November 28, Sunday after Thanksgiving.
Allocated drive time to airport: 50 minutes.
Accomplished in 40 minutes.
Allocated time for luggage drop-off/security/frisking: Two hours.
Accomplished in 20 minutes.
Free time before boarding: 1 hour, 40 minutes.
Eat lunch: 1 hour.
Time to kill: 40 minutes.
My daughter and I meandered to Borders Books.
Touch, touch, touch. Smile, fondle, get a tear in my eye. I love books. I think I actually caressed a couple of volumes and had to resist kissing Edward's face on the cover of New Moon by Stephenie Meyer!
I perused every category from children's, bios, sci-fi to romance and best sellers.
It was pure joy.
"See this book?" I asked my 10 year-old. "The author was my teacher in college." I turned the book over and waved at Alice Sebold's picture.
"The Lovely Bones?" she asks. "Sounds like a good book, Mom," her voice sprinkled with sarcasm.
I grabbed a David Sedaris book as if I were embracing the actual author.
"I love him!" I shrieked.
"You're married," she reminded me.
"Okay," I corrected myself. "I love his writing. My favorite book is called Naked. There's one short story about him in a nude trailer park and . . ." I stopped talking as she ran off to get away from me and hopefully to peruse her own books.
I gripped The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver as if I were strangling the African green mamba that had me crying for days. Some books are too emotional to revisit and that's one of them.
The cover of The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery taunted me. "I will pick you up again and I will finish you." I admonished the book and myself by shaking a finger at it.
"Who are you talking to, Mom?" My daughter darted into my aisle. She continued without waiting for my answer. "Whatever you do, don't go into aisle 4. Stay away. Just stay away." She put her arms out in an attempt to block any movement.
I nodded my head knowingly. "It's alright. I already blew kisses at Edward Cullen's picture on the 2011 Twilight Calender. You think I should buy it?" She scurried away faster than Edward could fly Bella up a mountain.
I stood in front of the Robert Ludlum, Dan Brown, etc. aisle. I, once again, affirmed to myself, that I will pick up a thriller/mystery book soon, very soon.
My husband and son took a break from the NFL game on TV and joined us.
"We need to board the plane soon," my husband said.
"Give me a minute. Come with me," I signalled to my son. "Remember in school you read six paragraphs about the Crusades. Well, there's a lot more to them than what you read." I handed him a two-pound book, The Crusades, by Thomas Asbridge.
My son reached for Badasses, by John Madden.
"Can I get this?" he pleaded.
I pondered. The title was inappropriate, it cost $25.00, but my son might actually read it.
After having a delightful time meandering around the store (with and without my daughter) my son chose a book in 37 seconds. We bought it and headed for our gate.
Post Script: It will be sad when book stores go by the way of the drive-in movies. I hope we all have fond memories of one, whether it be a Barnes and Noble, a Shakespeare Books, or a Tattered Cover.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
ANTHROPOLOGIE
No, I didn't misspell anthropology. I am referring to the lifestyle catalog ANTHROPOLOGIE. I just coined this term: lifestyle catalog. What's it mean? I don't know, it just sounds very twenty-first century. It's actually a women's clothing, shoes, and home goods catalog.
I am not "a shopper." I rarely peruse department stores. On-line shopping doesn't turn me on.
However, not only do I enjoy looking at my ANTHROPOLOGIE catalog, I thrive on it. I attempt to become one with it. I have the july, august and september issues! (I didn't capitalize j,a, and s because they don't.)
I know I'm being manipulated by the marketing department. But damn, they're good! Experiencing this catalog, is like discovering my personal book of dreams that I didn't know was in my subconscious. I turn the cover page of the september edition which is matte and seems to be made out of recycled paper. Seemingly unappealing, but here it works. I'm transported to the Pampas of Patagonia with white steeds surrounding me. The model is holding the harness of one of these horses. She's stupidly clad in a ruffled, high-waisted plaid kilt complimented with a ridiculous half-cape sweater thrown over her shoulders. I've never been a horsey person, but I want to be there,on those desolate pampas, hitching up my kilt and swinging my thigh-high boot-covered leg over the bare back of this steed!
A few pages later, the model is sprawled on the ground, next to a saddle. Maybe the steed threw her off! Regardless, I want to lay on that dirt, strewn with rough-hewn blankets and caress the well-worn saddle, just like she is. I don't even know what's for sale here: the saddle, the model, the wind. All I know is I want everything on page 7, september edition--even the dirt.
Even some of the clothes are ugly. I mean, if they're ugly on a 5'10", 110 pound pre-teen model, imagine what they're going to look like on you and me! Even that is a marketing ploy, somehow! They're bordering on mind-control.
I used to visit their encampment. (Referring to it as a store is too pedestrian. It's the marketing, I tell you!) I haven't recently been there and here's why. I needed a peasant shirt. (Don't we all?!) I walked inside. To the right is clothing. To the left are home goods. I decided to make a loop around. I did not buy a shirt that day, but I do own a Guatemalan patchwork, six-cushion sofa. So now, I just do the catalog.
september edition, page 38. For sale, an Anouk shower curtain--$118. Even I draw the line. But it is imported. I wonder from where? Is Anouk in Turkey?
I turn the page and am swept from the South American pampas to a French cafe' with stained glass, old-fashioned sugar dispensers and dusty, dead butterflies displayed in cases along the paint-chipped walls. "Un cafe' du lait' et croissant, s'il vous plait," dances on my lips. (It's the only French I know. Well, that and the Father John, are you sleeping song.) The model has on a necklace with ecru curtain tassels attached to the faux over-sized pearls. It's a bit much, but still . . .
Even some of the clothes are ugly. I mean, if they're ugly on a 5'10", 110 pound pre-teen model, imagine what they're going to look like on you and me! Even that is a marketing ploy, somehow! They're bordering on mind-control.
