in my brain, that referring to any of my girls by their real, not so supersecret code names feels wrong. I literally have to force myself to call them by their real names in public.
The eight of us have been friends for more years than I care to count. During that time, we've seen each other through break-ups and new boyfriends (and girlfriends), losing parents, coming out, countless moves, engagements and marriages, having babies and stepchildren, grad schools and new jobs. The only constant has been change.
Well, that, and how much we dislike Gwyneth Paltrow.
Life is so busy and we're no longer able to talk as much as we used to, or be able to drop everything for a girls' weekend in Vegas, NYC or North Carolina (yes, really, North Carolina). But I know that whenever I need it, there are a group of people who not only understand me, but understand how I think, whether it be about work/parenting struggles, beauty product recommendations, or an in-depth discussion about the Twilight saga.
Female friendships are an amazing gift.
In a very Ya-Ya Sisterhood way, our little group even has a secret name (in our defense, when you're in your early twenties, lots of things seem like a good idea). And adding to the silliness, each of us has our own secret code name. So ingrained are these names in my brain, that referring to any of my girls by their real, not so supersecret code names feels wrong. I literally have to force myself to call them by their real names in public.
The eight of us have been friends for more years than I care to count. During that time, we've seen each other through break-ups and new boyfriends (and girlfriends), losing parents, coming out, countless moves, engagements and marriages, having babies and stepchildren, grad schools and new jobs. The only constant has been change.
Well, that, and how much we dislike Gwyneth Paltrow.
Life is so busy and we're no longer able to talk as much as we used to, or be able to drop everything for a girls' weekend in Vegas, NYC or North Carolina (yes, really, North Carolina). But I know that whenever I need it, there are a group of people who not only understand me, but understand how I think, whether it be about work/parenting struggles, beauty product recommendations, or an in-depth discussion about the Twilight saga.
Female friendships are an amazing gift.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Girl power
"There's a woman at the beginning of all great things." - Alphonse de Lamartine
Here's another group of five. This time, it's just a few of the remarkable women that inspire me to keep learning, feeling, growing, trying and loving.
Disclaimer: This list includes only a few of those that I admire from a distance. The incredible women who have played a role in my actual life is a subject for another blog (or another 100 blogs).
1. Annette Bening. Love her. She is responsible for me watching The American President more times than I care to admit.
2. Kate Winslet. Smart, talented, makes unconventional choices. Does things unapologetically her own way.
3. Jennifer Weiner. Funny and insanely talented writer. My role model.
4. Barbra. No last name needed, because she freakin' Barbra.
5. Anna Quindlen. My go-to writer when I'm trying to figure out "what it all means." If she doesn't have it all figured out, she sure manages to fake it well.
Here's another group of five. This time, it's just a few of the remarkable women that inspire me to keep learning, feeling, growing, trying and loving.
Disclaimer: This list includes only a few of those that I admire from a distance. The incredible women who have played a role in my actual life is a subject for another blog (or another 100 blogs).
1. Annette Bening. Love her. She is responsible for me watching The American President more times than I care to admit.
2. Kate Winslet. Smart, talented, makes unconventional choices. Does things unapologetically her own way.
3. Jennifer Weiner. Funny and insanely talented writer. My role model.
4. Barbra. No last name needed, because she freakin' Barbra.
5. Anna Quindlen. My go-to writer when I'm trying to figure out "what it all means." If she doesn't have it all figured out, she sure manages to fake it well.
This is of course just a small sampling, and my actual list could go on forever. What inspires and motivates me are smart and talented people who are unique and march to the beat of their own drummer. Those who turn conventional wisdom on its ear, and succeed anyway. Who don't know the meaning of the word can't. One of my favorite quotes comes from the fabulous Dolly Parton (who would make the above list if it were expanded to ten):
"Find out who you are and do it on purpose."
Monday, March 1, 2010
I'm such a girl
One of the sweetest things I've ever seen happened this past weekend. My cousin toasted his wife (whom he has known for 41 years) on her birthday by serenading her, off-key, in a room full of about 80 people. Just him, a piano player, and a microphone.
He was earnest. He was nervous. And he wasn't drunk. After all this time, he still loves her to distraction (he told us all it was love at first sight), and needed everyone in that room to know it. It was one of the most heartfelt declarations of love I've ever seen, and by the time he was finished, I wasn't the only woman in the room who was very happy to be wearing waterproof mascara.
To paraphrase one of my favorite children's books, the two most important things in the world are music and love. We should all be so lucky as to have our lives be filled with both of those things in abundance.
He was earnest. He was nervous. And he wasn't drunk. After all this time, he still loves her to distraction (he told us all it was love at first sight), and needed everyone in that room to know it. It was one of the most heartfelt declarations of love I've ever seen, and by the time he was finished, I wasn't the only woman in the room who was very happy to be wearing waterproof mascara.
To paraphrase one of my favorite children's books, the two most important things in the world are music and love. We should all be so lucky as to have our lives be filled with both of those things in abundance.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The art of communication
I miss letters.
