Summer used to be my least favorite holiday. I'm not a huge fan of the heat, and nothing else about it appealed to me. By contrast, the rest of the seasons did. I loved the freshness of Spring, and comfy-ness of fall, and I loved winter largely because of Christmas. Summer just didn't do it for me.
But that's all changed. When I was growing up and it snowed in our neighborhood, the plows piled all the snow into a big hill on our cul-de-sac. It was awesome. We had so much fun sledding down it and making snowmen and having snowball fights. As an adult, I lived in Pittsburgh for a while, and that cured any affection I had for winter. Being an adult, you have to deal with a lot of things that you don't have to when you're young. No one expects a youngster to walk far distances in the snow. But when I was in college or working in New York, that's what you did when you had to get somewhere. When you're young, you don't have to shovel the snow, salt your icy steps so as to not get sued by a visitor, or deal with a weak car. I still love Christmas though.
And I still love Fall for many reasons. It contains my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, plus another that has really grown on me lately, Halloween. I love sweaters and the way the leaves look and college football and a new TV schedule. The main reason I love Fall, though, is that I love the beginning of things. I don't think I will ever stop thinking of the Fall as the beginning of the New Year. Pre-Blackberry, I loved to get a new planner every September, and the feeling in the air still reminds of school supplies and getting organized.
Speaking of starting new, I also love that other temperate season, Spring. My favorite thing about Spring is the style you see around. Much like GirlTuesday, I'm a preppy girl. I love polos and pastels and feminine dresses. I love baby showers and weddings. I can't get enough of the sun shining bright during Easter Egg hunts and picnics and long dog walks.
As the grown-up that I am, I have really come to appreciate summer. In honor of GirlMonday, here are my top 5:
1. Unfortunately, I spend a lot of my day in front of the computer. I love that when I'm all done in the afternoon, it stays sunny for hours!
2. I love that people seem more willing to get out and do fun stuff- even a couch potato like me!
3. Blockbuster summer movies. Midnight showings in Manhattan- it's the best.
4. Wedding/BBQ/Vacation season!
5. Also-- I. LOVE. ICE CREAM. It is an unhealthy, destructive relationship that I hope to maintain forever.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Until the Day is Night and Night Becomes the Day
I never thought I'd look back on my college summers as the best summers of my life. At the time, I never would have thought that those brief interludes-- spent working to save money for textbooks and then circling the town, looking for parties after the waitressing shift ended-- would now signify freedom and youth and fun. As if it would all one day be nothing more than a thing of the past.
May and part of June was spent still at the New York City dorm, wrapping up exams and final projects- spending a lot of free time with my college friends. These are particularly blissful memories of walking to the reaches of the city in the sun, getting cold teas from the Japanese tea house, going movie screenings at the college center, hanging out after at Union Square with the skateboarders, talking and talking and talking (about what, I couldn't tell you), sitting on a stone bench at Washington Square Park with the bongo players and the street dancers, and watching the season's last episode of Felicity with my dorm-mates (and crying) before we all packed up to go home.
July and August was spent back home on Long Island, with my "home friends," waiting tables and driving to the beach on my days off.
After the night shift ended, around 12AM or 1, my friend Missy and I would change into the clothes we kept in her car and drive off to the Hamptons clubs where we'd dance until 7AM. Then we'd go home, sleep for a few hours, then wake up in time for our shift to start again in the afternoon.
It was pure insanity. Our parents called us "vampires."
There was one summer I worked the day shift in a coffee shop. I slept when I got home from work- around 6 in the evening, then woke up at around midnight to go out. There were too many nights where I never slept at all, and I watched the sun come up and got that sick, sinking feeling in my stomach at the sound of the first birds chirping and I knew it was time to head back to the foaming static of the cappuccino machine.
We had a group of summer friends-- all waiters and hostesses, all much older than us. It was one of the few times in my life where a group had no ill dynamics. Everyone was out to dance and have fun. They rented a big house together, that became the party house. After the clubs would kick us out, the guys would hang black garbage bags over the windows in the party house, hang Christmas lights and put out some lava lamps and we'd have our own dance party in the living room.
In the hours before our shifts would start, we'd haul our uniforms to the beach in garment bags on the back seats of our cars, and sleep in the sand until it was time to go to work.
They really were endless, those summers. I sort of assumed, though I'm sure I never really thought about it, that all summers would be as carefree and wonderful.
It now reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from the movie, The Hours:
I can vividly remember the last night we danced all night. It was 7AM in the biggest club in eastern Long Island, with a deep and wide dance floor- a giant pit of a former factory with a cloud of condensation from sweat above hundreds of bobbing heads, and people dancing on the balcony hanging over the pit. The DJ played his last song of the summer-- Stevie Wonder's As-- 7 minutes of one of the best songs ever written, that counted down the last moments of the last summer of pure nothingness. The club dropped white foam and bubbles from the ceiling and spun the lights joyously. We were singing and dancing like an end-of-summer ritual, sending the beach gods back to their autumn retreats. I remember seeing snapshots of ourselves flash before me, each time the strobe illuminated us. What would we become? It didn't matter. What happened at the end of the summer? It didn't matter. We just turned and turned and turned, with our arms outstretched, swallowing the moment whole.
***
The 5 (million) things I love about summer:
1. Summer nights in the city-- tables go outside, bars spill into the streets, people are dressed up in glittery gauzes and sun dresses and flip flops. The idea of going to see a movie seems a lot less depressing, because when you get out it's alive and the whole city is awake. You can walk home, leisurely and enjoy it. People are happy, subway cars are full of noise and happiness.
2. Letting my hair air dry. As if I were meant to be in such weather all year round. As if being able to walk outside with wet hair signifies some freedom-- I think it does.
3. The beach, the beach, the beach. Scarf around my hair, walking there, plopping down, getting up for some volleyball, a popsicle, knowing the lifeguards, the sounds of little kids playing in the sand, nap in the sun...
4. Running in the sun. Free of thermals, quilted vests, hats and gloves. Sweating as sweating was meant to be.
5. Senses alive. I suddenly want to write and climb rocks and bicycle and paint and sing and dance and do everything as if there's just not enough time. In the winter there seems to be so much time, too much time. I want to visit everyone I haven't seen in ages, I want to over-book myself, plan dinners and parties and make myself a better person. The sun pulls me out of bed and stays out long enough for me to get home safe and still feeling it's energy under my skin. There is nothing-- nothing!-- like a nap after a day spent outdoors. Everything feels different, I can feel everything.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
. . . and the living is easy
It’s funny to me how summer can be so many different things throughout the years. When you’re young, summer means an escape from the classroom. It means early morning swim practice, followed by a full day by the pool. It means multi-hour car rides en route to summer vacation, trying desperately to survive the pokes, prods, kicks, and flatulence of your siblings in the back seat. Summer means sleep-away camp and reunions with once-a-year friends. It means post-cards, pool parties, and popsicles. It means catching fireflies, growing tadpoles, playing capture the flag, and trying desperately to heal constantly skinned knees.
By the time you reach high-school, summer means finding a summer job that you can fit in around morning and evening swim practices. It means focusing more on your tan than on your tree-fort, and it means a later curfew and fling romances. And it means the final days at home before starting a new phase.
