Tag: humor

Sometimes My Tech Support Needs Tech Support

My previous web site is now just one big fat user error.

At the end of 2010, I had this brilliant idea. At least it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. I would create my own web site and begin writing again via a blog. How hard could it be, right? I mean, hundreds of dozens of people write blogs every day, and judging from the content, grammar, and spelling on some of those sites, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist (or an English major, apparently) to publish a blog. So, following hubby’s advice, I opened up iWeb on my MacBook, did a simple page layout, registered a domain name (Moms Into Adventure), and put myself out on the web in an official way. I had forgotten, though, what a headache web publishing can be.

Back in 1998, when I was a graduate student studying professional writing at Illinois State University, I took a class called Hypertext. The course objective was to gain an understanding of how writing for the Internet is different than writing for hard copy publication. Words on the Internet are mutable. With a mouse click, one word can springboard you into an entire new realm of thought or investigation. An Internet writer would be able to share multiple concepts succinctly simply by adding links within their work. One of our graded projects involved fabricating our very own web page that in some way defined our identity. It would be my first web page ever. To do this project, I purchased some 1998-simple, Adobe PageMill web software and learned (kid you not) some actual HTML. My identity project for this class is STILL on the Internet today, rife with dorky animated gifs and appallingly unfriendly web site mapping, which only proves how your current Internet activity, no matter how innocuous it seems, will haunt and embarrass you in the future. Wait and see.

At any rate, it had been a long time since I had designed information for the web. Because our web sites were created for a class and hosted by the university, we weren’t allowed to upload them directly. Instead, we saved our sites to floppy disks so our professor could review and upload our information to the web via FTP. It was all so late 1990s. So, you can imagine how I struggled trying to negotiate new Internet publishing programs after what I learned a million years ago when I was 30. The new web site I created last year came with an enormous learning curve, a lot of cursing, and much consternation and head scratching. Still, once I got the hang of it, I persevered and managed to publish nearly 100 posts last year, which was the most writing I had done in nearly a decade. I was proud of my small piece of the web.

Then, yesterday, I went to revisit something on my old site only to realize that, exactly as promised, Apple had eliminated MobileMe, the space where my blog had been peacefully residing. The entire blog was no longer on the Internet. Even though hubby had mentioned that MobileMe was going away, I don’t think it truly ever registered. Truth is that I only listen to him about half the time, so I must have missed the half where he mentioned I would have to put my information elsewhere or lose it forever. Oops.

Consequently, I have spent the better part of the afternoon creating a new site on which to house my 2011 blog articles. I’ve had to undo the previous forward so that it no longer sends users to the defunct MobileMe page. I’ve learned about Nameservers and spent more time with Go Daddy than Danica Patrick. I had to remember passwords I haven’t touched in 18 months, and you have to know the amount of effort that went into that because I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday. At one point, I manually had to uncross my own eyes. It’s been a mind-numbing, excruciating process, and I’ve only managed to upload 5 of my 100 previous posts so far. Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy. I really need to look into getting my tech support some tech support because I’m about ready to fire her…I mean, me.

The Internet in all its insanity, though, is merely a metaphor for life. The things you wish you could delete will stay with you a lifetime, while the things that mean something to you can be gone in an instant. The only constant is change. If you stop to blink, you will miss something vastly important. Some associations can be easily repaired while others can be lost forever. And, no matter how much you learn, there’s always more you will never know. As hard as it is to keep up with the way of the future, when you decide to quit adapting to the technology of the present you become a fossil. So, to avoid going the way of the dinosaurs I will keep up with this crazy Internet publishing nonsense…at least until the next better thing comes along.

 

Posted on by Me 3

A Modern Housewife’s Life On The Edge

My completely amazing, homemade banana bread…or what’s left of it. (The things in the background are not my secret ingredients. They are snacks for later.)