I used to visit their encampment. (Referring to it as a store is too pedestrian. It's the marketing, I tell you!) I haven't recently been there and here's why. I needed a peasant shirt. (Don't we all?!) I walked inside. To the right is clothing. To the left are home goods. I decided to make a loop around. I did not buy a shirt that day, but I do own a Guatemalan patchwork, six-cushion sofa. So now, I just do the catalog.
september edition, page 38. For sale, an Anouk shower curtain--$118. Even I draw the line. But it is imported. I wonder from where? Is Anouk in Turkey?
I turn the page and am swept from the South American pampas to a French cafe' with stained glass, old-fashioned sugar dispensers and dusty, dead butterflies displayed in cases along the paint-chipped walls. "Un cafe' du lait' et croissant, s'il vous plait," dances on my lips. (It's the only French I know. Well, that and the Father John, are you sleeping song.) The model has on a necklace with ecru curtain tassels attached to the faux over-sized pearls. It's a bit much, but still . . .
Friday, July 2, 2010
Obituaries
Obits fascinate me. I assume they interest everyone, but perhaps I'm wrong. There's a standing joke in New York City. Because of the lack of desirable apartments, one must peruse the obituary pages to find a vacant apartment. After making note of the address of the deceased, cab it over to the building ASAP to submit an application.
I read obits in The New York Times. I read them in my hometown newspaper. I read them in newspapers I've never read before. I don't need to know the deceased to find it interesting. Each obit reveals an untold story.
Do you ever wonder what your obit would say? How many lines would you rate? Who would write it? Are you so famous (or will you become so famous)that bookmakers take bets on when you'll die?
Reading the obits in the 1980's and 1990's, it seemed remarkable to be born in the nineteenth century and die in the twentieth. Now, we are all in that category, straddling two centuries. For one's life to touch three centuries though. That feat alone makes a person fascinating. There aren't many of those obits.
Death notices of babies, children, and teen-agers are just plain awful. A premature death is a death of dreams and plans that will never come to fruition.
When a deceased has served in the military, I hope they were given the respect they deserved throughout their lifetime. They did more than the rest of us, regardless of what we have accomplished.
All obituaries are informative, but The New York Times obits have status. Even as these people exit life, they get Andy Warhol's "fifteen minutes" in death also. Only the most accomplished in their field rate space in the Times--politicians, ex-cons, actresses, writers, scientists, professors, painters, athletes, retired military generals, cartoonists. I'm familiar with some of the deceased names, but only once did I have a connection to someone in these pages.
On the other hand, my hometown newspaper brings back a host of memories and emotions when I read the death notices. I learned a lot about my Grandmother from her obit. It made me wish I would have known her better when she was alive.
Recently, the paper published my fifth grade teacher's obituary. In her 34 years of teaching, she taught a lot of children. One of the things I recall about Mrs. Horwege was her reading Rudyard Kipling's, "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi" to my class. As she imitated the mongoose's voice, over and over, "rikki-tikki-tavi, rikki-tikki-tavi" a line of saliva was ever present, seemingly connecting her upper and bottom lip together. I still love that book today.
My older brother, of course, has a different recollection. He sees her standing in front of the classroom, shaking a three pound text book at the class. "You'll come back to thank me some day for making you outline this entire geography book," she declared.
I think this one death will cause all her pupils to pause and reflect for a moment about her, about their elementary years, and even their hometown. In her obit, it told of her childhood, riding with her father and brother on snowy, cold days to get to school. I wonder if she ever shared that with the class and I just forgot.
An obituary is an exclamation point at the end of a sentence that you've written. It's rainbow sprinkles on top of a frosted chocolate cupcake that you baked.
Enjoy life.
Along the way, you'll do good deeds.
I read obits in The New York Times. I read them in my hometown newspaper. I read them in newspapers I've never read before. I don't need to know the deceased to find it interesting. Each obit reveals an untold story.
Do you ever wonder what your obit would say? How many lines would you rate? Who would write it? Are you so famous (or will you become so famous)that bookmakers take bets on when you'll die?
Reading the obits in the 1980's and 1990's, it seemed remarkable to be born in the nineteenth century and die in the twentieth. Now, we are all in that category, straddling two centuries. For one's life to touch three centuries though. That feat alone makes a person fascinating. There aren't many of those obits.
Death notices of babies, children, and teen-agers are just plain awful. A premature death is a death of dreams and plans that will never come to fruition.
When a deceased has served in the military, I hope they were given the respect they deserved throughout their lifetime. They did more than the rest of us, regardless of what we have accomplished.
All obituaries are informative, but The New York Times obits have status. Even as these people exit life, they get Andy Warhol's "fifteen minutes" in death also. Only the most accomplished in their field rate space in the Times--politicians, ex-cons, actresses, writers, scientists, professors, painters, athletes, retired military generals, cartoonists. I'm familiar with some of the deceased names, but only once did I have a connection to someone in these pages.
On the other hand, my hometown newspaper brings back a host of memories and emotions when I read the death notices. I learned a lot about my Grandmother from her obit. It made me wish I would have known her better when she was alive.
Recently, the paper published my fifth grade teacher's obituary. In her 34 years of teaching, she taught a lot of children. One of the things I recall about Mrs. Horwege was her reading Rudyard Kipling's, "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi" to my class. As she imitated the mongoose's voice, over and over, "rikki-tikki-tavi, rikki-tikki-tavi" a line of saliva was ever present, seemingly connecting her upper and bottom lip together. I still love that book today.
My older brother, of course, has a different recollection. He sees her standing in front of the classroom, shaking a three pound text book at the class. "You'll come back to thank me some day for making you outline this entire geography book," she declared.
I think this one death will cause all her pupils to pause and reflect for a moment about her, about their elementary years, and even their hometown. In her obit, it told of her childhood, riding with her father and brother on snowy, cold days to get to school. I wonder if she ever shared that with the class and I just forgot.
An obituary is an exclamation point at the end of a sentence that you've written. It's rainbow sprinkles on top of a frosted chocolate cupcake that you baked.
Enjoy life.