In college, summer is the strange blend of old and new. It is the return home for the first time since being away, and trying to determine how much you and old friends still have in common. It is realizing the strength of friendships, but missing new friends. It means long-distance romances, and learning how to live with parents again after a year of freedom. Summer is the pursuit of the perfect internship, or the excitement of the return to campus.
After college, summer shifts entirely. Rather than nine intense months punctuated with three months of freedom, all of the sudden summer arrives and the only real change is the need to figure out how to stay cool in work clothes in ninety degree heat. Those of us who went to graduate school delayed that transition a few years, though we did find ourselves wearing the very same suits during out stints as interns and summer-associates. But regardless of whether reality strikes at twenty-two or twenty-six, the truth becomes painfully clear: somewhere after twenty, summer loses the same charm it once had.
Sure, there are outdoor happy hours and the occasional road trip or even a lengthy vacation, but the lazy days are left to weekend afternoons. There’s a chore for every fire-fly, and all of the sudden it’s your job to not only shuck but also cook and clean up after the corn-on-the cob. As you might be able to tell, Summer is when I feel the oldest, and when quitting my job to become a teacher seems the most appealing—three months free from the daily routine; three months to pursue hobbies, budding interests, or moonlight in a field of your true passion. It really is unfortunate that more industries can’t adopt such an approach. . . Guess it will just have to be a summer day dream for now.
By the time you reach high-school, summer means finding a summer job that you can fit in around morning and evening swim practices. It means focusing more on your tan than on your tree-fort, and it means a later curfew and fling romances. And it means the final days at home before starting a new phase.
In college, summer is the strange blend of old and new. It is the return home for the first time since being away, and trying to determine how much you and old friends still have in common. It is realizing the strength of friendships, but missing new friends. It means long-distance romances, and learning how to live with parents again after a year of freedom. Summer is the pursuit of the perfect internship, or the excitement of the return to campus.
After college, summer shifts entirely. Rather than nine intense months punctuated with three months of freedom, all of the sudden summer arrives and the only real change is the need to figure out how to stay cool in work clothes in ninety degree heat. Those of us who went to graduate school delayed that transition a few years, though we did find ourselves wearing the very same suits during out stints as interns and summer-associates. But regardless of whether reality strikes at twenty-two or twenty-six, the truth becomes painfully clear: somewhere after twenty, summer loses the same charm it once had.
Sure, there are outdoor happy hours and the occasional road trip or even a lengthy vacation, but the lazy days are left to weekend afternoons. There’s a chore for every fire-fly, and all of the sudden it’s your job to not only shuck but also cook and clean up after the corn-on-the cob. As you might be able to tell, Summer is when I feel the oldest, and when quitting my job to become a teacher seems the most appealing—three months free from the daily routine; three months to pursue hobbies, budding interests, or moonlight in a field of your true passion. It really is unfortunate that more industries can’t adopt such an approach. . . Guess it will just have to be a summer day dream for now.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Dog Days of Summer
Summer is my most absolute favorite time of year, so I’m going to ask everyone this week to name your top 5 favorite things about summer (you can totally do it as a sidebar to your regular blog, don’t let me intrude on your blogging plans…)
Here’s my list.
1. Ice Cream
http://www.creolecreamery.com/
Any excuse to eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is fine by me, and the start of summer provides just enough motivation for me to get out of the office at 3 in the afternoon to walk over to Marble Slab, or throw on enough clothes at 11 on Tuesday night to drive out to the Tastee Freeze (mmmmm, and they’re open until midnight), or dust off the ice cream maker for the best peach ice cream ever made (email me if you want to the recipe – but don’t wait too long or you’ll need the one for blackberry ice cream instead!) I don’t discriminate much when it comes to ice cream. I can do anything from froyo, to the cheap stuff, to vanilla with mix-ins, to B&J. And I can do it in a freshly made waffle cone, or I can do it straight from the limp, disintegrating gallon container on my couch. Whatever the vehicle, whatever the flavor, I’m sure to be eating as much as I can in the summer.
2. Long Days and Great Sunsets
I used to live in Memphis, home of the most gorgeous sunsets you will ever see, so like with BBQ, I got a little spoiled in my time there. So when summer rolls around, I always look forward to enjoying the long, hot days, and the inevitable beautiful sunset that comes with them. Now, I’m the first to admit, it’s a little hard to get a good view when you’re at 2800 feet surrounded by 6000 foot high mountains, but lucky for me I’m on the road plenty during this time of year, so I’m guaranteed to get at least one or two good sunsets. The picture above is from near Carmel in CA. I would have included one from Memphis, but they all include a shot of me sweating profusely. Mmmm, Memphis.
3. Baseball Season
Anyone who knows me knows I LOVVVE me some baseball. Men in tight pants, hot dogs, beer, and sunshine. Oh, and ice cream. Nothing goes together better. If you’ve never had the experience of sitting in a stadium on a weekDAY afternoon, watching a game, drinking a beer, and not being at work, I recommend it for everyone. A good park to check out is Citizen’s in Philly. Or PNC – just ask GF.
4. The Lake
I have the great honor of being invited to spend a week (or weeks if I could spare the time) at Keuka Lake (NY) each summer. While it’s a scant 14+ hour drive, the 7-10 days spent sunning lakeside, skiing, tubing (okay, flying out of the tube at 30 miles an hour and spending the rest of the week watching the bruise on the backside go from blue to green….), boating, blueberry picking, reading, wine tasting, and sleeping late generally make up for the 28-30 hours getting there and back. I’m already itching to get driving.
5. Swimming Dogs
GirlFairway is a mix. People are all the time asking me what kind of dog she is (and my favorite response has become “custom breed”). The shelter told me she was part Akita and part Golden, but she’s definitely got some Chow in her as well (see the tail above as well as the black tongue you can’t see). Chows HATE water. Or so I hear. But Goldens love water. So there’s there ever raging battle in GirlFairway’s head that probably goes something like this: “Swim! Don’t Swim! Swim! Don’t Swim!” But it’s the Akita that breaks the tie in the summer. She gets so hot with all that fur (this year she is working on shedding herself a playmate) that she has to cool off. So the water wins and she swims. It’s so funny to watch because you can still see the battle going on in her head as she paddles around out there. “I’m going out further! I’m going back to shore! I’m getting cooler, yay! I’m wet, boo!”
So to all of you out there, enjoy the dog days of summer. Next week those days start to get shorter.
Here’s my list.
1. Ice Cream
http://www.creolecreamery.com/
Any excuse to eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is fine by me, and the start of summer provides just enough motivation for me to get out of the office at 3 in the afternoon to walk over to Marble Slab, or throw on enough clothes at 11 on Tuesday night to drive out to the Tastee Freeze (mmmmm, and they’re open until midnight), or dust off the ice cream maker for the best peach ice cream ever made (email me if you want to the recipe – but don’t wait too long or you’ll need the one for blackberry ice cream instead!) I don’t discriminate much when it comes to ice cream. I can do anything from froyo, to the cheap stuff, to vanilla with mix-ins, to B&J. And I can do it in a freshly made waffle cone, or I can do it straight from the limp, disintegrating gallon container on my couch. Whatever the vehicle, whatever the flavor, I’m sure to be eating as much as I can in the summer.