This is my second post in two days about my husband. He is not all that happy about it, but he’s made some suggestions about ways I can fix things between us. Most of them revolve around me “owing” him. (He might have left some letters off that word when he told me that, but this is a rated PG blog so we’re going with it.) Anyway, to repay him for what I am about to disclose, I decided that what I owed him was the best, homemade banana bread in the world. So, that is my olive branch to him. I’ve already eaten half of it (because it is the best banana bread in the world), but I figure that’s about right because he only gave me half my inspiration today. The other half of the inspiration came from Aron Ralston but he’s not here so I ate his half of the bread. You snooze, you lose, Aron.

This morning I decided I needed some exercise. I decide that every morning, but today I actually committed to getting off my lazy butt and getting some exercise rather than simply deciding it would be a good idea to get some exercise if I got around to it. Subtle difference. Anyway, I pulled out our books on local hikes and began rifling though pages looking for a 3-4 mile jaunt that either we had not yet done or that we hadn’t done in a long time. I narrowed it down to three possibilities and then, being the kind and thoughtful mom I am, I allowed my boys to have some input into which one they thought we should do. Of course, they both picked different options. Luke wanted to go to Boulder and Joe chose Morrison, so I made the unilateral and unalterable decision to go to Evergreen.

As is my custom, I made sure to inform hubby of our plans because he is, after all, Safety Dad. He doesn’t like it when we go on hikes without letting him know where we will be. I suppose this is just good practice. I mean, look what happened to Aron Ralston when he went off to do some canyoneering in Utah without letting anyone know where he would be. I don’t think any of us need to lose an arm over a little hike. I texted Steve.

Me: I’m going to make the boys do Alderfer/Three Sisters with me.

Steve: Cool. Take the bear spray. It’s in my nightstand. Your rain jackets are in the yellow cube in my office.

Me: Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

Now, what Steve didn’t know at this point was that what I was laughing about was the fact that he actually thought I would take bear spray and rain jackets on a 3 mile hike with the boys in a heavily traveled hiking spot in Evergreen on a day with hardly a cloud in the sky. He clearly does not know me at all. While I am in many ways in my life quite organized and good about planning, the kids and I more often than not fly by the seat of our pants all summer long. We get a wild hair and go with it. We do not plan. We do not organize. We do not pack well. We simply go.

Steve: Are you laughing about the bear spray in my nightstand?

Me: I’m laughing about all of it. You are on crack. I even forgot the sunscreen. We’re still going. We live on the edge when you’re not around.

Steve: Love you.

I love that he thought it was necessary at this point to tell us that he loved us…as if we would not return from our journey alive. I’m sure it would be in all the news stories. He would tearfully report that he had told me to bring along the bear spray and if I would have listened to him perhaps he we wouldn’t have been ingested by that black bear. And, as I was having that thought, another thought hovered in the recesses of my mind, waiting for its chance to get some attention.

Me: Why is the bear spray in your nightstand drawer?

Steve: In case a bear breaks in, of course. 

I assumed he was joking about this, but wanted to make sure so I tested the waters.

Me: Ha.

No reply from him.

Me: The kids want to talk to you about the bear spray in the nightstand.

At this point, I think he realized that he was in trouble.

Steve: You do NOT get to blog about me tonight.

Me: Too late.

Steve: Then, you’re going to owe me.

And now we’re back to the banana bread. The sad part is that this entire story is all true. Every last word. I actually checked. The bear spray, swear to God above, is in his nightstand drawer as I type this.

The boys and I had a great hike. No one lost a limb or got attacked by a bear or even needed a rain jacket. I did get a tiny sunburn on my shoulders, which I deserve for forgetting the sunscreen. Still, I think that somewhere between Aron Ralston’s missing arm and my husband’s bear spray in the nightstand is a happy medium where most of us live. We try to be good, we do our best, and we cross our fingers. Sometimes we get a little sunburned, but it all evens out in the end.

 

Posted on by Me

The Rodent Who Must Not Be Named

Hubby registers concern about interlopers in his precious SUV.

I love it when my morning starts with a heartfelt text from my husband.

Hubby: A mouse has been visiting my car.

Me: Where has it visited so far?

Hubby: I’ll look tonight. It might be a stowaway.

Me: How do you know is my question.

