I don't love my daily run. Well, actually, it's more of a jog. But "run" just seems more impressive and energetic. And "daily" has the appearance of discipline and fortitude. So when I write "my daily run" just know I'm truly misleading you. However, I have come to discover my daily run mirrors my daily life. Some parts of it are great, some are indifferent, and other parts simply suck.
I get up at 6:45 am and wake up 30 minutes later. No. Not a typo. If you can't relate, God bless you. You're one in a million!
I'm sauting salami and onions for my son's omelette before my right eye is entirely open. The gentle, splatter of hot olive oil on my hand is a rude attempt at a wake-up call, just as a 35-degree morning is for my daily run.
Despite the sizzling oil attack, I continue in a blur. "Lizzy," I yell at my daughter. "Get up." I make her breakfast. Yell some more. I kiss my husband good-bye. Yell again. I make her lunch for school as I yell. My son brushes his teeth (he says), puts in his contacts, and leaves. "Bye Mom. Bye Liz." I manuver Lizzy into an upright position and hope for the best. She manages to leave at some point.
First thought: An empty, quiet home. Yahoo! Second thought: Did I screw up my work schedule? Was I suppose to be at work two hours ago? Third thought: Running clothes or jeans? Guilt attacks me as a reach for my jeans. To kill it, I grab the spandex and snap it on. I have three questions to answer before I run.
1. Do I have to move my car to avoid a ticket? Oh lord, what street am I parked on? If I take the car to the garage, I run from 70th street to the Intrepid Museum docked on the Hudson at 43rd street and back home.
2. Do I have a coffee date? If so, I run up Riverside Park along the Hudson to meet my girlfriend on 110th street at our favorite Hungarian pastry shop. After coffee, I then walk, run, or subway home. Yes, I cheat on those coffee date days and I'm not ashamed of it!
3. Why didn't I schedule a coffee date? On these days, I'm out the apartment, up around the Central Park Resevoir and back. After a forty-five second hamstring stretch, I'm out the door.
Just like the first several minutes of my morning are spotty, the first few blocks of my run are the most questionable. "You're doing this shit again?" my Brain says to my Body. "Didn't we just do this yesterday or was it last week? You know, if you really did this exercise crap every day, it would be easier on both of us." The dialogue slows down as I enter the park on 81st street. I start counting dogs not on their leash. I listen for birds. I see an 80-year-old jogger and try to pass. The first incline assaults me. It's akin to getting Lizzy erect in the morning. "I can do this. I can do this," I chant. If I can get Lizzy up, I can get up this hill. I manage to get to the resevoir. Now I just have to make it around and then back home--without stopping--preferably.
But I've learned my Brain can take over and drown out my previous cheerleading chant with a catchy melody from the '60's.
Slow down, you're movin' too fast,
You've got to make the mornin' last,
Just a-kickin' down the cobblestones,
Lookin' for fun, feelin' groovy.
Ba, da, da, da, da feelin' groovy!
(thank you Paul Simon for that respite)
I pretty much come to a leisurely stroll in order to halt the "feelin' groovy" repeating itself over and over in my head like a jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk. Luckily, Paul only serenades me once every few months, so I manage my run at a somewhat even pace. I actually run on the bridle path around the resevoir because it's wider than the path by the water and is surrounded by trees casting shadows. When running on those balmy 90-degree days, I tell myself, "Run for gawd sakes. Get to the shade." Obviously in the winter, I berate myself to get to the next patch of sun, an illusion of warmth. I pick out runners I don't like and try to pass them. I don't like safety orange running outfits, older people that are faster than me, private school kids during gym class. "Just because you're richer than me, doesn't mean you're faster than me!" (Unfortunately, they are richer and faster 90% of the time.) When I spot the private school girls, I feel like I'm at Bloomingdales for my bi-yearly trek to that Institution of Higher Spending. I get off on the second floor, while the more coiffed, toned women continue up the escalator to the designer floor, leaving me in the wake of their expensive, flowerly perfume. These are their daughters gliding by me, effortlessly, up the path.