2. Long Days and Great Sunsets
I used to live in Memphis, home of the most gorgeous sunsets you will ever see, so like with BBQ, I got a little spoiled in my time there. So when summer rolls around, I always look forward to enjoying the long, hot days, and the inevitable beautiful sunset that comes with them. Now, I’m the first to admit, it’s a little hard to get a good view when you’re at 2800 feet surrounded by 6000 foot high mountains, but lucky for me I’m on the road plenty during this time of year, so I’m guaranteed to get at least one or two good sunsets. The picture above is from near Carmel in CA. I would have included one from Memphis, but they all include a shot of me sweating profusely. Mmmm, Memphis.
3. Baseball Season
Anyone who knows me knows I LOVVVE me some baseball. Men in tight pants, hot dogs, beer, and sunshine. Oh, and ice cream. Nothing goes together better. If you’ve never had the experience of sitting in a stadium on a weekDAY afternoon, watching a game, drinking a beer, and not being at work, I recommend it for everyone. A good park to check out is Citizen’s in Philly. Or PNC – just ask GF.
4. The Lake
I have the great honor of being invited to spend a week (or weeks if I could spare the time) at Keuka Lake (NY) each summer. While it’s a scant 14+ hour drive, the 7-10 days spent sunning lakeside, skiing, tubing (okay, flying out of the tube at 30 miles an hour and spending the rest of the week watching the bruise on the backside go from blue to green….), boating, blueberry picking, reading, wine tasting, and sleeping late generally make up for the 28-30 hours getting there and back. I’m already itching to get driving.
5. Swimming Dogs
GirlFairway is a mix. People are all the time asking me what kind of dog she is (and my favorite response has become “custom breed”). The shelter told me she was part Akita and part Golden, but she’s definitely got some Chow in her as well (see the tail above as well as the black tongue you can’t see). Chows HATE water. Or so I hear. But Goldens love water. So there’s there ever raging battle in GirlFairway’s head that probably goes something like this: “Swim! Don’t Swim! Swim! Don’t Swim!” But it’s the Akita that breaks the tie in the summer. She gets so hot with all that fur (this year she is working on shedding herself a playmate) that she has to cool off. So the water wins and she swims. It’s so funny to watch because you can still see the battle going on in her head as she paddles around out there. “I’m going out further! I’m going back to shore! I’m getting cooler, yay! I’m wet, boo!”
So to all of you out there, enjoy the dog days of summer. Next week those days start to get shorter.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Good Times
I have plenty of embarassing moments in my past. I remember one particularly sleepy morning, waiting for the bus to high school, a girl waiting with me suddenly said, "are you wearing two different shoes?" And I was. And they weren't even the same color- one was black and one was brown. Luckily, I was able to slip up to the gym locker room before first period and slip on the Keds I had on in there.
Then there was the time my 1st grade teacher asked me if my family celebrated Halloween. Of course we did, but I remember thinking, "I'm not Catholic or Jewish like everyone else. Maybe there's a religious aspect to it I'm not realizing." Quite a precocious thought for a five year old, I must say. Anyway, I told my teacher "No, we don't." Later we had a Halloween parade, and I dressed up like a cheerleader, and my teacher was confused. I recently saw a picture from that day, and in addition to my pom-poms I am sporting some ridiculous Oh-Mickey-you're-so-fine make-up. So I guess I'm not through being embarassed about the incident, but not about being put on the spot by my teacher. I don't think of that as being funny as much as I think my teacher, like so many I've encountered, was an idiot.
When I was turning 13, my mom had a surprise party for me. But it wasn't typical. I was an active tennis player when I was younger, and one day I came up to the lobby from my lesson, and my mom was there, with my aunt and a birthday cake. Yes, I had a good friend in my lesson and there was another girl around my age there, but I was mortified that my mom decided to do this, without even figuring out when all of my tennis friends would be there. A few minutes after I blew out the candles, many more of my friends emerged from the TV rec room, and they were confused about what was going on and I felt like an idiot. In the end, though, everyone had cake and fun and I guess it wasn't such a tragedy. But I remember being SO embarrased when I first saw that cake. I also remember that the good friend that was in the lesson with me was more focused on the fact that the other girl from our lesson kept saying "You're a teeny-bopper now!" I guess she thought the girl was weird and it really annoyed her. It's funny when you're young and feeling like everyone is mocking you, the truth is, they are always thinking about something else. The same is true for adulthood, I think. Thank goodness.
Then there was the time my 1st grade teacher asked me if my family celebrated Halloween. Of course we did, but I remember thinking, "I'm not Catholic or Jewish like everyone else. Maybe there's a religious aspect to it I'm not realizing." Quite a precocious thought for a five year old, I must say. Anyway, I told my teacher "No, we don't." Later we had a Halloween parade, and I dressed up like a cheerleader, and my teacher was confused. I recently saw a picture from that day, and in addition to my pom-poms I am sporting some ridiculous Oh-Mickey-you're-so-fine make-up. So I guess I'm not through being embarassed about the incident, but not about being put on the spot by my teacher. I don't think of that as being funny as much as I think my teacher, like so many I've encountered, was an idiot.
When I was turning 13, my mom had a surprise party for me. But it wasn't typical. I was an active tennis player when I was younger, and one day I came up to the lobby from my lesson, and my mom was there, with my aunt and a birthday cake. Yes, I had a good friend in my lesson and there was another girl around my age there, but I was mortified that my mom decided to do this, without even figuring out when all of my tennis friends would be there. A few minutes after I blew out the candles, many more of my friends emerged from the TV rec room, and they were confused about what was going on and I felt like an idiot. In the end, though, everyone had cake and fun and I guess it wasn't such a tragedy. But I remember being SO embarrased when I first saw that cake. I also remember that the good friend that was in the lesson with me was more focused on the fact that the other girl from our lesson kept saying "You're a teeny-bopper now!" I guess she thought the girl was weird and it really annoyed her. It's funny when you're young and feeling like everyone is mocking you, the truth is, they are always thinking about something else. The same is true for adulthood, I think. Thank goodness.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Dilemma
When I told HT about this week's blog topic, he laughed heartily. "Embarrassing moments-- you've got PLENTY of those,"he proclaimed.
The sad thing is, he's completely correct. But the problem is, as hilarious as some of the stories are, and as much as I am able to laugh about most of them now, there's a difference between being able to laugh at yourself, and being willing to put it out for the whole blogosphere to read. Especially when MomTuesday is a frequent visitor. . .
Thus began this week's dilemma--entertain our faithful readers with tales of misplaced undergarments or drunken declarations, or rifle through the mental vault in search of a more PG incident. As fun as it would be to air my dirty laundry, I've opted for the later option. And what better way to discuss embarrassment than to talk about two of the most embarrassing moments of my early childhood.