Along the way, you'll do good deeds.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Order Out
Just taking a little poll here, okay. Does anyone else find Ordering Out a hassle? Hear me out. When it was first conceived, it was revolutionary. You've worked all day, no food in the kitchen, too tired to shop or eat out.
Voila!
Introducing Order Out
Prepared, hot food delivered to your door.
Restaurants even have the foresight to put in condiments i.e. ketchup packets, salt and pepper, duck sauce, soy sauce, even plastic utensil. Even if the food isn't up to par, the condiments and containers may entice you to be a repeat customer.
Welcome to the 21st Century. It's time to expand on this concept. Restaurants need to introduce "Order Out, Set Up." The delivery doesn't stop at your door. The delivery person comes into your kitchen. You'll point out where things are: plates, silverware, napkins, etc. In a couple of weeks, they'll remember where everything is located. Of course, there will be an additional Set Up charge.
If I were single, perhaps I wouldn't have thought of this niche. But with a family of four, there are lots of little boxes to open, condiments to tear, lids to come off.
For example, from China Fun Restaurant, we order soup, two entrees and a vegetable dish, along with brown and white rice. Right there is two separate boxes. For the soup, the broth and noodles are packed separately. I have to open the broth very carefully in the sink because it is filled right to the brim. I don't want broth on the counter and I don't want to burn myself. Also, by the time the food arrives, the noodles are slightly clumpy, so it takes a couple of additional minutes to shake them out with chop sticks before putting them into the broth, which has now been poured into deep soup bowls.
My kids like sweet and sour chicken. Once again, it comes in two different containers, sauce in one, chicken in another. The restaurant is rightfully concerned about their product arriving at its best. The kung po chicken sauce is already on the chicken, so only one container. Thank God! China Fun also throws in chinese noodles with duck sauce and hot mustard packets, which need to be opened and squeezed onto small plates for dipping.
Truthfully, some foods just don't transport well, even if it's only a couple of blocks. I like scallion pancakes, but only at the restaurant. Maybe they're still tasty when my door bell is rung, but by the time I open every little bag, packet, and container, they look like they floated in from the Gulf of Mexico. When they finally hit my plate, they are an oily, damp brown mass. If I had Set Up service, I could instruct the Setter Upper to give me my pancakes NOW! You see, he would know where everything is packed and wouldn't have to stand around the kitchen opening bag after bag, box after box.
Recently, I was anticipating the arrival of our dinner and my mother-in-law called. I told her I was waiting for Order Out. She sounded very excited about this prospect. I think in Beaverton, NC, Order Out is a novelty. I thought I'd disappoint her if I told her the truth: I was waiting for hamburger and fries (another thing that doesn't transport well), so I lied. I told her I'd ordered bhel poori, kadai bhindi, and aloo baigan from my local Indian restaurant. She sounded very happy for us and jealous.
I'm really not complaining. The containers the restaurants use for Order Out are delightful! They're fun geometric shapes: rectangular, square, circular, all different sizes and colors! My colleagues from the suburbs comment on my lunches, thanks to my containers. Apparently Manhattan has upgraded Order Out containers.
I guess if this "Order Out, Set Up" idea doesn't catch on, other options exist.
Sitting forlornly on my bookshelf, are nine cookbooks, along side two years of Cooking Light and Bon Appetit issues.
Voila!
Introducing Order Out
Prepared, hot food delivered to your door.
Restaurants even have the foresight to put in condiments i.e. ketchup packets, salt and pepper, duck sauce, soy sauce, even plastic utensil. Even if the food isn't up to par, the condiments and containers may entice you to be a repeat customer.
Welcome to the 21st Century. It's time to expand on this concept. Restaurants need to introduce "Order Out, Set Up." The delivery doesn't stop at your door. The delivery person comes into your kitchen. You'll point out where things are: plates, silverware, napkins, etc. In a couple of weeks, they'll remember where everything is located. Of course, there will be an additional Set Up charge.
If I were single, perhaps I wouldn't have thought of this niche. But with a family of four, there are lots of little boxes to open, condiments to tear, lids to come off.
For example, from China Fun Restaurant, we order soup, two entrees and a vegetable dish, along with brown and white rice. Right there is two separate boxes. For the soup, the broth and noodles are packed separately. I have to open the broth very carefully in the sink because it is filled right to the brim. I don't want broth on the counter and I don't want to burn myself. Also, by the time the food arrives, the noodles are slightly clumpy, so it takes a couple of additional minutes to shake them out with chop sticks before putting them into the broth, which has now been poured into deep soup bowls.
My kids like sweet and sour chicken. Once again, it comes in two different containers, sauce in one, chicken in another. The restaurant is rightfully concerned about their product arriving at its best. The kung po chicken sauce is already on the chicken, so only one container. Thank God! China Fun also throws in chinese noodles with duck sauce and hot mustard packets, which need to be opened and squeezed onto small plates for dipping.
Truthfully, some foods just don't transport well, even if it's only a couple of blocks. I like scallion pancakes, but only at the restaurant. Maybe they're still tasty when my door bell is rung, but by the time I open every little bag, packet, and container, they look like they floated in from the Gulf of Mexico. When they finally hit my plate, they are an oily, damp brown mass. If I had Set Up service, I could instruct the Setter Upper to give me my pancakes NOW! You see, he would know where everything is packed and wouldn't have to stand around the kitchen opening bag after bag, box after box.
Recently, I was anticipating the arrival of our dinner and my mother-in-law called. I told her I was waiting for Order Out. She sounded very excited about this prospect. I think in Beaverton, NC, Order Out is a novelty. I thought I'd disappoint her if I told her the truth: I was waiting for hamburger and fries (another thing that doesn't transport well), so I lied. I told her I'd ordered bhel poori, kadai bhindi, and aloo baigan from my local Indian restaurant. She sounded very happy for us and jealous.