Hubby: I vacuumed up some droppings and some tissues were shredded this morning.

Me: I wonder if it’s a stowaway or just a frequent visitor.

Hubby: I don’t know but I feel violated. 😉

Me: I’m sure.

My husband loves three things in this world: 1) his family, 2) his camera equipment, and 3) his Toyota FJ Cruiser. Tamper with any one of these three things, and my exceedingly mild-mannered hubby can become a bit less mild-mannered. I pity the fool mouse who messes with (or in) my hubby’s FJ. That mouse just became Public Enemy #1. Later in the morning, I received more texts about the rodent in question.

Hubby: That mouse better not be crapping in my car.

Me: Right now he is taking a huge dump. 😉

Hubby: And mocking me

Me: While dumping!

Hubby: He’s probably eating through the interior as we speak.

Me: I hope not, for his sake.

That was the last of the mouse conversation for the morning. I was hoping the whole mousecapade would blow over by dinner so we could go for the 12-mile family bike ride I had been thinking about all day. I should have known better. Hubby walked in the door after work with something other than his lunch box in his hand.

“Look at this,” he said, holding a Clif Shot Blok in his hand.

“What am I looking at, exactly?” I inquired.

“This!” he said, pointing out a corner of the wrapper that I now noticed had been gnawed open, some of the gooey, mixed-berry, energy-replacement goodness was chewed away.

“Wow,” I said, trying to appear impressed. “Is this evidence of mice malfeasance?”

“The furry creep is hyper now. No telling what he’ll be capable of after this meal,” he said with slight concern.

“He’s probably bouncing off the walls. He might have bounced right out of your vehicle after ingesting that. He probably jumped out at the light rail station,” I suggested, hoping this would end his mouse hunt.

That was wishful thinking because the next thing I knew hubby was walking back out to the driveway. He was going to root that furry little terrorist out of his cave. Hubby stormed back in with copious additional evidence, including some slightly gnawed pieces of plastic from the interior of the FJ. He was not even remotely amused.

“I’m getting out the Shop Vac,” he announced.

That poor mouse had taken his last crap in that FJ. Hubby let the security door slam as he went out to do battle with Voldemouse. A few minutes later, he excitedly re-entered the house.

“Do you want to see my mice?” he asked, giddy with personal triumph.

“Mice? As in plural mouses?” I questioned.

“Yes. Mice. Plural.”

“Are they alive?” I questioned.

“Yep. I pulled back the seat, and there they were. We just stared at each other for a minute. No one knew what to do. Then I came to get you,” he replied.

I grabbed my iPhone for photographic proof and chased hubby back out the door to his open FJ. The mice were no longer visible. I assumed they had run off after hubby left them exposed. (There was evidence of mouse urine, so I know they were scared enough to pee their little mousey selves upon discovery, despite their bravado during the ensuing staredown.) Hubby, not entirely convinced of their departure, put the hose on the blower side of the Shop Vac and prepared to root the little f***ers (his expletive, not mine) out of their hiding spots. But, it was for naught. They never showed their mouse-diaper needing hineys again, and hubby placed a trap I baited for him with peanut butter and chocolate chips (because who doesn’t love that combo?) in his car for their overnight reappearance. I’m certain he’s hoping for their untimely yet appropriate demise this evening.

I’m tempted to wake up at 5:45 to check hubby’s car in the morning before he leaves for work, just to see if there is an overnight mouse homicide. If there is, maybe tomorrow night we can go for the family bike ride I was hoping for this evening? If not, at least my brave hunter will have something to distract himself with while I immerse myself in back episodes of Breaking Bad for the rest of this week.

Posted on by Me 3

I’m Not An Addict…Well, Not Really

What it looks like when I get my way

We’re one week from the start of Season 5 of Breaking Bad. Steve and I started watching this show on the recommendation of some friends back in February. We watched through Season 1 together. We watched the first couple episodes of Season 2 together. But, we were watching late at night, and Steve (somewhat understandably) decided that staying up late on work nights watching a show that is as dark and disturbing was not something he needed to be doing. So, I continued watching the series by myself while riding my bike trainer during the days. I got through all four seasons by myself. I loved it. I’ve been anxiously awaiting the start of Season 5 and now it’s almost here, which is awesome.