The first occurred when I was in third grade. As an elementary school student, I perhaps more self-aware than the average child. So much so that the SLIGHTEST of embarrassment tended to make me blush a bright red. Imagine, if you will, then how red my face got the day that I walked a bit too close to my teacher as she uncrossed her legs in front of the class and accidentally caught my skirt in the sweeping motion. For a brief moment, my bright blue Hanes-Her-Way was visible to the row of nine year old boys sitting in the front of the classroom. Mortified, my eyes welled with tears as the teacher, feeling terrible about the mishap, reassured me that they couldn't possibly have seen anything in the split second. The boys, however, were quick to pipe up that they had, in fact seen my undergarments, and they were blue. "Tell them they were pink," my teacher whispered; but with a wail of honesty I proclaimed, "BUT THEY WERE BLUE!!!!!" And proceeded to storm out of the room.
The second occurred four years later in the seventh grade, when my mom was serving as a chapperone on our class fieldtrip to Philadelphia. Having grown up in a township with a lone traffic light, I wasn't a particularly astute city traveler. Never was this more clear than the moment I stepped down off the curb and straight into the path of the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. Yes, that's right, the big hot-dog-shapped motor-vehicle you've seen on those insipid commercials was barrelling towards me. My mom reached out her hand with the speed only a mother is capable of, grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me out of it's way. But the handful of guys who were in our small group were still bringing up the hilarity of that brief instant long after we'd graduated high school. To have met my death by driving weiner, they proclaimed, would have been a fantastic way to go. Luckily, I'm around today to tell the story. Thanks MomTuesday.
As to the 1,000 or so other embarrassing stories that have ellapsed between 12 and 28, they'll have to wait for another day. . . it's not that I can't laugh about them, it's just that I'm not ready for you to laugh, too :)
The sad thing is, he's completely correct. But the problem is, as hilarious as some of the stories are, and as much as I am able to laugh about most of them now, there's a difference between being able to laugh at yourself, and being willing to put it out for the whole blogosphere to read. Especially when MomTuesday is a frequent visitor. . .
Thus began this week's dilemma--entertain our faithful readers with tales of misplaced undergarments or drunken declarations, or rifle through the mental vault in search of a more PG incident. As fun as it would be to air my dirty laundry, I've opted for the later option. And what better way to discuss embarrassment than to talk about two of the most embarrassing moments of my early childhood.
The first occurred when I was in third grade. As an elementary school student, I perhaps more self-aware than the average child. So much so that the SLIGHTEST of embarrassment tended to make me blush a bright red. Imagine, if you will, then how red my face got the day that I walked a bit too close to my teacher as she uncrossed her legs in front of the class and accidentally caught my skirt in the sweeping motion. For a brief moment, my bright blue Hanes-Her-Way was visible to the row of nine year old boys sitting in the front of the classroom. Mortified, my eyes welled with tears as the teacher, feeling terrible about the mishap, reassured me that they couldn't possibly have seen anything in the split second. The boys, however, were quick to pipe up that they had, in fact seen my undergarments, and they were blue. "Tell them they were pink," my teacher whispered; but with a wail of honesty I proclaimed, "BUT THEY WERE BLUE!!!!!" And proceeded to storm out of the room.
The second occurred four years later in the seventh grade, when my mom was serving as a chapperone on our class fieldtrip to Philadelphia. Having grown up in a township with a lone traffic light, I wasn't a particularly astute city traveler. Never was this more clear than the moment I stepped down off the curb and straight into the path of the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. Yes, that's right, the big hot-dog-shapped motor-vehicle you've seen on those insipid commercials was barrelling towards me. My mom reached out her hand with the speed only a mother is capable of, grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me out of it's way. But the handful of guys who were in our small group were still bringing up the hilarity of that brief instant long after we'd graduated high school. To have met my death by driving weiner, they proclaimed, would have been a fantastic way to go. Luckily, I'm around today to tell the story. Thanks MomTuesday.
As to the 1,000 or so other embarrassing stories that have ellapsed between 12 and 28, they'll have to wait for another day. . . it's not that I can't laugh about them, it's just that I'm not ready for you to laugh, too :)
Friday, June 5, 2009
My Condition
I don't know if everyone has the same problem. Maybe not. Maybe I'm just too sensitive. But I am certain that I have a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Though undiagnosed, I sometimes allow the weather to affect my mood to a ridiculous extent. It's not like every time it's rainy, I'm sad-- or every time it's sunny, I'm happy. Luckily, I do not suffer from that level of psychosis. However, bad weather doesn't help anything in terms of my ability to cope with life. And good weather sometimes does.
I'm a pretty future obsessed person, and something I love to think about is where I will live, as in "settle". I was recently hanging out with my super cool sister-in-law and cousin-in-law, and I posed this question of them. I said, 'if you could make it the perfect situation, like have the right job and the right friends and family around, where would you live if you could live anywhere?' Cuz then asked me, 'could I change the weather?' I said, 'no'. She protested, then sighed, then said, 'I'd still pick the twin cities.'
Though weather is one of the reasons my dream location is my dream location, I can relate to Cuz's dilemma. Weather so simultaneously affects us yet is irrelvant to us. Barring locations that have totally extreme weather patterns, it seems like we would be willing to live places that didn't have perfect weather if we really just liked the character of the state or city. Then again, a LOT of people want to live in San Diego-- you don't hear that very often about Buffalo.
Also, I want to point out that "bad" weather doesn't always translate to a bad mood-- sometimes it has the exact opposite effect. I remember that when I was in elementary school, whenever it was rainy and gloomy out, the flourescent lights seemed to glow differently. For some reason, I loved it and I loved the way my school felt those days. It was oddly comforting. We couldn't go out for recess and we'd sit on the gym floor and watch a video instead (The Princess Bride sticks out in my memory). I may have been in school and everything else about the day was the same as always, but I felt like I was home in front of the TV in my sweatpants somehow.
I'm curious- does anyone else out there know what I'm talking about-- the rainy day interior of school being pleasant? Let me know!
I'm a pretty future obsessed person, and something I love to think about is where I will live, as in "settle". I was recently hanging out with my super cool sister-in-law and cousin-in-law, and I posed this question of them. I said, 'if you could make it the perfect situation, like have the right job and the right friends and family around, where would you live if you could live anywhere?' Cuz then asked me, 'could I change the weather?' I said, 'no'. She protested, then sighed, then said, 'I'd still pick the twin cities.'
Though weather is one of the reasons my dream location is my dream location, I can relate to Cuz's dilemma. Weather so simultaneously affects us yet is irrelvant to us. Barring locations that have totally extreme weather patterns, it seems like we would be willing to live places that didn't have perfect weather if we really just liked the character of the state or city. Then again, a LOT of people want to live in San Diego-- you don't hear that very often about Buffalo.
Also, I want to point out that "bad" weather doesn't always translate to a bad mood-- sometimes it has the exact opposite effect. I remember that when I was in elementary school, whenever it was rainy and gloomy out, the flourescent lights seemed to glow differently. For some reason, I loved it and I loved the way my school felt those days. It was oddly comforting. We couldn't go out for recess and we'd sit on the gym floor and watch a video instead (The Princess Bride sticks out in my memory). I may have been in school and everything else about the day was the same as always, but I felt like I was home in front of the TV in my sweatpants somehow.