I'm really not complaining. The containers the restaurants use for Order Out are delightful! They're fun geometric shapes: rectangular, square, circular, all different sizes and colors! My colleagues from the suburbs comment on my lunches, thanks to my containers. Apparently Manhattan has upgraded Order Out containers.
I guess if this "Order Out, Set Up" idea doesn't catch on, other options exist.
Sitting forlornly on my bookshelf, are nine cookbooks, along side two years of Cooking Light and Bon Appetit issues.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Poem in a Pocket Day
Today, April 29, New Yorkers are encouraged to carry a poem in their pocket and share it with those around them. It's popular in the school system and the New York Times will be publishing poems this week.
I'm going to share three poems with you.
This beautiful poem is called
Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the curved white pages
and enter our world?
Holden Caulfield slipping in the side door
of the movie theater to catch the two o'clock.
Anna Karenina sitting in the local diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
in a bright green uniform
serves up a cheeseburger and a Coke.
Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires a fresh bed of tulips.
Who knows? Maybe
they were growing tired
of the author's mind,
all its twists and turns,
or they were finally weary
of stumbling around Pamplona,
a bottle in each fist,
eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile.
Perhaps it was just too hot
in the small California town
where they'd been written into
a lifetime of plowing fields.
Whatever the reason, here they are,
content to spend the day
roaming the city streets, rain falling
on their phantasmal shoulders,
enjoying the bustle of the crowd.
Wouldn't you, if you could?
Step out of your own story
to lean for an afternoon against the doorway
of the five-and-dime, sipping your coffee,
your life somewhere far behind you,
all its heat and toil nothing but a tale
resting in the hands of a stranger,
the dingy sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.
The other two poems are written by "two undiscovered geniuses" (their words) that live with my husband and me.
I have a turtle.
His name is Murtle.
He has a friend, Fred.
The turtle every morning, Fred, has to take his meds.
Every morning, Murtle is just a regular turtle.
THE SUBWAY STATION
I swipe my card through the slot.
I walk down the stairs,
all faces staring down at me.
I think, "all alone with my mother in my home."
I step in the train as it comes.
When it leaves, I hear the train give off its' loud hums.
Tons of people, listening to music, as oblivious as ever.
They probably wouldn't notice if they were nicked by a feather.
Write or read a poem today.
I'm going to share three poems with you.
This beautiful poem is called
by Danusha Lame'ris, published in The Sun, November 2009.Fictional Characters
Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the curved white pages
and enter our world?
Holden Caulfield slipping in the side door
of the movie theater to catch the two o'clock.
Anna Karenina sitting in the local diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
in a bright green uniform
serves up a cheeseburger and a Coke.
Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires a fresh bed of tulips.
Who knows? Maybe
they were growing tired
of the author's mind,
all its twists and turns,
or they were finally weary
of stumbling around Pamplona,
a bottle in each fist,
eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile.
Perhaps it was just too hot
in the small California town
where they'd been written into
a lifetime of plowing fields.
Whatever the reason, here they are,
content to spend the day
roaming the city streets, rain falling
on their phantasmal shoulders,
enjoying the bustle of the crowd.
Wouldn't you, if you could?
Step out of your own story
to lean for an afternoon against the doorway
of the five-and-dime, sipping your coffee,
your life somewhere far behind you,
all its heat and toil nothing but a tale
resting in the hands of a stranger,
the dingy sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.
The other two poems are written by "two undiscovered geniuses" (their words) that live with my husband and me.
I have a turtle.
His name is Murtle.
He has a friend, Fred.
The turtle every morning, Fred, has to take his meds.
Every morning, Murtle is just a regular turtle.
THE SUBWAY STATION
I swipe my card through the slot.
I walk down the stairs,
all faces staring down at me.
I think, "all alone with my mother in my home."
I step in the train as it comes.
When it leaves, I hear the train give off its' loud hums.
Tons of people, listening to music, as oblivious as ever.
They probably wouldn't notice if they were nicked by a feather.
Write or read a poem today.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Spanx Or Not To Spanx
Beauty of life in America is that it's full of options. Some people can embrace those options. They step up to the plate and announce," Big Mac Combo" and don't agonize over their decision. Others, shift from foot to foot, murmuring, "Big Mac, Quarter-pounder, Big Mac, Quarter-pounder. Or should I do BK??"
I confess, last winter I debated between two turtlenecks for twenty minutes. It was the color choice that did me in. One was chocolate fudge. The other was deemed roasted coffee. As I recall, I got tired of my indecision and went to Starbucks for a mochachino fudge venti or something like that.
I'm happy to report that I have, once again, opted to attend my MMA (mixed martial arts) class. The class has left me weak enough to hail a cab, but the horror I envision on the cab driver's face when I ask to go three blocks keeps my arms pinned at my sides and I shuffle home.
I'm too weak to peel off my spandex shorts, too weak to lift an 8-ounce glass of water to my quivering lips. Is it really healthy to throw punches while holding 5- pound dumb bells? I'll Google that when I can lift my arms to the keyboard.
I settle on the sofa where my Spanx catalog calls to me.
Skip class, just buy me, it seems to say.
I successfully lift the pages and peruse some options to my ab attacking, sweat-inducing, tricep-taunting class. Why sweat through this class when I can spend an hour squeezing into a Spanx and look unnaturally thin for the whole day and night?
For those of you who don't know, Spanx are modern day girdles and corsets. They are not easy to get into. I suggest oiling up ahead of time. Depending on the type of man you want to attract, will determine your choice of oil: olive, Wesson, baby or Astroglide. Choose wisely.
Envision Marlon Brando easing into a wrestling singlet. And I don't mean the Marlon Brando from "On The Water Front" era. I mean Brando from the remake of "The Island of Dr. Moreau" (a favorite of mine, co-starring Val Kilmer).
First off, in the Spanx catalog, what's the point of using size 2 models to convince the average overweight woman that their product works? The only bulges these women have to hide are their hip bones. Actually, those bones can be unsightly!