For the past few months, I have been bugging Steve to catch up on the episodes so that when Season 5 starts we can share it like we shared LOST and Battlestar Galactica. He has been non-compliant. But, time is ticking away until the season premiere on July 15th. So, today I decided to turn up the heat. Knowing I could not possibly get him through three seasons in a week, I simply began telling him about the episodes, hoping to arouse his interest. He did not bite. I was getting impatient. I pulled up the seasons on my MacBook, trying both to refresh my memory (I finished the shows mid-March) and to prove to him I was serious about watching it again. He barely blinked an eye. I pleaded. I wheedled. I appealed to his kinder, sweeter nature by telling him that I really wanted him to watch it with me. He did not care.

While I was regrouping and working on a strategy, Joe came to me asking me to rent a movie for him tonight on iTunes. He was dying to watch some Fantastic Four film. The light bulb dawned. I told Joe that I would love to rent him a movie tonight, but he’d have to get his father to agree. He asked me how. I gave him a hint. I told him that Daddy and I had something we could watch tonight, so I would love to rent his movie if his father would agree to watch tv with me. A few minutes later, Steve walked into the kitchen and stood behind me.

“That was a new low for you. I can’t believe you used your son against me like that,” he said in a hushed voice.

I smiled out of the corner of my mouth. I got him.

So, tonight as I write this, I am sitting on my bed. The kids are asleep. Steve is sitting next to me, and we are watching our fourth episode of Breaking Bad Season 4. Yeah. I got my way. Not unlike a meth addict, I will do whatever it takes to get my fix.

Posted on by Me 4

Everything Including The Kitchen Sink…Just Not The Stove

20120704-101804.jpg

As I was writing my blog yesterday, I forgot one important component of the planning, packing, and loading aspect of camping. I am not the only adult in our house participating in these activities the day we leave. This morning as we were preparing to head out, I quickly remembered how having a second set of hands is both a blessing and a curse.

As the clock ticked ever closer to our prospective departure time, it seemed we (and by “we” I mean Steve) kept finding more stuff we needed to bring with us. Now, don’t get me wrong. I adore my husband. He is probably the most honest and genuine person I have ever known. But, he is cautious and protective. He loves gear and gadgets meant to make life easier and more enjoyable, but when it comes time to leave he can’t necessarily recall what he has or where it is. Consequently we have approximately 5,000 bottles of sunscreen and insect repellant…all of which I’m sure are in either the car or the camper right now.

In the chaos of trying to get out of the house, with two people trying to collect necessities, we’ve in the past forgotten important items. I’m currently wondering if this will be the case today because as we’re in the car and driving now, we just had this conversation.

“Do we have enough propane canisters?” Hubby inquires.

“I believe we have about six canisters in various stages of emptiness. That should be plenty,” I reply. Then a thought occurs to me. “Did you pack the camp stove?”

His vacant stare is my answer.

“Isn’t it in the camper?” he asks, his tone dripping with desperation.

“I don’t know. Since we didn’t open it, I am not sure. It wasn’t in the garage?”

“I didn’t look for it,” came the answer.

In trying to keep with my “what’s the worst that can happen” mindset, I made the conscious decision not to fret about it. We may or may not have the camp stove, which we will need to heat the foods I prepared in advance because of the fire ban and the fact that the propane canister on our camper has been empty for years. (Do not get me started on that topic.) Either way, I am sure that our weekend will be fine. We will merely be eating a lot of cold sandwiches rather than hot food. We’re not going to starve. It’s just a small hiccup in what will otherwise be a great weekend. At least, that’s what I am telling myself as I recall the large bottle of sweet tea vodka I do remember packing before we left.

Posted on by Me 3

I’m Not A Cave Woman And You Can’t Make Me Eat Like One

Hubby bought me sorbet. Sorbet is NOT ice cream.