I'm curious- does anyone else out there know what I'm talking about-- the rainy day interior of school being pleasant? Let me know!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Weather Girl
It started out, I think, as a byproduct of having curly hair- my obsession with the weather. Humidity signifies ringlets. Drier air means mere wavy tresses, far more manageable.
As early on as I had connected that lower humidity is equal to easier hair days (a/k/a "Ahhhh"), I have been weather attentive. But over time I also learned that lower humidity means general comfort and a greater chance I am going to enjoy being outside, and as GT pointed out, my commute to work would be pleasant, and thus my day, overall, would be pleasant. Fresh, dry, clean, happy. Ahhhh.
I discovered The Weather Channel in recent years- and their local updates "on the 8's." I get dew point tempeatures for my area every 8 minutes! I had been frustrated with major morning news programs, which seemed to not take weather seriously enough (about every 26 minutes, in fact). Twenty-four hours of weather only fed (feeds) my addiction. I don't even mind the terrible, instrumental,soft jazz that accompanies the outdated-looking radar maps on the shoddy green screens behind the D-list anchors (that everyone knows). I don't mind it, the forecast determines the mood of my day. This is important.
When I interviewed for the job I currently have, which happens to be a weather-related television show, I laughed when my current boss asked if I'd enjoy working on such a project. "Are you kidding?? I am obsessed with weather. You don't understand-- I watch weather porn every day," I explained. She laughed. And hired me.
People shake their heads when I try to explain what appears to be a funny quirk of mine. But over the years I've learned something much greater than what started out as pure vanity-- the weather really is a huge deal. Mainstream media tends to ignore it, save for its half-time shoutouts, unless something huge happens, like tornados wiping out entire towns, levees breaking.. At which point it's painfully clear to see how weather affects politics, government and policy; how it illuminates socio-economic conditions. For many parts of this country (ie, in tornado alley or on the gulf) weather is the most important topic of discussion, because weather has and will drastically change their lives- not if, but when.
I feel like I'm getting super boring now. There are fewer mundane topics than the weather, I realize. But I will end on this: weather keeps things interesting. It does everything from angering taxpayers, to claiming lives. It is one of the few things we have absolutely no control over. Weather cannot be tamed nor contaned nor redirected. It is the non-human human drama that propels us into both ordinary stories of mere discomfort, and extraordinary stories of bravery and survival. And sometimes it makes a happy story even happier, when there's sun and a cool breeze on a clear day.
As early on as I had connected that lower humidity is equal to easier hair days (a/k/a "Ahhhh"), I have been weather attentive. But over time I also learned that lower humidity means general comfort and a greater chance I am going to enjoy being outside, and as GT pointed out, my commute to work would be pleasant, and thus my day, overall, would be pleasant. Fresh, dry, clean, happy. Ahhhh.
I discovered The Weather Channel in recent years- and their local updates "on the 8's." I get dew point tempeatures for my area every 8 minutes! I had been frustrated with major morning news programs, which seemed to not take weather seriously enough (about every 26 minutes, in fact). Twenty-four hours of weather only fed (feeds) my addiction. I don't even mind the terrible, instrumental,soft jazz that accompanies the outdated-looking radar maps on the shoddy green screens behind the D-list anchors (that everyone knows). I don't mind it, the forecast determines the mood of my day. This is important.
When I interviewed for the job I currently have, which happens to be a weather-related television show, I laughed when my current boss asked if I'd enjoy working on such a project. "Are you kidding?? I am obsessed with weather. You don't understand-- I watch weather porn every day," I explained. She laughed. And hired me.
People shake their heads when I try to explain what appears to be a funny quirk of mine. But over the years I've learned something much greater than what started out as pure vanity-- the weather really is a huge deal. Mainstream media tends to ignore it, save for its half-time shoutouts, unless something huge happens, like tornados wiping out entire towns, levees breaking.. At which point it's painfully clear to see how weather affects politics, government and policy; how it illuminates socio-economic conditions. For many parts of this country (ie, in tornado alley or on the gulf) weather is the most important topic of discussion, because weather has and will drastically change their lives- not if, but when.
I feel like I'm getting super boring now. There are fewer mundane topics than the weather, I realize. But I will end on this: weather keeps things interesting. It does everything from angering taxpayers, to claiming lives. It is one of the few things we have absolutely no control over. Weather cannot be tamed nor contaned nor redirected. It is the non-human human drama that propels us into both ordinary stories of mere discomfort, and extraordinary stories of bravery and survival. And sometimes it makes a happy story even happier, when there's sun and a cool breeze on a clear day.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Hazy, Hot, and Humid
For those of you who aren't aware, before L'Enfant hatched his European Avenue inspired plans for Washington, DC, the diamond-shaped district was pretty much a swamp. During most of the year, you wouldn't really know it, walking up and down the wide streets and popping in and out of the large marble Smithsonian Institution structures, or crowd watching in Dupont Circle. You certainly don't notice when holed up in a K-Street office building, and you'd be wise not to think about it at all when barreling through tunnels under the city on a metro train.
But come summer in DC, you cannot escape the swamp. Despite the relatively cool spring, the swamp air rolled in last week with a vengeance, and hung thick in the air all week long like a Memorial Day house guest who had long overstayed his welcome.
As you can probably tell from my the disgusted tone to this entry, GirlTuesday is NOT a fan of the humidity. I like it fine when I'm sitting pool/beach/lake-side and sunning myself. Or when hiking through a rainforest on vacation. . . But that kind of waft-away-from-the-face, thick, moist air should be reserved for those locales only, and NOT a daunting onslaught, day after day, all summer long.
My hatred is not rooted in a dislike of the weather phenomenon, itself. It is due, almost entirely in part, to the fact that I can't stand having to don work clothes and trek in to the office through the thick summer air. From Memorial day to Labor day, I pretty much have to say farewell to leaving my hair down, and dig out as many quasi-work appropriate t-shirts and shells to wear under with my suits. Or, on the more business-casual days, perhaps a twin-set and summery skirt. I have to slow my walk down a bit, and traipse a bit more like a southerner, so as to arrive with a heathy summer glow, as opposed to being downright soaked in sweat by the time I plop down on my desk.
And, in the evenings, the trick to DC summers is being able to time your departure from the office so as to avoid that afternoon's thunderstorms. This past Friday, gleeful at the thought of being able to leave the office at a reasonable 6 o'clock hour, I was tying up lose ends around the office, only to hear a tremendous clap of thunder shake my windows a mere 10 minutes before I'd planned to leave. Having seen enough of these storms roll through, I knew that the wise thing to do would be to linger at my computer just a little while longer and wait. But not this particular day. I couldn't bring myself to stay a second longer. So I ventured out, into the kind of rain that soaked you from all angles; and the water had come down so quickly that there were 2-4 inches of rushing water headed gushing through the gutters and across the streets. But bound and determined to make it to the metro, I jumped from awning to awning and sloshed through countless puddles until I arrived, a soaked, puddle-causing mess and plopped down on my metro seat.
And to think, it's not even summer yet. . .
But come summer in DC, you cannot escape the swamp. Despite the relatively cool spring, the swamp air rolled in last week with a vengeance, and hung thick in the air all week long like a Memorial Day house guest who had long overstayed his welcome.