Given more thought, I can skip an MMA class and substitute it for my private Spanx class. The amount of hopping, twisting, and inadvertent crunches (along with swearing and praying) I perform while "sliding" into one of these contraptions burns just about the same amount of calories.
Mega compression zones
Powerful tummy-taming panel
Hide and sleek
This description sounds more promising than plastic surgery and a hundred crunches combined!
Maybe if I opt for fewer Big Macs, I can opt for fewer Spanx and less exercise. I'll give those options some thought.
I confess, last winter I debated between two turtlenecks for twenty minutes. It was the color choice that did me in. One was chocolate fudge. The other was deemed roasted coffee. As I recall, I got tired of my indecision and went to Starbucks for a mochachino fudge venti or something like that.
I'm happy to report that I have, once again, opted to attend my MMA (mixed martial arts) class. The class has left me weak enough to hail a cab, but the horror I envision on the cab driver's face when I ask to go three blocks keeps my arms pinned at my sides and I shuffle home.
I'm too weak to peel off my spandex shorts, too weak to lift an 8-ounce glass of water to my quivering lips. Is it really healthy to throw punches while holding 5- pound dumb bells? I'll Google that when I can lift my arms to the keyboard.
I settle on the sofa where my Spanx catalog calls to me.
Skip class, just buy me, it seems to say.
I successfully lift the pages and peruse some options to my ab attacking, sweat-inducing, tricep-taunting class. Why sweat through this class when I can spend an hour squeezing into a Spanx and look unnaturally thin for the whole day and night?
For those of you who don't know, Spanx are modern day girdles and corsets. They are not easy to get into. I suggest oiling up ahead of time. Depending on the type of man you want to attract, will determine your choice of oil: olive, Wesson, baby or Astroglide. Choose wisely.
Envision Marlon Brando easing into a wrestling singlet. And I don't mean the Marlon Brando from "On The Water Front" era. I mean Brando from the remake of "The Island of Dr. Moreau" (a favorite of mine, co-starring Val Kilmer).
First off, in the Spanx catalog, what's the point of using size 2 models to convince the average overweight woman that their product works? The only bulges these women have to hide are their hip bones. Actually, those bones can be unsightly!
Given more thought, I can skip an MMA class and substitute it for my private Spanx class. The amount of hopping, twisting, and inadvertent crunches (along with swearing and praying) I perform while "sliding" into one of these contraptions burns just about the same amount of calories.
Mega compression zones
Powerful tummy-taming panel
Hide and sleek
This description sounds more promising than plastic surgery and a hundred crunches combined!
Maybe if I opt for fewer Big Macs, I can opt for fewer Spanx and less exercise. I'll give those options some thought.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Transformation
As I take a deep breath, my heart slows to a normal pace. The Transformation has begun. My body is returning to its BC (Before Children) days. Well, it better be, anyway.
I walk the three blocks home from my martial arts studio. My triceps burn from punching the bag, my quads quiver from endless roundhouse kicks. And most importantly, my abs look like God meant them to--like the statue of David. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what they look like. I'll check them out when I get home.
I throw my boxing gloves on the couch. Now I know how Mike Tyson feels after a workout, spent, but worthy. I've been sticking to this exercise regiment for, oh . . . I don't know how long. A while.
I peel off my skin-tight lycra pants and t-shirt. I position myself in front of the full-length mirror. The heck with Victoria Secret models. I'm envisioning the abs of real atheletes, those who pose for Muscle and Fitness magazine. This is the realm I've entered now that I've been working out for . . . a while.
My chest expands as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I look in the mirror. WOW! Not only is my reflection unexpected, I think it might be physically impossible!
I look at my calendar. I have been working out for, let's see. One, two, three. Three and one-half weeks. I go faithfully twice a week, well, at least once a week. Forty-five minutes of non-stop kicking, punching, jumping rope, jogging, and medicine ball crunches. Twenty-five crunches per sessions. If I only go once a week, (though I do try to attend twice a week, honestly), that would be 25 x 3.5 = 87.5. I have accomplished almost 100 crunches in the past month and this is the results. My stomach is emulating the medicine ball, not benefitting from it!
Along with the workouts, I've been doing this "envisioning" crap for two years. Isn't that what "The Secret" is about? Envision hard enough and it will be yours. Megan Fox's abdominals have flitted through my dreams, as well as Mia Hamm's and Lindsay Vonn's. My 11-year old son assures me they all have decent abs.
I rip open my underwear drawer and grab my Spanx (modern-day girdle). I lie on my bed to wrestle myself into it. My Spanx gives me coverage from rib cage to mid-thigh. Nothing bulges out of this thing, other than the pain reflected in my eyes because I can't breathe. I've got to come up with a new ab attack. I grab pen and paper to brainstorm, chips and salsa to sooth the disappointment and settle onto the sofa to draft my new game plan!
I walk the three blocks home from my martial arts studio. My triceps burn from punching the bag, my quads quiver from endless roundhouse kicks. And most importantly, my abs look like God meant them to--like the statue of David. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what they look like. I'll check them out when I get home.
I throw my boxing gloves on the couch. Now I know how Mike Tyson feels after a workout, spent, but worthy. I've been sticking to this exercise regiment for, oh . . . I don't know how long. A while.
I peel off my skin-tight lycra pants and t-shirt. I position myself in front of the full-length mirror. The heck with Victoria Secret models. I'm envisioning the abs of real atheletes, those who pose for Muscle and Fitness magazine. This is the realm I've entered now that I've been working out for . . . a while.
My chest expands as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I look in the mirror. WOW! Not only is my reflection unexpected, I think it might be physically impossible!
I look at my calendar. I have been working out for, let's see. One, two, three. Three and one-half weeks. I go faithfully twice a week, well, at least once a week. Forty-five minutes of non-stop kicking, punching, jumping rope, jogging, and medicine ball crunches. Twenty-five crunches per sessions. If I only go once a week, (though I do try to attend twice a week, honestly), that would be 25 x 3.5 = 87.5. I have accomplished almost 100 crunches in the past month and this is the results. My stomach is emulating the medicine ball, not benefitting from it!