My friend, Heather, and I commiserate about most things. Husbands, motherhood, shopping, finances, allergies, exercise, and weight gain are just a few. Yesterday, Heather posted on her Facebook page that she was going to make some “paleo iced goodness,” the “paleo” referring to The Paleo Diet. This immediately piqued my curiosity. Like many women, I have tried nearly every single friggin’ diet known to western civilization. I have done The Atkins Diet, Weight Watchers, The Zone Diet, The South Beach Diet, The Game On Diet, and The 5 Factor Diet, all in an attempt to lose that 5-10 pounds I struggle with each year. I have not, however, yet tried The Paleo Diet. So, I texted her.

Me: What the hell is “paleo iced goodness”? I imagine pie would be better.

Her: Paleo-approved ice cream. No dairy.

Me: You are weird.

Her: Duh.

Me: I’m going to Dairy Queen.

Her: Damn it!!!!

Me: Since when are you paleo?

Her: Since never. I’m a wannabe.

Me: Dairy is one of the greatest things on earth. I could never give that up. Cheese, yogurt, ice cream? I don’t care if I could be 115 pounds as a paleo. I’d rather be fat. Cavemen lived sucky lives and died young. My theory on diets is exercise daily and eat junk occasionally.

Her: My theory…F*** it!

Me: That’s a good one too. Just remember…there can be no ice cream without the cream. 😉

If the Paleo Diet would require me to give up dairy entirely, the Paleo Diet and I are finished before we’ve begun. I prefer cheese to chocolate. There is no way I could ever give that up. And, ice cream is my big weakness. Even during the winter, I eat a bit of ice cream at least 5 times a week. The mere idea of being dairy free is anathema to me. Lord help those around me if I ever become lactose intolerant.

What I’ve slowly come to realize about dieting in general, though, is that I hate it. Hate it. I’m not saying anyone else loves it, but I know I hate it more than most. You know how I know this? Because I avoid it like nobody’s business. The best way to avoid dieting is to live with moderation. Aside from the two times I was pregnant, I have never allowed myself to gain more than 15 pounds over my ideal (per my doctor, not me) weight. The less I gain, the less I have to lose, and the less dieting I will have to suffer through. This is why I choose to exercise as if I enjoy it. Even exercise is better than dieting.

I know I am blessed. I have a decent metabolism. I come from a fairly thin family. I also know myself well enough to know that I am an addictive personality. With as much as I love drinking, the only reason I never became an alcoholic is because the thought of giving up alcohol forever forced me to moderate my drinking habits. And, this is how it has been with food. Giving up ice cream (real ice cream and not “paleo iced goodness,” mind you) is not something I ever thought I could do for long, and so I’ve been very careful with my eating habits.

There is an ebb and flow to my body. There’s no point beating myself up over an extra 5-10 pounds as long as it’s only an extra 5-10 pounds above what is healthy for me at the age I am at. Sue me. I like my cheese and my ice cream. I’m not a cave woman. If cave women were thin and healthy, it was because they were busy running from saber-toothed tigers and not because they had non-cream, paleolithic iced goodness for dessert.

Posted on by Me 2

What’s Your Name Again?

Text from Joe

Yesterday morning we planned to escape our house at 4:30 a.m. to make it to the starting point for our MS150 ride. Our children decided to wake up early with us to say goodbye, which we thought was sort of sweet. We know they won’t always care whether we’re around or not, so we try to appreciate the moments when they appear to like us. At 4:35, we were pretty much ready to go, their aunt was here to take over for us, and so we began to say our goodbyes. Luke, our affectionate but more independent child, hugged us and was ready to go back to bed. Joe, however, got very sad. He was near tears, requested repeated hugs, and was delaying our departure quite effectively.

“Joe…what is the matter?” I asked.

“I just don’t want you to go,” he replied.

“Why? Are you just going to miss us that much?”

“Yes.”

“Well…I think you’re just tired. You’ll be fine after you get some more sleep.”