As you can probably tell from my the disgusted tone to this entry, GirlTuesday is NOT a fan of the humidity. I like it fine when I'm sitting pool/beach/lake-side and sunning myself. Or when hiking through a rainforest on vacation. . . But that kind of waft-away-from-the-face, thick, moist air should be reserved for those locales only, and NOT a daunting onslaught, day after day, all summer long.
My hatred is not rooted in a dislike of the weather phenomenon, itself. It is due, almost entirely in part, to the fact that I can't stand having to don work clothes and trek in to the office through the thick summer air. From Memorial day to Labor day, I pretty much have to say farewell to leaving my hair down, and dig out as many quasi-work appropriate t-shirts and shells to wear under with my suits. Or, on the more business-casual days, perhaps a twin-set and summery skirt. I have to slow my walk down a bit, and traipse a bit more like a southerner, so as to arrive with a heathy summer glow, as opposed to being downright soaked in sweat by the time I plop down on my desk.
And, in the evenings, the trick to DC summers is being able to time your departure from the office so as to avoid that afternoon's thunderstorms. This past Friday, gleeful at the thought of being able to leave the office at a reasonable 6 o'clock hour, I was tying up lose ends around the office, only to hear a tremendous clap of thunder shake my windows a mere 10 minutes before I'd planned to leave. Having seen enough of these storms roll through, I knew that the wise thing to do would be to linger at my computer just a little while longer and wait. But not this particular day. I couldn't bring myself to stay a second longer. So I ventured out, into the kind of rain that soaked you from all angles; and the water had come down so quickly that there were 2-4 inches of rushing water headed gushing through the gutters and across the streets. But bound and determined to make it to the metro, I jumped from awning to awning and sloshed through countless puddles until I arrived, a soaked, puddle-causing mess and plopped down on my metro seat.
And to think, it's not even summer yet. . .
Monday, June 1, 2009
Fake Sick
I have only ever once called into work “fake sick.” And I use the term work there veeery loosely. It’s not that I’m ethically above calling in, it’s just that when the time comes to actually do it, I can never pull the trigger. I can’t conjure up even the slightest tickle in the back of my throat that would push me over the edge. Yep, I’m sick.
People in my office call in sick all the time. Or at least they must. Because no one can be as sick as some of the people I work with are on Fridays and Mondays (the best days ever to be “sick”, but the worst days to be actually sick because that means you probably weren’t feeling well over the weekend and no one wants that). I wish I had that ability to not feel compelled to get up and come in. Combined with a boss that would seem oblivious. Combined with a lack of caring for one’s profession. Okay, maybe not that last one, I don’t think I’d ever want to not care about my job. If that’s ever the case, I should probably change jobs. Hmm…..Anyway, the one time I called in sick was to go to the SEC basketball tournament (I called into my college internship with food poisoning. It’s your best bet for fake sickness, no one questions, you don’t have to pretend to sneeze or cough, and you can “get over it” in a day/few days).
I really wanted to call in today. Really badly. I was out of town last night and didn’t get back to the house until close to midnight, and knew there was no way I would want to get up this morning. Which I didn’t. But more than anything, and is always the case when I want to call in sick, the weather is PERFECT. Or at least a Southerner’s definition of perfect (which may be a little hot for some of you Northern gals). It was 82 and sunny all weekend, and today is supposed to be just another of the same. We’ve been setting rainfall records around here for the last two months (8+ inches in May) so I am grateful for the sun. We had a few nice days in the middle of March where it was, what the weather people would term “unseasonably warm”, but it’s done nothing but rain since then. A cursory check of the ole internet, turns up 19 out of the last 30 days with rain. Blech. No wonder the dog was starting to smell like mildew. Anyway, that just makes days like today all that much nicer. It’s the third wonderfully perfect day we’ve had a in row. 55 degrees and cool when you wake up. Warming gradually throughout the day, never getting hot, and another cool down after supper. I’d love to be at home in my bathing suit at the pool right now (okay, that would not be at home, exactly) or even in my yard tending to my plant babies.
Either way, I can’t even find a little tickle in the back of my throat. No cramps in sight. And last night’s dinner settled in with my stomach quite well. So I guess I’m not sick. And I’m stuck here all day.
People in my office call in sick all the time. Or at least they must. Because no one can be as sick as some of the people I work with are on Fridays and Mondays (the best days ever to be “sick”, but the worst days to be actually sick because that means you probably weren’t feeling well over the weekend and no one wants that). I wish I had that ability to not feel compelled to get up and come in. Combined with a boss that would seem oblivious. Combined with a lack of caring for one’s profession. Okay, maybe not that last one, I don’t think I’d ever want to not care about my job. If that’s ever the case, I should probably change jobs. Hmm…..Anyway, the one time I called in sick was to go to the SEC basketball tournament (I called into my college internship with food poisoning. It’s your best bet for fake sickness, no one questions, you don’t have to pretend to sneeze or cough, and you can “get over it” in a day/few days).
I really wanted to call in today. Really badly. I was out of town last night and didn’t get back to the house until close to midnight, and knew there was no way I would want to get up this morning. Which I didn’t. But more than anything, and is always the case when I want to call in sick, the weather is PERFECT. Or at least a Southerner’s definition of perfect (which may be a little hot for some of you Northern gals). It was 82 and sunny all weekend, and today is supposed to be just another of the same. We’ve been setting rainfall records around here for the last two months (8+ inches in May) so I am grateful for the sun. We had a few nice days in the middle of March where it was, what the weather people would term “unseasonably warm”, but it’s done nothing but rain since then. A cursory check of the ole internet, turns up 19 out of the last 30 days with rain. Blech. No wonder the dog was starting to smell like mildew. Anyway, that just makes days like today all that much nicer. It’s the third wonderfully perfect day we’ve had a in row. 55 degrees and cool when you wake up. Warming gradually throughout the day, never getting hot, and another cool down after supper. I’d love to be at home in my bathing suit at the pool right now (okay, that would not be at home, exactly) or even in my yard tending to my plant babies.
Either way, I can’t even find a little tickle in the back of my throat. No cramps in sight. And last night’s dinner settled in with my stomach quite well. So I guess I’m not sick. And I’m stuck here all day.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Reunion Tangent
So, reunions. I didn't go to my 10 year high school reunion because I lived in a different city. I suppose that I could have flown in, but I didn't think it was worth it. Like most people, I thought I would never bother going to my high school's reunion, but as it got closer I loosened up to the idea and thought, eh- it might be fun. In the end, it wasn't worth the extra, unplanned trip home.
I think this situation is indicative of a certain aspect of my personality-- one that some people probably don't like. I cut my losses. A friend once said about me, responding to another person who was critcizing my tendency to "drop friends," that when my friendships change, I'm realistic about it. That is a nice way of putting it. In truth, I'm envious of those who can let more roll over their back, facebook everyone, hang out with whoever and always enjoy it.
My bottom line is this: although I respect that people are different, if there is someone whose values I really don't agree with, who I don't think is a good person (or has too many hang-ups to present herself as one), who I don't feel loves me as a friend, I am not going to waste my time. I do think it's my job as an adult to be polite to such a person. But I really won't go out of my way to nurture a friendship either.