In the spring, my path becomes a pink, soft carpet of fallen petals from blossoming cherry trees. In the fall, I feel like God has allowed me a little peek at Heaven. As I run by the baseball fields, I smell freshly cut grass that make me feel like a 10-year-old again. I see more breeds of dogs on my daily run than a vet sees in a week.
Like my life outside of spandex and running shoes, I get the good, bad, and indifferent. I love being home when the kids open that door at 4 pm. They want to share their day and I long to hear it. As the evening progresses, my husband comes home. Hopefully, to be greeted with a kiss. I make dinner, lie to my daughter about the importance of polynomials in one's life, promise my son his eyeballs won't pop out if he reads more than four pages at a time, talk to India about my computer, and wonder if I'm scheduled to work the next day. I think back to my daily run at the 2.75 mile mark (but who's counting). The hill exiting the park at Central Park West and 77nd street is a bitch. Why must it be at the end of my run? Well, I attack it because it's gotta be done if I want to get home and get on with my day. Just like I gotta weed through the dirty dishes, homework, and teen-age squabbles in order to get to bed before midnight.
"Mom," Lizzy yells, from her tiny loft bedroom. "Bake some cookies. I have a bake sale tomorrow. Please."
And so my day tumbles into evening that slides into night and continues to unfold.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake
"I want my birthday cake to look like the one on the box!" I stamped my foot for emphasis. My mother was my audience for this yearly scene. I didn't want a homemade upside down pineapple cake, carrot cake, angel, pound or sponge cake. I didn't even want a chocolate snickers cake. I wanted the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Layer Cake with White Wispy Frosting that looked like minature ski jumps. Picture perfect. That unattainable pink and white slice of heaven was denied me year after year after year.
My 12th birthday arrived. On the kitchen counter was an empty Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake box. "Mom, where is it?" I hopped from foot to foot in anticipation. She had baked it in a scratched up 13" x 9" olive green aluminum cake pan. The cream colored homemade frosting was as smooth as my cotton sheets. "Oh," I squeaked, as my eyes welled up.
Perfection: The state of being without fault or defect.
I realized my life was the antithesis of this word.
If my Mom couldn't make a cake taller than two inches, how was my life ever going to be perfect? I studied my Teen magazine. I used a Maybelline Professional Eyelash Curler, but only the lashes on the right eye accomplished that wide-eyed, modelesque-look. The lashes on my left eye looked like they'd been torched with a Bic lighter. Fashion was bandanas of varying sizes and colors wrapped around my body and hair. (fyi: I'm from Kansas). My hair: Dishwater Blond. Never, ever in the history of Breck Shampoo did a model have Dishwater Blond hair.
I had Teen to aspire to. My mother had House Beautiful magazine. However, the interior of our house was the equivalant of my exterior. Remember: cinched eyelashes, hair the color of leftover sink water, and a large red bandana tied around my chest for fashion.
I tried to envision House Beautiful photographers in our home. First, they'd bring in an industrial strength giant vacuum to suck up all the dirty tissues, week-old pb&js,and cat hair balls. One look at me and they'd suck me up and my dishwater hair. In the photos, Teen magazine would be tastefully displayed on the coffee table next to the perfect Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake they'd brought in.
How am I to secure the perfect man, perfect career, and perfect life if I can't figure out how to have modelesque eyelashes, a six-inch tall birthday cake, and hair color that doesn't make you think of last nights' dishes?!
Time bumps, jumps, and slithers along. Its taken me several decades to come to terms with all of the above catastrophes. I can now say (and believe), "I'm okay, you're okay." Well, truthfully sometimes its, "I'm great and you're not". Other times, "I suck and yes, you are fabulous. So watch your back."
Clearly, perfection still alludes me. But now I see life as a balancing act. Remember teeter totters? You know, the playground item that doesn't exist anymore because too many kids got crushed feet or simply toppled or got pushed off. I metaphorically have one. In fact I live on it. I stand on the center, feet parted. The seven deadly sins and my ill-fated eyelashes are on the left side. Sainthood, virtues, and the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake are on the right. I spend most waking hours (and some sleeping ones) trying get that plank I am perched on balanced, perfectly balanced.