For as much as he was carrying on, though, I began to wonder if he sensed something dire for us on our ride. Did he know something we didn’t know? I shook that nasty little thought out of my head.

“We will see you tomorrow afternoon by 4,” I assured him and then we escaped.

Knowing his state of mind when we left, I recorded a video message for him and sent it to his iPad last night when he was not yet home from a day of fun with his aunt. We desperately needed some rest, so we turned out the lights at 8:15 after the message was sent.

This morning we awoke to determine he had texted me for a conversation at 10:43 last night and tried to FaceTime his father at 10:45. Crazy kid.

Later today, we were waiting in a shady spot for our team to gather so we could ride through the finish line together when a text came in from Joe. He was asking us to come home. I texted back and told him we’d be home in “about” an hour. Exactly 57 minutes later he texted again. (Clearly I have spoiled him by being true to my word.) I told him we were about fifteen minutes away.

When I walked in the door, Joe yelled “Mom” and ran to give me a hug. Luke joined him. It was such a nice welcome home after our long weekend of riding. I told them that we would unload the car and then we could catch up. In the few minutes it took us to get our stuff back in the house, the boys had disappeared into a neighbor’s house to play with their kids. Guess that shows how much they missed us. I’ll consider myself fortunate that they remembered my name at all.

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 4

Hell…Swimsuit Shopping Be Thy Name

Me in the least disgusting option I tried on.

Today I did something dangerously ill-advised. Against all better judgment, I went swimsuit shopping. This is a feat far more hazardous than being one of the first shoppers in the door at Walmart on Black Friday. We’re going on this family trip in about a month, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should have a more modest swimsuit for this journey. No reason for my in-laws to have to see me with my midriff showing. (Truthfully, there’s no reason for anyone to have to see me that way, but I don’t have to look strangers in the eye again.) Anyway, a friend told me that she had bought a good suit recently at the Eddie Bauer outlet. She is an excellent bargain shopper, so I figured I should check it out. Nothing worse than spending a lot of money on something you don’t want to buy in the first place, right?

Well, wait a minute. I take that back. There is something worse than going shopping for a swimsuit and spending a bunch of money on something you don’t even want to buy in the first place. You can take your 9 and 11 year old sons to the store with you when you do it. I can’t decide if I am a candidate for sainthood or the insane asylum. Anyway, Joe had his iPad and Luke was playing games on another device, so I figured that would buy me about 20 minutes. I set them outside the entrance to the fitting rooms in a couple chairs and hastily started my search for a one-piece suit that would not make me look like either my 9 year old self or my grandmother.

I hurriedly grabbed four suits, found an open fitting room, and began the insidious process of stripping down to my skivvies in front of a dubiously lit, full-length mirror. Shudder. I quickly turned my back to my image and coerced my body into the first suit. I turned around for the grand reveal. It was less than grand. As is the case with many one-piece suits, this one flattened my tiny chest into a barely discernible fleshy wrinkle. Ick. I rid myself of that suit, and started on the next one. Before I knew it, I was through all four with nary a candidate in sight. I got dressed to search for more suits, hoping that when I got back out there a curious and ethereal light from heaven would be illuminating my dream suit.

It did not happen. The boys were still semi-quiet, however, so I grabbed six new suits and headed back to the changing room. As I was in there, squeezing myself into suit after suit like sausage into casings, my boys seemed to get louder. I could not figure out why this was. Then I realized they had entered the fitting rooms and now were right outside my door. Apparently my 20 minutes were up. I adjusted myself into a suit and opened the door.

“What are you doing in here? You need to be quiet,” I chided.

They stared at me and said nothing.

“What?” I said, feeling suddenly quite self-conscious in my mom suit. “Is it bad?”

“Nice,” Luke said. “Good. Like it.” (Have I mentioned that Luke is my favorite child?) He was obviously trying to hurry the process along by being my Yes Man. Still, I appreciated the positive comment.

Then, just when I was feeling good about Luke’s approval, Joe laughed. I glared at him with the burning heat of a thousand suns. Finally realizing his misstep, he tried to cover with a quick, “Nothing. Never mind.”