Real letters. Not email, status updates, texts and tweets. I miss the ones that people actually take the time to write by hand and don't have to worry about inventing clever abbreviations to conform to arbitrary character count restrictions.
My husband's cousin recently joined the Army (which is a whole other story), and we mailed him pictures and notes from the kids along with jokes to keep him entertained while he is at Basic. My daughter drew him a beach scene "so he can imagine a relaxing vacation," while my son drew him a giraffe because "giraffes are cool." It was a fun family project, and when we received a heartfelt thank you letter from him yesterday telling us all about his experiences, the kids were thrilled. Letters written by hand create an instant emotional connection across time and distance, one that isn't easily replicated by anything you can send through cyberspace.
I've always been a saver. I keep things that mean a lot to me, and since I've become a mother, I've taken on the task of keeping things that my kids will care about having one day too. One of the things I do is to keep a journal for each of my children, with me talking to their future selves about what it's like being their mother as they grow up. As part of it, I save any letters written to them by their great-grandparents and the like. And as that generation slowly passes, it's so amazing to go back and read their missives of love, introspection and devotion to family.
One of the many things my mother passed down to me was the importance of gratitude. And that it isn't enough just to feel it, but you also need to express it to those who need to know. We're all busy, but a nice note that isn't related to a birthday or Christmas can mean the world to someone.
And you don't have to fit it into 140 characters or less.
Real letters. Not email, status updates, texts and tweets. I miss the ones that people actually take the time to write by hand and don't have to worry about inventing clever abbreviations to conform to arbitrary character count restrictions.
My husband's cousin recently joined the Army (which is a whole other story), and we mailed him pictures and notes from the kids along with jokes to keep him entertained while he is at Basic. My daughter drew him a beach scene "so he can imagine a relaxing vacation," while my son drew him a giraffe because "giraffes are cool." It was a fun family project, and when we received a heartfelt thank you letter from him yesterday telling us all about his experiences, the kids were thrilled. Letters written by hand create an instant emotional connection across time and distance, one that isn't easily replicated by anything you can send through cyberspace.
I've always been a saver. I keep things that mean a lot to me, and since I've become a mother, I've taken on the task of keeping things that my kids will care about having one day too. One of the things I do is to keep a journal for each of my children, with me talking to their future selves about what it's like being their mother as they grow up. As part of it, I save any letters written to them by their great-grandparents and the like. And as that generation slowly passes, it's so amazing to go back and read their missives of love, introspection and devotion to family.
One of the many things my mother passed down to me was the importance of gratitude. And that it isn't enough just to feel it, but you also need to express it to those who need to know. We're all busy, but a nice note that isn't related to a birthday or Christmas can mean the world to someone.
And you don't have to fit it into 140 characters or less.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Defying Gravity
When I was a kid, I always thought my grown-up life would be simple. I would tool around town in my corvette with my handsome husband, and we would live in a fabulous house. Our children would be well-behaved and clean at all times, and I would have an exciting career as a fashion designer (who happened to model, sing and act) in my spare time.
Eeek. I wanted to grow up to be Barbie.
The reality of it all is, of course, so much different. No one told me how hard it would be to balance work and children, and that if you're going to be amazing in one area, the other one would invariably have to suffer. The sad reality of working motherhood is that I'm often left feeling as though I'm not doing either of them terribly well. I've left important meetings on more than one occasion because a school play beckoned. And I've missed my fair share of field trips and classroom parties because I just couldn't get away. No matter which way those situations end up working out, part of me always feels like my decision should have gone the other way.
In any event, I keep plugging along, doing the best I can, reminding myself that perfection is an unattainable goal. And that even if I was June Cleaver, my kids would find something to blame me for on their future therapists couches. I know this, and yet I still struggle with it.
This past weekend I have found myself at a crossroads, uncertain of which path to take. My life could take a very different turn, all depending on whether or not I choose to take the leap. As I wrestle with my decision, lyrics from Defying Gravity keep running through my head:
Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes: and leap!
and also:
I'm through accepting limits
'cause someone says they're so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I'll never know!
The worst part of being a grown-up is having to make decisions. No matter how old I get, I wish I could just have my mommy tell me what I have to do. Abdicate all responsibility and just be forced to make it work.
The best part of being a grown-up? Getting to eat ice cream for dinner if I want. Hey, I don't deny that responsibility has its perks.
But I still wouldn't mind that Corvette.
Eeek. I wanted to grow up to be Barbie.
The reality of it all is, of course, so much different. No one told me how hard it would be to balance work and children, and that if you're going to be amazing in one area, the other one would invariably have to suffer. The sad reality of working motherhood is that I'm often left feeling as though I'm not doing either of them terribly well. I've left important meetings on more than one occasion because a school play beckoned. And I've missed my fair share of field trips and classroom parties because I just couldn't get away. No matter which way those situations end up working out, part of me always feels like my decision should have gone the other way.