It happened one time. I was Lady Justice. I was Moses parting the Red Sea. I got up before the alarm. I ate my oatmeal, flax, and blueberries. I gently woke my children with a smile. "Time for school, Darlings." Kissed my husband good-bye on the lips and promised a home cooked dinner, lingerie, and other sundry items on his return. I attended yoga-- became one with my space. I drank water, the elixir of Mother Nature. I inhaled deeply and exuded good thoughts to the world. I did worthy deeds for my family and strangers. (Well, I returned some month old phone calls and didn't make up crap when Nielson Ratings called). You do remember how often Moses parted the Red Sea?
My teeter totter lists to the left. . . always. You know, gluttony, lust, greed, envy, pride, anger, and sloth. I shuffle to the right a few steps. Often nothing happens. To get my plank back on an even keel, I must volunteer at church, school, and microwave duty clean-up all in one day to get the slightest movement.
Lounging on the left can be bitterly beautiful. My blanket of comfort is salami and oreos(doubled-stuffed), tortilla chips and salsa. A beer or two might enter the equation. I watch enough Law and Order on USA channel that I should be deputized. "Just call me Detective--Detective TJ." I read my latest porn novel(Fifty Shades of Grey, volume II for those curious), take care of business, and refuse to abandon my pajamas. My one goal of the day is to make dinner for the family in six hours.
For some reason though, the next day I get back on that teeter totter and start wobbling around--wobbling around to try to find that perfect balance and that Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake with Fluffy White Frosting.
My 12th birthday arrived. On the kitchen counter was an empty Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake box. "Mom, where is it?" I hopped from foot to foot in anticipation. She had baked it in a scratched up 13" x 9" olive green aluminum cake pan. The cream colored homemade frosting was as smooth as my cotton sheets. "Oh," I squeaked, as my eyes welled up.
Perfection: The state of being without fault or defect.
I realized my life was the antithesis of this word.
If my Mom couldn't make a cake taller than two inches, how was my life ever going to be perfect? I studied my Teen magazine. I used a Maybelline Professional Eyelash Curler, but only the lashes on the right eye accomplished that wide-eyed, modelesque-look. The lashes on my left eye looked like they'd been torched with a Bic lighter. Fashion was bandanas of varying sizes and colors wrapped around my body and hair. (fyi: I'm from Kansas). My hair: Dishwater Blond. Never, ever in the history of Breck Shampoo did a model have Dishwater Blond hair.
I had Teen to aspire to. My mother had House Beautiful magazine. However, the interior of our house was the equivalant of my exterior. Remember: cinched eyelashes, hair the color of leftover sink water, and a large red bandana tied around my chest for fashion.
I tried to envision House Beautiful photographers in our home. First, they'd bring in an industrial strength giant vacuum to suck up all the dirty tissues, week-old pb&js,and cat hair balls. One look at me and they'd suck me up and my dishwater hair. In the photos, Teen magazine would be tastefully displayed on the coffee table next to the perfect Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake they'd brought in.
How am I to secure the perfect man, perfect career, and perfect life if I can't figure out how to have modelesque eyelashes, a six-inch tall birthday cake, and hair color that doesn't make you think of last nights' dishes?!
Time bumps, jumps, and slithers along. Its taken me several decades to come to terms with all of the above catastrophes. I can now say (and believe), "I'm okay, you're okay." Well, truthfully sometimes its, "I'm great and you're not". Other times, "I suck and yes, you are fabulous. So watch your back."
Clearly, perfection still alludes me. But now I see life as a balancing act. Remember teeter totters? You know, the playground item that doesn't exist anymore because too many kids got crushed feet or simply toppled or got pushed off. I metaphorically have one. In fact I live on it. I stand on the center, feet parted. The seven deadly sins and my ill-fated eyelashes are on the left side. Sainthood, virtues, and the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake are on the right. I spend most waking hours (and some sleeping ones) trying get that plank I am perched on balanced, perfectly balanced.