I decided to ignore him, shut the door, and get back to work. One thing was certain. I was not going to go to another store to endure further torture. I was leaving Eddie Bauer with an appropriate suit for our trip. It no longer mattered which one. I just had to get out of there because the confidence I had entered the store with was shattered. Ten flimsy pieces of fabric had taken me from intelligent, self-assured woman to whimpering, whining child. I was broken. I tried on two more suits, grabbed the one I despised least, and headed to the check out counter with my bona fide “mom” swimsuit. I was done.

Buying women’s swimwear is a total crap shoot. Hubby could not believe I tried on 12 suits just to find one that didn’t make me want to vomit or cry. It doesn’t matter what size a woman is, either. The experience is the same. We all have what we perceive to be figure flaws. We all try to minimize them. The goal is to find a suit we can be seen in that doesn’t make us feel bad about ourselves. If we find one that makes us feel confident and sexy, that’s a total bonus. Most times, however, we’re content to find one that makes us feel not totally unattractive.

Sometimes I think about the Victorian era swimsuits…short-sleeved black dresses worn with bloomers and black stockings. As uncomfortable as that costume would be for swimming, at least you had no concern about baring your midriff roll or your post-baby stretch marks or the cellulite you inherited from your grandmother. Everything was covered up and left to the imagination. There’s some wisdom in that somewhere. I find it right about the time I start to try on the first of twelve impossible swimsuits.

 

Posted on by Me 4

Some Things Are Worth Saving For Later

One of four pages of ticket stubs I have from my sordid teenage years. Concerts have always been my thing.

Tonight I’m going back to the 80’s to see The English Beat with a few girlfriends. Two of these friends have known me for a very long time. I’ve known Kerry since grade school, and I met Kayla in the 7th grade. I liked Kerry right away because she had a nice Polish last name like mine, and I thought Kayla was so sophisticated because she had an eyelash curler and had heard of U2 before anyone else I knew. I try not to think about the things these girls witnessed because I’m still trying vehemently to deny some events from my teenage years. (Hopefully their ability to remember is as poor as mine.) One of the reasons I hoped I would not have a daughter was because I was once a teenage girl. I never liked teenage girls. Not even when I was a teenage girl. Oh…the game playing, the conniving, the rumors, the theatrics! I could fill books with my idiocy. Wait. I did. I kept a journal all those years. It’s horrifying.

All this preparing myself for a night out with friends I’ve known for over 30 years got me to thinking about the first real sleepover party I attended. I was 13. It was at Sandy’s house across the street from my own. Sandy, like Kayla, was also very sophisticated. She had moved here from North Carolina and she introduced me to great music from Elvis Costello. She and Kayla slowly divested me from my parents’ music, which consisted of Sonny and Cher and Barry Manilow. Not kidding. Anyway, the sleepover that night was typical. There was music, candy, and silly girl antics.

At one point, someone took my bra, got it wet, and stuck it in the freezer while I was off doing something incredibly lame like jumping around singing songs from Foreigner 4. When it came time to go to bed, I crawled into my sleeping bag to find it wet. There I discovered my once-frozen training bra (which never really got much beyond the training stage, sadly), which had been placed inside the flannel bag and was now completely thawed. Ugh. I was beyond annoyed. Being a teenage girl, I pitched a little hissy fit, took my sleeping bag, and in an overly dramatic fashion stomped myself right out of the house and right across the street to my own comfortable and dry bed. Party pooper.

I look back on those days now and roll my eyes. (Some teenage girl behaviors are never lost). So many stupid things in so few years. Most of them done in the name of some silly boy whom I can barely remember now. Luckily, most of my friends from those days lived those naive, childish moments right along with me. Kerry and I once drank too much and upon hearing her parents come home dumped the remaining contents of our opened beers into her fish tank. Brilliant. Kayla and I used to spend hours sitting outside the Rainbow Music Hall talking to cute, mod boys while waiting to hear bands who hadn’t yet made it big…bands like The Cure and INXS…hoping we’d meet them or at least catch a glimpse of them getting off their tour bus. We did get a signature once from the drummer of Wang Chung (back in their Dance Hall Days, before the horribly overrated Everybody Wang Chung tonight nonsense). I suppose it was all part of being a teenage girl.