Along with the workouts, I've been doing this "envisioning" crap for two years. Isn't that what "The Secret" is about? Envision hard enough and it will be yours. Megan Fox's abdominals have flitted through my dreams, as well as Mia Hamm's and Lindsay Vonn's. My 11-year old son assures me they all have decent abs.
I rip open my underwear drawer and grab my Spanx (modern-day girdle). I lie on my bed to wrestle myself into it. My Spanx gives me coverage from rib cage to mid-thigh. Nothing bulges out of this thing, other than the pain reflected in my eyes because I can't breathe. I've got to come up with a new ab attack. I grab pen and paper to brainstorm, chips and salsa to sooth the disappointment and settle onto the sofa to draft my new game plan!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Valentine's Day Letter
There is so much hoopla around Christmas and New Year's Eve! What about Arbor Day or Canada Day? What about Valentine's Day? Box of chocolates, a few flowers, and wham bam, it's over!
I think it deserves more attention, so welcome to my inaugural Valentine's Day Letter. This is in lieu of my Christmas message that has pretty much become a painful cliche year after year. This will be so sweet and sugary that you'll decline that box of chocolates and give it to the doorman you gypped at Christmas time.
Dear family, friends, loved ones, strangers, and others,
What can I say? My family and I are doing incredibly well. By the sounds of your last Christmas cards, we're doing a lot better than you all. I know how to read between the lines. "My daughter earned a volleyball scholarship to Atwood Community College 20 miles from home." Code for she practically flunked out of high school and this is the best she could do.
"My spouse and I are getting to spend a lot more time together and recalling why we fell in love." Uh oh. Someone has lost their job, they're doing overtime on the sofa, and discovering new places to scratch!
Well, for my family, it's like a cluster of love surrounds us wherever we go.
"Wind Beneath My Wing" flys out of the radio when we turn it on.
My husband and I frequent our local wine bar, Wine and Roses, and are greeted by "You Light Up My Life!" as we walk hand in hand to our table.
Look up "Romance" in Webster's. It states: Eric and Tammy serenaded by Debbie Boone. Honestly! My heart lunges a beat when I think of Debbie. Then Pat, her dad, slithers into my thoughts. Pat and those blinding white trademark shoes. I wonder if he was buried in them. I suppose I could Google that. I wonder if he's dead. I guess I should Google that first.
Let's return to Romance. There are so many great role models in our history other than Debbie & Pat.
Tracy & Hepburn--Well . . . shame he never divorced his wife though.
Bonnie & Clyde--Dead bodies put a little kibosh on the romance thing.
Di & Chuck--Oh, if only the fairy tale could have been true.
Chuck & Camilla--I just read about them in the Inquirer. Scratch them.
Mr. Ed & Wilbur--Boardering on that NC rating here, possibly.
Lassie & Timmy--More innocent than romantic love, I hope.
Professor & Ginger & Mary Ann--Oops, we want romance not soft porn.
Rhett & Scarlet--the perfect couple, with the exception of the physical and emotional abuse.
I'm starting to understand why the divorce rate is 50%.
Let me share my favorite love poem from my childhood.
Love is like a lizzard,
It gets inside my body
and wraps itself around my gizzard.
My loving and caring son has started MMA (mixed martial arts) classes. So needless to say, watch out Arnold, Jean Claude Van Damme, and you Gracie boys from Brazil. In ten years, my son will be able to crush your ribs like Marsha Brady crushes hearts. (Just trying to stay in the Valentine spirit.)
My manipulative, yet sweet, daughter enjoys gymnastics, science, and the TV show "Wizards of Waverly Place." I envision her concocting potions and spells so she can effortlessly perform a front tuck half twist ariel back bend split while bewitching Taylor Lautner, a young buff actor.
My wonderful husband showers me with so many compliments and kisses. At times, I feel like I'm on Noah's Ark!
May life be one big heart-shaped tub with magical bubbles floating on the surface and mirrors on the ceiling!
From my family to yours!
Happy Valentine's Day!
I think it deserves more attention, so welcome to my inaugural Valentine's Day Letter. This is in lieu of my Christmas message that has pretty much become a painful cliche year after year. This will be so sweet and sugary that you'll decline that box of chocolates and give it to the doorman you gypped at Christmas time.
Dear family, friends, loved ones, strangers, and others,
What can I say? My family and I are doing incredibly well. By the sounds of your last Christmas cards, we're doing a lot better than you all. I know how to read between the lines. "My daughter earned a volleyball scholarship to Atwood Community College 20 miles from home." Code for she practically flunked out of high school and this is the best she could do.
"My spouse and I are getting to spend a lot more time together and recalling why we fell in love." Uh oh. Someone has lost their job, they're doing overtime on the sofa, and discovering new places to scratch!
Well, for my family, it's like a cluster of love surrounds us wherever we go.
"Wind Beneath My Wing" flys out of the radio when we turn it on.
My husband and I frequent our local wine bar, Wine and Roses, and are greeted by "You Light Up My Life!" as we walk hand in hand to our table.
Look up "Romance" in Webster's. It states: Eric and Tammy serenaded by Debbie Boone. Honestly! My heart lunges a beat when I think of Debbie. Then Pat, her dad, slithers into my thoughts. Pat and those blinding white trademark shoes. I wonder if he was buried in them. I suppose I could Google that. I wonder if he's dead. I guess I should Google that first.
Let's return to Romance. There are so many great role models in our history other than Debbie & Pat.
Tracy & Hepburn--Well . . . shame he never divorced his wife though.
Bonnie & Clyde--Dead bodies put a little kibosh on the romance thing.
Di & Chuck--Oh, if only the fairy tale could have been true.
Chuck & Camilla--I just read about them in the Inquirer. Scratch them.
Mr. Ed & Wilbur--Boardering on that NC rating here, possibly.
Lassie & Timmy--More innocent than romantic love, I hope.