It happened one time. I was Lady Justice. I was Moses parting the Red Sea. I got up before the alarm. I ate my oatmeal, flax, and blueberries. I gently woke my children with a smile. "Time for school, Darlings." Kissed my husband good-bye on the lips and promised a home cooked dinner, lingerie, and other sundry items on his return. I attended yoga-- became one with my space. I drank water, the elixir of Mother Nature. I inhaled deeply and exuded good thoughts to the world. I did worthy deeds for my family and strangers. (Well, I returned some month old phone calls and didn't make up crap when Nielson Ratings called). You do remember how often Moses parted the Red Sea?
My teeter totter lists to the left. . . always. You know, gluttony, lust, greed, envy, pride, anger, and sloth. I shuffle to the right a few steps. Often nothing happens. To get my plank back on an even keel, I must volunteer at church, school, and microwave duty clean-up all in one day to get the slightest movement.
Lounging on the left can be bitterly beautiful. My blanket of comfort is salami and oreos(doubled-stuffed), tortilla chips and salsa. A beer or two might enter the equation. I watch enough Law and Order on USA channel that I should be deputized. "Just call me Detective--Detective TJ." I read my latest porn novel(Fifty Shades of Grey, volume II for those curious), take care of business, and refuse to abandon my pajamas. My one goal of the day is to make dinner for the family in six hours.
For some reason though, the next day I get back on that teeter totter and start wobbling around--wobbling around to try to find that perfect balance and that Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake with Fluffy White Frosting.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
HAPPINESS IS . . .
Remember the cartoon strip "Happiness Is. . ."? Well, here are a few of mine. Take a minute and think of your own!
Happiness is riding your bike down that secret path you discovered years ago and it's still special.
Happiness is knowing you helped put a smile on a friend's face.
Happiness is capturing the briskness of an early August morning before it hits 90 degrees.
Happiness is knowing you picked the right person.
Happiness is your child saying, "Look at the sunset!"
Happiness is calling the town you grew up in "home", even if you don't live there any longer.
Happiness is playing that music box your old boyfriend gave you.
Happiness is laughing so hard you really do pee your pants!
Happiness is having two brothers!
Happiness is an unopened box of tissues to use up while watching Cinema Paradiso.
Happiness is a yellow smiley face latch hook rug.
Happiness is old friends and new friends.
Happiness is a phone call from your sister right as you're picking up the phone to call her.
Happiness is the memory of your little red rug from kindergarten.
Happiness is having a mother-in-law you love.
Happiness is reading Gone With the Wind for a fourth time, and not deciding until the last page if Scarlett wins back Rhett.
Happiness is smiling in your sleep because your dream really is that good!
Happiness is loving a book so much you write a character analysis of each one so you never forget them.
Happiness is thinking fondly of your parents and calling them!
Happiness truly is the simplest of things in life. Discover it every day.
Happiness is riding your bike down that secret path you discovered years ago and it's still special.
Happiness is knowing you helped put a smile on a friend's face.
Happiness is capturing the briskness of an early August morning before it hits 90 degrees.
Happiness is knowing you picked the right person.
Happiness is your child saying, "Look at the sunset!"
Happiness is calling the town you grew up in "home", even if you don't live there any longer.
Happiness is playing that music box your old boyfriend gave you.
Happiness is laughing so hard you really do pee your pants!
Happiness is having two brothers!
Happiness is an unopened box of tissues to use up while watching Cinema Paradiso.
Happiness is a yellow smiley face latch hook rug.
Happiness is old friends and new friends.
Happiness is a phone call from your sister right as you're picking up the phone to call her.
Happiness is the memory of your little red rug from kindergarten.
Happiness is having a mother-in-law you love.
Happiness is reading Gone With the Wind for a fourth time, and not deciding until the last page if Scarlett wins back Rhett.
Happiness is smiling in your sleep because your dream really is that good!
Happiness is loving a book so much you write a character analysis of each one so you never forget them.
Happiness is thinking fondly of your parents and calling them!
Happiness truly is the simplest of things in life. Discover it every day.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Kindles, Nooks, and Old-Fashioned Books
I want to embrace the 21st century. I really do! I've turned in my foot-long cell phone for something narrow and chic that slides into my pocket. It vibrates and makes me feel good. I blog, e-mail, and Facebook. I do Intel spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations when forced. But God, I hope I never get an e-reader.