Luckily, every member of this blog has been an amazing friend to me. And I have several more goodies too- I'm talking to you, migrainegirl. I have you chicks (and a few dudes) to thank for being such an exclusive biatch. If y'all (FYI- I'm trying to switch to 'y'all' from the gross yet culturally pervasive 'you guys') weren't so supportive and fun, I'd probably seek superficial reinforcements elsewhere. I think most of you are the same way. I'm up for a reunion with any of you ladies, any time.
I think this situation is indicative of a certain aspect of my personality-- one that some people probably don't like. I cut my losses. A friend once said about me, responding to another person who was critcizing my tendency to "drop friends," that when my friendships change, I'm realistic about it. That is a nice way of putting it. In truth, I'm envious of those who can let more roll over their back, facebook everyone, hang out with whoever and always enjoy it.
My bottom line is this: although I respect that people are different, if there is someone whose values I really don't agree with, who I don't think is a good person (or has too many hang-ups to present herself as one), who I don't feel loves me as a friend, I am not going to waste my time. I do think it's my job as an adult to be polite to such a person. But I really won't go out of my way to nurture a friendship either.
Luckily, every member of this blog has been an amazing friend to me. And I have several more goodies too- I'm talking to you, migrainegirl. I have you chicks (and a few dudes) to thank for being such an exclusive biatch. If y'all (FYI- I'm trying to switch to 'y'all' from the gross yet culturally pervasive 'you guys') weren't so supportive and fun, I'd probably seek superficial reinforcements elsewhere. I think most of you are the same way. I'm up for a reunion with any of you ladies, any time.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Blast to the Past
The topic this week is reunions. I am the baby of our blogette team, thus, have yet to attend a reunion. However, I have thought many times what it will be like when I do attend my 10-year reunion. Will the stereotypes of reunions hold true? Will the jocks still be stuck in the same small-town we graduated from, unable to get over their high school quarterback glory days? Will the National Honor Society and choir kids end up incredibly successful? It is hard to tell.
One of the nice things about today’s technology is that it is much easier to keep in touch with old high school/college buddies then it ever was in the past. We have avenues such as Facebook, LinkedIn, Myspace, etc. It is fun to browse on other people’s Facebook pages, to look at their pictures, and try to figure out what direction their lives have taken. In some regards, this can take much of the surprise out of reunion experience.
I have always been curious to see if there was a way to find out how many people lie at their high school/college reunions. Do people rent or borrow fancy cars to drive up in? Do they exaggerate their success? I guess I have had this exaggerated image in my head about reunions ever since I almost peed my pants laughing with Romy and Michelle tried to convince their high school class that they had created Post-its. Is there going to be some unknown person from my very small high school class (I only graduated with 120 people) that will show up with some incredible invention or business. Possibly. Only time will tell.
Until then, I will continue to work at my own goals and ambitions and ensure that I don’t feel inadequate at my life accomplishments when the time comes for my reunion.
One of the nice things about today’s technology is that it is much easier to keep in touch with old high school/college buddies then it ever was in the past. We have avenues such as Facebook, LinkedIn, Myspace, etc. It is fun to browse on other people’s Facebook pages, to look at their pictures, and try to figure out what direction their lives have taken. In some regards, this can take much of the surprise out of reunion experience.
I have always been curious to see if there was a way to find out how many people lie at their high school/college reunions. Do people rent or borrow fancy cars to drive up in? Do they exaggerate their success? I guess I have had this exaggerated image in my head about reunions ever since I almost peed my pants laughing with Romy and Michelle tried to convince their high school class that they had created Post-its. Is there going to be some unknown person from my very small high school class (I only graduated with 120 people) that will show up with some incredible invention or business. Possibly. Only time will tell.
Until then, I will continue to work at my own goals and ambitions and ensure that I don’t feel inadequate at my life accomplishments when the time comes for my reunion.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Romy and Michelle
I have an angry friend who says he wants to have a reunion so he can make everyone feel bad about themselves.
I saw an old friend a few weeks ago- our class valedictorian. He's now at a prestigious business school, travels the world with his genius girlfriend. They are destined for prep-school parenthood. I'm not really fazed by it. But I'm not really fazed by much of anything that any one's been up to since graduation, including myself. I suppose I feel like we all sort of follow the trajectory we've been on since grade school. I don't feel judgmental or surprised about how things have turned out.
Let me explain.
I live close to the home where I grew up, and travel there on weekends. Because its a beautiful resort town, people who went to high school there are reluctant to leave. And because its a small town, you can't go to pick up some milk without seeing someone you've known forever. Someone who knows your dog's name, who knows you were trying to get a job at the big-city news corporation last spring. A guy from my graduating class owns the local fisherman's pub, we call it "the Fish." His band plays there Friday nights. At the beach I know all the lifeguards; and the girls sitting in the sand are light years from high school days, now married and bringing their babies to the beach in little bonnets and little bathing suits.
We didn't have a 5-year reunion. Didn't have a 10-year one either. It just didn't feel necessary- since most of us see each other all the time anyway. Though, the real reason we haven't had a reunion is because no one wanted to pony up and plan it, which is shameful, yet humorously reminiscent of our high school spirit. Go class of 1998.
I saw an old friend a few weeks ago- our class valedictorian. He's now at a prestigious business school, travels the world with his genius girlfriend. They are destined for prep-school parenthood. I'm not really fazed by it. But I'm not really fazed by much of anything that any one's been up to since graduation, including myself. I suppose I feel like we all sort of follow the trajectory we've been on since grade school. I don't feel judgmental or surprised about how things have turned out.
But this friend of mine- he seems to have been carrying it with him for years. And by "it" I mean, a desperate desire to prove himself to the kids of our graduating class. Apparently he's burned by 4 years of what he considers social underestimation and bullying-- none of which I ever remember happening to him. I think if he was really teased, or if kids ignored him-- it was subtle and I didn't notice it, and I was his friend, I think I would have known that was going on.
Anyway, that's not the point. When I saw him last he said he wanted to have a reunion so he could point and laugh at everyone for what they've become. Those are his exact words. I suppose he plans to simply ridicule by comparison of his own success, make everyone jealous? Or maybe he plans to literally point and laugh.
I kept my thoughts to myself (except now): But, no one's going to care. If someone really wanted to go to the best business school in the country, he would have tried as hard as my friend has and made it happen, or come close enough to it.
Also, only someone who has really made it could evoke the kind of jealousy my friend is hoping for-- who does my friend think he is, James Bond? Is he going to rent an Aston Martin for the night? Aren't there better things to do with one's money and energy, but to waste it on some grown-up kids who have totally different ideas of value and success than he does?
And anyway, lots of people have done outstanding things with their lives- things they consider outstanding anyway, like beginning a family or living the dream on the beach with a surfboard 365 days a year. My friend would have to have invented the Post It, or enter the reunion by being lowered from a helicopter, or have choreographed a really cool dance to do in the middle of the cafeteria for when they play our prom song, to really impress people.