Professor & Ginger & Mary Ann--Oops, we want romance not soft porn.
Rhett & Scarlet--the perfect couple, with the exception of the physical and emotional abuse.
I'm starting to understand why the divorce rate is 50%.
Let me share my favorite love poem from my childhood.
Love is like a lizzard,
It gets inside my body
and wraps itself around my gizzard.
It's a little gross, but touching nevertheless!
Didn't mean to digress from my original intention. Back to my VD Letter and my family.
My loving and caring son has started MMA (mixed martial arts) classes. So needless to say, watch out Arnold, Jean Claude Van Damme, and you Gracie boys from Brazil. In ten years, my son will be able to crush your ribs like Marsha Brady crushes hearts. (Just trying to stay in the Valentine spirit.)
My manipulative, yet sweet, daughter enjoys gymnastics, science, and the TV show "Wizards of Waverly Place." I envision her concocting potions and spells so she can effortlessly perform a front tuck half twist ariel back bend split while bewitching Taylor Lautner, a young buff actor.
My wonderful husband showers me with so many compliments and kisses. At times, I feel like I'm on Noah's Ark!
May life be one big heart-shaped tub with magical bubbles floating on the surface and mirrors on the ceiling!
From my family to yours!
Happy Valentine's Day!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
nyc parking
I am so needlessly, senselessly proud of myself. When I walk out of my apartment building, my car is 20 feet from the front door. Do you know how few New Yorkers can say that? We all know most people aren't foolish enough to have a car in the city. That's not the point here. The point here is my Spot. If it weren't 29 degrees and snowing, I would sit on my front stoop and gaze at my perfect Parking Spot. I didn't do anything to earn this Spot. I just drove by at the right time.
On second thought, maybe I do deserve this Spot. You know, the whole Karma thing. Chances are in the last couple of years I've done something good. I remember standing in the express line at Zabar's with 18 items (limit is 10) and allowing someone with two items to cut in front of me. She had to cast several nasty looks my way first, but nevertheless, I let her in. I always allow people in the elevator before me (in case it plummets to the basement.) It's perceived as a good deed, regardless of intent. Clearly, I deserve this Parking Spot and I suspect I'll be getting it a lot more in the future if all is right with the universe!
This Parking Spot even gave me an opportunity to teach my son a life lesson. Yesterday, when he and I walked out the door for school, he skips straight to the car. "This is awesome, Mom!" he says, as he pointlessly pulls on the door handle. I stand back and agree, thinking about all that Karma I've sent out.
"I know, can you believe it?" I hand him my cell phone. "Take a picture of me with My Parking Spot. Then let's get to the subway."
"Mom, are you loco? The car is right here! It's snowing so much I can barely see you."
"If you think I'm losing this Parking Spot to take you 30 blocks to school, you're the one who's insane. This Spot is good for 26 more hours. This Spot represents Utopia to me. Do you understand this? I mean, Utopia, with a capitol U." My hands take on a life of their own, as they rise to the heavens. "Do you know the last time I got this Parking Spot? Before you were born! Are you walking away from me? Are you running away from me?"
Perhaps my voice did escalate an octave or two while I was spewing and gazing at My Spot. "I see you've decided the subway is the best route after all," I yell, as he's half way down the block from me and My Spot.
His life lesson that day was public transportation isn't so bad.
Having a car in NYC is crazy and stupid. Yeah, and maybe it drives the owner to act crazy and stupid too. But it's a choice I embrace.
My kids have their PSP's and DSI's. Well, I have a game too. It's TPG (The Parking Game.) It starts when I'm in my car. I gaze down the street. Both sides are solid with parked cars. I'm focused. No radio or cell phone to distract me. I AM Lee Majors and Inspector Clouseau fused into one. My bionic eye scans the people on the sidewalk. Clues are everywhere IF one knows how to see them. Does that pedestrian have an have overnight bag slung over his shoulder? Is he jingling keys in his pocket (or playing with something else)? Is that woman shouting into her cell phone, "I'm going to the Hamptons if I can find my gawd damn car. Do you remember where I parked it??"
Once I spot my victim (I mean person with car keys), I slow down and stalk him like a lion in the Serengeti. I can smell my success. My victim picks up his pace. He jerks his head around and peers down the street. He's nervous about something. He pulls his keys from his pocket, jumps into his car, reves the engine. I turn on my blinker as an indicator to other drivers behind me, "I got this spot. Keep mov'in!" The nervous driver gives me a big wave and smile as he guns his car out of the space. I line my car up to pull in. I get half way into the spot when I see it. A Fire Hydrant! That Dirtbag was parked at a fire hydrant. No wonder he was in such a hurry to leave. He was worried about getting a ticket.
As I pull out, another driver is waiting for my spot, unaware of the futility of it. I give her a big wave and smile as I peel out!
Such is life in NYC!
On second thought, maybe I do deserve this Spot. You know, the whole Karma thing. Chances are in the last couple of years I've done something good. I remember standing in the express line at Zabar's with 18 items (limit is 10) and allowing someone with two items to cut in front of me. She had to cast several nasty looks my way first, but nevertheless, I let her in. I always allow people in the elevator before me (in case it plummets to the basement.) It's perceived as a good deed, regardless of intent. Clearly, I deserve this Parking Spot and I suspect I'll be getting it a lot more in the future if all is right with the universe!
This Parking Spot even gave me an opportunity to teach my son a life lesson. Yesterday, when he and I walked out the door for school, he skips straight to the car. "This is awesome, Mom!" he says, as he pointlessly pulls on the door handle. I stand back and agree, thinking about all that Karma I've sent out.
"I know, can you believe it?" I hand him my cell phone. "Take a picture of me with My Parking Spot. Then let's get to the subway."
"Mom, are you loco? The car is right here! It's snowing so much I can barely see you."