I was on the subway this morning and didn't have my own reading material. I thought I'd just "borrow" material from the woman next to me. She had a Kindle. Nowhere on the "page" did it list the book title or the author. I need to be a bit discriminating when I'm readdropping. (Yes, I just coined a word. I get credit.) I want to know if it's a mystery, textbook, romance or porn. But with an e-reader, there is a setting so the title and author are hidden from prying eyes.
Seated across from me, a passenger was reading Paulo Cohello. Not my favorite author, but if we were next to each other, I'd have spent a few minutes craning my neck to read a page or two. Don't worry, I'm aware how irritating others might find my readdropping habit. I'm starting to think the Kindle reader on the subway intentionally didn't display the title so as to deter my readdropping.
For most of us, it's difficult to start up a conversation with a stranger. However, reading material--visible reading material--is a perfect ice breaker. Recently, a fellow rider was reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. I was consumed with the need to voice my opinion. After giving her my over-dramatic review of how well the author portrays the strength of the human spirit no matter what horrific events crash down onto the characters, she looked at me and said, "It's so depressing. Does it get a little lighter?" Apparently, she didn't listen to a word of my five-minute diatribe. I missed my stop I was so involved in my re-enactment. I noticed her bookmark was barely placed one-third into the book. (Another thing e-reader doesn't have visible.) I gave her a smile. The virtual bubble over my head stated: You think it's depressing now, you may want to lock up the kitchen knives before you finish the book.
I've read tv scripts over people's shoulders, perused porn magazines, and read a term paper about Louis Pasteur via my neck-craning method. Along the way, its opened up some lively conversations.
I can only hope my readdropping days and talking to complete strangers aren't coming to an end.
Long live the paperback!
I was on the subway this morning and didn't have my own reading material. I thought I'd just "borrow" material from the woman next to me. She had a Kindle. Nowhere on the "page" did it list the book title or the author. I need to be a bit discriminating when I'm readdropping. (Yes, I just coined a word. I get credit.) I want to know if it's a mystery, textbook, romance or porn. But with an e-reader, there is a setting so the title and author are hidden from prying eyes.
Seated across from me, a passenger was reading Paulo Cohello. Not my favorite author, but if we were next to each other, I'd have spent a few minutes craning my neck to read a page or two. Don't worry, I'm aware how irritating others might find my readdropping habit. I'm starting to think the Kindle reader on the subway intentionally didn't display the title so as to deter my readdropping.
For most of us, it's difficult to start up a conversation with a stranger. However, reading material--visible reading material--is a perfect ice breaker. Recently, a fellow rider was reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. I was consumed with the need to voice my opinion. After giving her my over-dramatic review of how well the author portrays the strength of the human spirit no matter what horrific events crash down onto the characters, she looked at me and said, "It's so depressing. Does it get a little lighter?" Apparently, she didn't listen to a word of my five-minute diatribe. I missed my stop I was so involved in my re-enactment. I noticed her bookmark was barely placed one-third into the book. (Another thing e-reader doesn't have visible.) I gave her a smile. The virtual bubble over my head stated: You think it's depressing now, you may want to lock up the kitchen knives before you finish the book.
I've read tv scripts over people's shoulders, perused porn magazines, and read a term paper about Louis Pasteur via my neck-craning method. Along the way, its opened up some lively conversations.
I can only hope my readdropping days and talking to complete strangers aren't coming to an end.
Long live the paperback!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Here a List, There a List, Everywhere . . .
The other day a co-worker saw me making a list.
"Wow! That's what I need to do!" he exclaimed.
I mean . . really! Half my day is taken up writing lists. I don't have a blackberry or iphone/touch/pad so it's all done the old-fashioned way. A pen and paper. I usually have a notebook with me, but not always. Really, anything that soaks up ink will do. Sturdy toilet paper, receipts, back of checks, envelopes, hand. The possibilities are endless. When I need to make a list, it needs to be recorded that instant. It's that important!