In any event, I keep plugging along, doing the best I can, reminding myself that perfection is an unattainable goal. And that even if I was June Cleaver, my kids would find something to blame me for on their future therapists couches. I know this, and yet I still struggle with it.
This past weekend I have found myself at a crossroads, uncertain of which path to take. My life could take a very different turn, all depending on whether or not I choose to take the leap. As I wrestle with my decision, lyrics from Defying Gravity keep running through my head:
Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes: and leap!
and also:
I'm through accepting limits
'cause someone says they're so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I'll never know!
The worst part of being a grown-up is having to make decisions. No matter how old I get, I wish I could just have my mommy tell me what I have to do. Abdicate all responsibility and just be forced to make it work.
The best part of being a grown-up? Getting to eat ice cream for dinner if I want. Hey, I don't deny that responsibility has its perks.
But I still wouldn't mind that Corvette.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat
My daughter recently brought home a spelling test where she had missed one of the words ("metamorphosis"). I told her that getting 14/15 was great work, and that next time she encountered the word, she'd know how to spell it. She immediately declared that her score "didn't matter", and that spelling tests were not about how many you get right or wrong, but how good you felt about herself after taking one.
Now while I totally subscribe to the high self-esteem school of teaching (and parenting), I couldn't let that pass without comment. And I immediately informed her that, while I hated to burst her bubble, tests (by definition) were entirely about how many you get wrong or right. And that her goal should be to get a perfect score every time. It didn't mean that she would always be perfect, but that it's okay for her to strive for it.
It's human nature to be competitive. That's how we've managed to evolve as a species-- survival of the fittest and all of that. When the metaphorical music stops, you want to make sure you're not the one who is stuck without a chair.
And yet, we spend so much time teaching our children not to to be competitive-- to be gracious in both victory and defeat. And while that is a worthy goal, it's also entirely okay to be absolutely not okay about losing (and to be thrilled with winning). I guarantee you that all of the wonderful Olympic athletes we're watching over these next 2 weeks know what it means to want to win. And to experience that level of success at anything you do, you need an internal voice that makes you always want to be better.
To be clear, I'm talking about competitiveness, not jealousy. There is always going to be someone who has a bigger house, nicer car, and a smaller dress size. Your boss is always going to be less competent than you are, and you will always have the friend who lucked into being a trust fund baby while you live paycheck to paycheck. It's just how the world works. Jealousy is a worthless emotion because it doesn't get you anywhere. You can only affect yourself and what you do with your life. And what other people have has no bearing on what you can ultimately achieve.
But competitiveness, well, that's a different story. It's an old adage in sports that the greatest athletes hate losing more than they love winning. It's okay to strive to be the best at something, and it's okay to want to succeed. And it's really okay to be devastated when things don't work out the way you wanted them to.
I don't want my children to think they can't make mistakes, or they always have to be the best. That is simply setting them up for failure because no one is perfect and no one is the best at everything. But at the same time I want them to know it's okay for perfection to be the goal, and that in the real world, results (and not just effort) matter.
It's a tricky balance, one that I'm still trying to master.
Now while I totally subscribe to the high self-esteem school of teaching (and parenting), I couldn't let that pass without comment. And I immediately informed her that, while I hated to burst her bubble, tests (by definition) were entirely about how many you get wrong or right. And that her goal should be to get a perfect score every time. It didn't mean that she would always be perfect, but that it's okay for her to strive for it.
It's human nature to be competitive. That's how we've managed to evolve as a species-- survival of the fittest and all of that. When the metaphorical music stops, you want to make sure you're not the one who is stuck without a chair.
And yet, we spend so much time teaching our children not to to be competitive-- to be gracious in both victory and defeat. And while that is a worthy goal, it's also entirely okay to be absolutely not okay about losing (and to be thrilled with winning). I guarantee you that all of the wonderful Olympic athletes we're watching over these next 2 weeks know what it means to want to win. And to experience that level of success at anything you do, you need an internal voice that makes you always want to be better.
To be clear, I'm talking about competitiveness, not jealousy. There is always going to be someone who has a bigger house, nicer car, and a smaller dress size. Your boss is always going to be less competent than you are, and you will always have the friend who lucked into being a trust fund baby while you live paycheck to paycheck. It's just how the world works. Jealousy is a worthless emotion because it doesn't get you anywhere. You can only affect yourself and what you do with your life. And what other people have has no bearing on what you can ultimately achieve.
But competitiveness, well, that's a different story. It's an old adage in sports that the greatest athletes hate losing more than they love winning. It's okay to strive to be the best at something, and it's okay to want to succeed. And it's really okay to be devastated when things don't work out the way you wanted them to.
I don't want my children to think they can't make mistakes, or they always have to be the best. That is simply setting them up for failure because no one is perfect and no one is the best at everything. But at the same time I want them to know it's okay for perfection to be the goal, and that in the real world, results (and not just effort) matter.
It's a tricky balance, one that I'm still trying to master.
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