"If you think I'm losing this Parking Spot to take you 30 blocks to school, you're the one who's insane. This Spot is good for 26 more hours. This Spot represents Utopia to me. Do you understand this? I mean, Utopia, with a capitol U." My hands take on a life of their own, as they rise to the heavens. "Do you know the last time I got this Parking Spot? Before you were born! Are you walking away from me? Are you running away from me?"
Perhaps my voice did escalate an octave or two while I was spewing and gazing at My Spot. "I see you've decided the subway is the best route after all," I yell, as he's half way down the block from me and My Spot.
His life lesson that day was public transportation isn't so bad.
Having a car in NYC is crazy and stupid. Yeah, and maybe it drives the owner to act crazy and stupid too. But it's a choice I embrace.
My kids have their PSP's and DSI's. Well, I have a game too. It's TPG (The Parking Game.) It starts when I'm in my car. I gaze down the street. Both sides are solid with parked cars. I'm focused. No radio or cell phone to distract me. I AM Lee Majors and Inspector Clouseau fused into one. My bionic eye scans the people on the sidewalk. Clues are everywhere IF one knows how to see them. Does that pedestrian have an have overnight bag slung over his shoulder? Is he jingling keys in his pocket (or playing with something else)? Is that woman shouting into her cell phone, "I'm going to the Hamptons if I can find my gawd damn car. Do you remember where I parked it??"
Once I spot my victim (I mean person with car keys), I slow down and stalk him like a lion in the Serengeti. I can smell my success. My victim picks up his pace. He jerks his head around and peers down the street. He's nervous about something. He pulls his keys from his pocket, jumps into his car, reves the engine. I turn on my blinker as an indicator to other drivers behind me, "I got this spot. Keep mov'in!" The nervous driver gives me a big wave and smile as he guns his car out of the space. I line my car up to pull in. I get half way into the spot when I see it. A Fire Hydrant! That Dirtbag was parked at a fire hydrant. No wonder he was in such a hurry to leave. He was worried about getting a ticket.
As I pull out, another driver is waiting for my spot, unaware of the futility of it. I give her a big wave and smile as I peel out!
Such is life in NYC!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Twilight Saga
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
OMG! I've been told some romantic, corny things in my life, but this quote is untouchable. Let's get this clear. These touching words were not directed toward me. They were written to Bella from her vampire lover in the novel "Eclipse."
Some of you may be familiar with The Twilight Saga books: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. Perhaps some of you are still ignorant of the vampire movement that is overtaking Barnes and Noble book shelves, the ressurection of vampires at the movies, and the Undead that are populating our television screens. Perhaps you're sleeping in a coffin, too!
Now, back to that quote!
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
Is there any female alive, regardless of age, who can read those words and not actually swoon? I'm sorry to use that word, but it is sooooo appropriate that nothing else will do.
You want to know what this is really about?
Teen-age angst.
The Twlight Saga series is about vampires, werewolves, and a quick trip to Italy. But the bottom line is: Boy meets Girl. They can't live with each other. They can't live without each other. Then all kinds of drama ensues. For the typical teen-age girl, who is in and out of love every other month, the books read like her diary. The main difference being the boyfriend in the series is a vampire and is sooo better-looking than any human can ever be. Oh yes, and he writes heart-stopping prose.
Look after my heart--I left it with you.
WOW!!
For us women who graduated from high school in the 20th century, reading these books is a trip down memory lane to age 16, when teen-age angst is at the boiling point. This age group has the market on raw and hysterical emotion. Every now and then, as an adult, it's fun to revisit. The angst meter hits "HOT" every other chapter in all the books.
I'm going to tell you what Bella, the main character, did after she read these pain-stakingly scripted words that were left on her pillow.
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
She went to see what her werewolf boyfriend was doing across town. Hey, her vampire flew away, so what the heck!
You can't get anymore teen-age than that!
Been there, done that. Glad it's in the last century.
Ever since I was 10 years old, I've had a predilection for vampires and werewolves. How bloody happy am I that the Undead are rising again!! Thank you Stephenie Meyer, the creator of the Twilight Saga!
And I truly do apologize for my puns, but they are a necessary evil!!
OMG! I've been told some romantic, corny things in my life, but this quote is untouchable. Let's get this clear. These touching words were not directed toward me. They were written to Bella from her vampire lover in the novel "Eclipse."
Some of you may be familiar with The Twilight Saga books: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. Perhaps some of you are still ignorant of the vampire movement that is overtaking Barnes and Noble book shelves, the ressurection of vampires at the movies, and the Undead that are populating our television screens. Perhaps you're sleeping in a coffin, too!
Now, back to that quote!
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
Is there any female alive, regardless of age, who can read those words and not actually swoon? I'm sorry to use that word, but it is sooooo appropriate that nothing else will do.
You want to know what this is really about?
Teen-age angst.
The Twlight Saga series is about vampires, werewolves, and a quick trip to Italy. But the bottom line is: Boy meets Girl. They can't live with each other. They can't live without each other. Then all kinds of drama ensues. For the typical teen-age girl, who is in and out of love every other month, the books read like her diary. The main difference being the boyfriend in the series is a vampire and is sooo better-looking than any human can ever be. Oh yes, and he writes heart-stopping prose.
Look after my heart--I left it with you.
WOW!!
For us women who graduated from high school in the 20th century, reading these books is a trip down memory lane to age 16, when teen-age angst is at the boiling point. This age group has the market on raw and hysterical emotion. Every now and then, as an adult, it's fun to revisit. The angst meter hits "HOT" every other chapter in all the books.
I'm going to tell you what Bella, the main character, did after she read these pain-stakingly scripted words that were left on her pillow.
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
She went to see what her werewolf boyfriend was doing across town. Hey, her vampire flew away, so what the heck!
You can't get anymore teen-age than that!
Been there, done that. Glad it's in the last century.
Ever since I was 10 years old, I've had a predilection for vampires and werewolves. How bloody happy am I that the Undead are rising again!! Thank you Stephenie Meyer, the creator of the Twilight Saga!
And I truly do apologize for my puns, but they are a necessary evil!!
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