I have a variety of lists:
Things To Accomplish Immediately
Things To Accomplish By Next Week
Things I'd Like To Accomplish Immediately
Things I'd Like To Accomplish By Next Week
Things I Think I Should Accomplish Soon
Things I Should Have Accomplished in High School
Things I Should Have Accomplished in College
Things I Should Have Accomplished . . You get the modus operandi
Things I'll Never Accomplish No Matter What
Grocery List For Trader Joe's
Grocery List For Zabar's
Grocery List For Local Grocer on The Corner So They Don't Go Out Of Business
Questions To Ask My Son's Teacher At The Next Conference
Questions I'd Really Like To Ask My Son's Teacher But Am Too Afraid To Ask
Realistic Goals
Semi-Realistic Goals
Goals So Unattainable If List Got Published I Could Be Committed
I'd like to pass on some List-Making Tips so your lists can be as productive as possible!
1. Date the list, including the year. Lists have a way of resurfacing. I was speaking elementary Spanish to my son's French teacher. He hadn't had Spanish for two years.
2. Write neatly. Better yet, print. Many times, I can't decipher what I've written. I spend the remainder of the day trying to recall what I needed to accomplish that day.
3. When the goal is accomplished, make a neat check next to it. I've crossed out goals on my "To Do" list so severely, only to waste time later wondering what I crossed out and why I scribbled so angrily. Yet again, another time waster.
4. Be specific, yet comprehensive.
"Call TJ. Tell her you saw her honey w/ another woman."
First and last names always. This list could find a black hole only to resurface two months later. Did you mean your friend TJ or your friend Taylor Jean? Do you mean Honey, her cat, who went missing, or honey in reference to her dirt-bag husband? See, you can never be too specific.
5. Once your hand starts to cramp from your list-making, take a break and do whatever the hell you want to do. And have fun!
"Wow! That's what I need to do!" he exclaimed.
I mean . . really! Half my day is taken up writing lists. I don't have a blackberry or iphone/touch/pad so it's all done the old-fashioned way. A pen and paper. I usually have a notebook with me, but not always. Really, anything that soaks up ink will do. Sturdy toilet paper, receipts, back of checks, envelopes, hand. The possibilities are endless. When I need to make a list, it needs to be recorded that instant. It's that important!
I have a variety of lists:
Things To Accomplish Immediately
Things To Accomplish By Next Week
Things I'd Like To Accomplish Immediately
Things I'd Like To Accomplish By Next Week
Things I Think I Should Accomplish Soon
Things I Should Have Accomplished in High School
Things I Should Have Accomplished in College
Things I Should Have Accomplished . . You get the modus operandi
Things I'll Never Accomplish No Matter What
Grocery List For Trader Joe's
Grocery List For Zabar's
Grocery List For Local Grocer on The Corner So They Don't Go Out Of Business
Questions To Ask My Son's Teacher At The Next Conference
Questions I'd Really Like To Ask My Son's Teacher But Am Too Afraid To Ask
Realistic Goals
Semi-Realistic Goals
Goals So Unattainable If List Got Published I Could Be Committed
I'd like to pass on some List-Making Tips so your lists can be as productive as possible!
1. Date the list, including the year. Lists have a way of resurfacing. I was speaking elementary Spanish to my son's French teacher. He hadn't had Spanish for two years.
2. Write neatly. Better yet, print. Many times, I can't decipher what I've written. I spend the remainder of the day trying to recall what I needed to accomplish that day.
3. When the goal is accomplished, make a neat check next to it. I've crossed out goals on my "To Do" list so severely, only to waste time later wondering what I crossed out and why I scribbled so angrily. Yet again, another time waster.
4. Be specific, yet comprehensive.
"Call TJ. Tell her you saw her honey w/ another woman."
First and last names always. This list could find a black hole only to resurface two months later. Did you mean your friend TJ or your friend Taylor Jean? Do you mean Honey, her cat, who went missing, or honey in reference to her dirt-bag husband? See, you can never be too specific.
5. Once your hand starts to cramp from your list-making, take a break and do whatever the hell you want to do. And have fun!