I don’t miss those days, but I am infinitely glad I’ve still got some friends from that time in my life now. I’m giddy to see Dave Wakeling and The English Beat tonight at the Bluebird. For a few hours, I won’t even care if their music makes me feel 13 again. I won’t stop myself from singing “Tears of a Clown” too loudly, all the while remembering the immature boy who broke my heart when I was so much younger than I am now. And, as I’m dancing with my friends to “Save It For Later,” everything will be right with the world. Although I’ve put drama of my teenage years behind me, the best things from those days still make me happy.

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Do Not Darken My Door…Unless You Are A Girl Scout

What does NO mean exactly? Am I confused?

This evening, after five consecutive 100+ degree days with air permeated by smoke from wildfires, we experienced a brief period of rain at our house and were able to open our doors and windows to breathe some fresh and slightly cooler air. It felt like the first day of spring. It was heavenly. It was peaceful. It was interrupted…by a ring of our doorbell. A twenty-something gentleman wearing a dress shirt and tie was at our door. Damn. We were caught at home. No denying our presence with him staring right at us through our open door while we ate our dinner. I hate it when that happens!

Hubby, who gets to be in charge of these type of situations because I refuse, approached the door. The young man started in with his sales pitch. Steve cut him off.

“We don’t accept solicitations,” he said as firmly but politely as he could.

“What about peddlers? Do you accept peddlers?” he quipped.

I had to give it to him. He has clearly been doing this for a while. He was quick with the lines.

“Nope. We don’t accept those either. Sorry,” Steve said with conviction.

The man started explaining why he was here. Steve cut him off again.

“Someone in this neighborhood is going to call the cops on you,” he said.

Wow. I thought that was pretty bold of Steve to say, even though it was fairly likely true. Our neighborhood has a strict no-solicitation policy. It is posted at the front entrance on the main thoroughfare. Any business solicitor who is in our neighborhood must have a permit obtained from the City of Littleton and must be able to provide a copy of it for homeowners if asked. If not, they are not legally allowed to go door-to-door in our neighborhood. Lots of neighborhoods and cities have these types of laws, but not many people are aware of them. Thanks to our overzealous community members who get annoyed about every single little thing (not kidding…one woman managed to get hot air balloons banned from flying over our neighborhood from the state park across the road), we know about this law. This law does not actually mean anything because salespeople still approach our doorstep non-stop and our only recourse is to file a complaint about them, but at least when they show up we have a nice way to explain why we’re closing the door in their face.

But, what gets me every single time is why we feel at all feel a need to explain ourselves to someone who shows up unannounced and uninvited on our doorstep. Steve and I are genuinely nice people most of the time. I suppose this is our problem. If we were mean, we wouldn’t care. We’d just slam the front door and go on about our day without a second thought. Instead, we were taught to be polite, so we make excuses, we get into discussions, we converse with these people because they’re human beings. Even though we’re not buying what they’re selling, we somehow feel obligated to listen to them. It’s crazy. It’s our house. This is our property. We’re grown adults. We should feel completely comfortable sitting at our dining table ignoring the interruption because it’s our right to do so and there’s a sign posted directly above our doorbell noting our stance on unwelcome visitors. Still, we explain our behavior to these strangers as if we need to. We allow them to encroach upon our time when we shouldn’t. It’s borderline pathetic.

I think it’s time for Steve and I to stop being so dang nice to these interlopers. I swear, the next time a solicitor steps up to our open door, we are going to be changed people. We will be brave and resilient. We will resist the temptation to explain ourselves. We will walk to the door, simply say “no thank you,” close it, and go back to our meal without giving it another thought. No Soliciting means NO soliciting. Unless you’re selling Girl Scout cookies. Then No Soliciting means “I’ll take 8 boxes of Thin Mints, please.” What? You can never have too many Girl Scout Cookies.

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