Friday, January 7, 2011
Christmas Ornaments
It's January and the Christmas decorations are coming down. In December, as I was decorating the tree, I realized I do this for me, not my children.
Go ahead, judge me! Call child services!
As I got out my Christmas accouterments, (garland, ornaments, lights, stockings, snow globes, icicles, Santa salt and pepper shakers, earthenware North Pole teapot) I encouraged the kids to come help me until my throat hurt.
"Come on, you guys! Help me decorate this . . . gosh . . . dang . . . tree!" Eventually, I started putting the ornaments on by myself.
That's when it hit me. Each one of these ornaments take me to another time, another place.
In 1986, my roommate and I made ornaments. I picked up one of my favorites, a cross-stitched Gingerbread Man. "Run, run, run, as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man." Every time I read that book, I root for the little guy with the gummy bear buttons. Curse that fox for doing what comes naturally.
A year later, a friend and I went to Hong Kong. I purchased two dozen intricately beaded snowmen and angels. I envision a factory full of Chinese workers diligently stitching each bead onto my Frostys and Gabriels. Their eyebrows knitted together as they curse. "All this work to put on a tree for two weeks. Crazy people!"
One year, my Jewish boyfriend loaded me down with beautiful hand blown ornaments from Aventura on Columbus Avenue. But my most treasured ornament from him is a dill pickle in honor of my favorite food. Or was it because I liked the shape so much? Mmm, I'm not sure now!
In the early '90's, my husband and I hosted Christmas parties. Friends gave us beautiful ornaments. As I hang these, I vow to get in touch with each and every one of them.
I hang old Christmas cards if I deem the friend worthy enough. I have a 15-year-old card that gets displayed every year. It's from a friend who moved to LA with her husband and baby. Never mind that she has two more kids and is now divorced. When I hang that card, I get to reminiscence about something that no longer is.
I have ornaments commemorating my wedding and my children's births; handmade Sunday School ornaments from my children. I hang these with extra care.
My daughter finally did come to help. After hanging the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, she skipped back to the TV room, content that she had done her job. (Only I get to handle Dorothy and Toto.)
Go ahead, judge me! Call child services!
As I got out my Christmas accouterments, (garland, ornaments, lights, stockings, snow globes, icicles, Santa salt and pepper shakers, earthenware North Pole teapot) I encouraged the kids to come help me until my throat hurt.
"Come on, you guys! Help me decorate this . . . gosh . . . dang . . . tree!" Eventually, I started putting the ornaments on by myself.
That's when it hit me. Each one of these ornaments take me to another time, another place.
In 1986, my roommate and I made ornaments. I picked up one of my favorites, a cross-stitched Gingerbread Man. "Run, run, run, as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man." Every time I read that book, I root for the little guy with the gummy bear buttons. Curse that fox for doing what comes naturally.
A year later, a friend and I went to Hong Kong. I purchased two dozen intricately beaded snowmen and angels. I envision a factory full of Chinese workers diligently stitching each bead onto my Frostys and Gabriels. Their eyebrows knitted together as they curse. "All this work to put on a tree for two weeks. Crazy people!"
One year, my Jewish boyfriend loaded me down with beautiful hand blown ornaments from Aventura on Columbus Avenue. But my most treasured ornament from him is a dill pickle in honor of my favorite food. Or was it because I liked the shape so much? Mmm, I'm not sure now!
In the early '90's, my husband and I hosted Christmas parties. Friends gave us beautiful ornaments. As I hang these, I vow to get in touch with each and every one of them.
I hang old Christmas cards if I deem the friend worthy enough. I have a 15-year-old card that gets displayed every year. It's from a friend who moved to LA with her husband and baby. Never mind that she has two more kids and is now divorced. When I hang that card, I get to reminiscence about something that no longer is.
I have ornaments commemorating my wedding and my children's births; handmade Sunday School ornaments from my children. I hang these with extra care.
My daughter finally did come to help. After hanging the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, she skipped back to the TV room, content that she had done her job. (Only I get to handle Dorothy and Toto.)
Another year has come and gone. Good tidings to all!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Bookstore Lover
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.
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.
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