I mean, "point and laugh"? Really? How could anyone care that much, 10 years later. How could anyone give people such importance, especially people who he was placed with randomly, not by choice, not filtered down and grouped by industry-- pure chance.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Reunion S***Show
Last spring, HT and I attended our fifth college reunion. We travelled back to the idylic hillside where we'd fallen in love, not entirely certain what to expect for the weekend. I had the joy of celebrating the wedding of some dear friends this past weekend who graduated the year behind us will be heading straight back to their five-year at the end of the week. They, and a handful of other guests inquired if we'd attended last year, and I couldn't help but laugh when they asked us what to expect.
Five years out of college, reunion is a big excuse to pretend that you are still capable of drinking in the same volume you did in college. Most of us cannot. And it is an excuse for single people to try, one last time, to hook up with the other single folks who we never had the guts to approach in college. I only know of one successful attempt at such an encounter. They "dated" for a brief period thereafter; but I'm pretty sure they're no longer speaking.
The weekend was filled with brief 10-15 minute discussions with folks you hadn't seen; acting suprised/excited/impressed to learn that they'd landed a great job/gotten into their grad school of choice/or met their future spouse. There were also the supremely awkward passing encounters with folks whose names you couldn't remember for the life of you, even though our graduating class was just over 450 students. And then there were the uncomfortable embraces with folks who remembered YOU, even though you couldn't return the favor. . .
The thing that struck me the most about our five year is that the people I really cared about from college, I had already seen or talked to recently. There were at least 10-15 people I saw who I really enjoyed catching up with; but I spent the majority of the weekend with some of the same people I already make an effort to see once a year if not more often. They are the people I already call in times of need, when we're going to be back in the midwest visiting, or even just when I've got a supreme hankering for a margarita. In other words, they're the type of friends that I don't need a reunion to give me an impetus to call. They're the friends that even though you've spread across the country, you still feel close to.
And so, surrounded by the same support system that has guided me in to adult hood, we took it upon ourselves to attempt, like the others around us, to be as young and rowdy as we were in college. We stole wine from our catered dinner and passed the bottle around the back of the auditorium at the concert we were attending. We stayed up until somewhere close to dawn dancing in the same lounges that we frequented as students; and I'm pretty sure I drank from a wine-bladder removed from a box of wine owned by some random group of men who graduated in the 80's in a game known as "slap the bag." I awoke with bruises all over my arms and legs of which, to this day, I am not entirely certain of the origin. And I spent the entire drive home trying to curl up into the fetal position in the passenger seat, wretching in pain from the night before.
In other words, my five year was a certifiable S*&% Show; so I wish my friends the best of luck as they head out there this weekend. May they not need the highly durable bookstore bags as much as I did on our trip home. . .
Five years out of college, reunion is a big excuse to pretend that you are still capable of drinking in the same volume you did in college. Most of us cannot. And it is an excuse for single people to try, one last time, to hook up with the other single folks who we never had the guts to approach in college. I only know of one successful attempt at such an encounter. They "dated" for a brief period thereafter; but I'm pretty sure they're no longer speaking.
The weekend was filled with brief 10-15 minute discussions with folks you hadn't seen; acting suprised/excited/impressed to learn that they'd landed a great job/gotten into their grad school of choice/or met their future spouse. There were also the supremely awkward passing encounters with folks whose names you couldn't remember for the life of you, even though our graduating class was just over 450 students. And then there were the uncomfortable embraces with folks who remembered YOU, even though you couldn't return the favor. . .
The thing that struck me the most about our five year is that the people I really cared about from college, I had already seen or talked to recently. There were at least 10-15 people I saw who I really enjoyed catching up with; but I spent the majority of the weekend with some of the same people I already make an effort to see once a year if not more often. They are the people I already call in times of need, when we're going to be back in the midwest visiting, or even just when I've got a supreme hankering for a margarita. In other words, they're the type of friends that I don't need a reunion to give me an impetus to call. They're the friends that even though you've spread across the country, you still feel close to.
And so, surrounded by the same support system that has guided me in to adult hood, we took it upon ourselves to attempt, like the others around us, to be as young and rowdy as we were in college. We stole wine from our catered dinner and passed the bottle around the back of the auditorium at the concert we were attending. We stayed up until somewhere close to dawn dancing in the same lounges that we frequented as students; and I'm pretty sure I drank from a wine-bladder removed from a box of wine owned by some random group of men who graduated in the 80's in a game known as "slap the bag." I awoke with bruises all over my arms and legs of which, to this day, I am not entirely certain of the origin. And I spent the entire drive home trying to curl up into the fetal position in the passenger seat, wretching in pain from the night before.
In other words, my five year was a certifiable S*&% Show; so I wish my friends the best of luck as they head out there this weekend. May they not need the highly durable bookstore bags as much as I did on our trip home. . .
Monday, May 25, 2009
4 Reunions and a Funeral
This past week has certainly been a week of reunions for me.
Reunion1: I had the luxury (and trust me, it is a luxury in this economy when someone flies somewhere just for the day to hang out with you) of meeting a friend in Dallas for a Rangers game. We both flew in that morning (he was supposed to get there the night before, but due to the first of several flight complications, he got there about 10 am the morning of the game). I arrived with not a minute to spare (okay, really about 15 minutes to get my bag checked for my return flight, catch a cab, and get to the game) because of some additional flight complications and some terrible weather somewhere in the country. Isn’t the issue always weather somewhere. We only missed the first inning, but had enough time before my return flight to see the whole game. And what a game it was. This may not mean a lot to those of you who don’t know a thing about baseball, but there was a walk-off HR in the bottom of the ninth that won it for the Rangers. And we got to see it all from the third row. What a fabulous day?! Not only was the game great, but I got to catch up with an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in almost five years. And the best part is, he was exactly the same. And I knew he would be. As predictable as the sun rising. Only we’d both matured and gotten to the point where we can laugh about the stupidity of the way we acted in college. I think if it was five years before we saw each other again (and I really hope it’s not!), it would feel the same way.
Reunion2: After the return flight (which was a return flight to the ‘Burg for him, but really more like a second leg after a long, long layover in Dallas for me) I got to NOLA on Thursday night where I was to spend the weekend. I had arranged to have lunch with a friend from college (we were friends freshman and sophomore years when she played soccer and we lived on the same hall, but not really after that. Don’t know why….) the next day. I found out that she was living there through the alumni magazine and sent her an email letting her know I was in town (for the last time, sad!) to see if she wanted to get lunch. She falls into that second group of friends from years past. Not the ones like Pittsburgh who haven’t changed at all since college, but one of those friends who is completely different. Husband, check. More grad degrees, check. Baby, check. Different outlook on life, check. Anyway, I remember her as being this real goof-off from college (and luckily she admitted that she wasn’t very good at school. But not that it matters now….you’ll see where I’m going). It turns out she married the boyfriend from sophomore year (and the reason she later dropped off the face of the Earth) who’s now a doctor. Which means that while she got an MBA (just killing time while he was in med school), she’s a full-time stay at home mom. Who doesn’t work. And doesn’t ever want to work. Wants to stay at home with children if only because that means she won’t have to work .Love it!! It was nice to catch up with her and sort of get the scoop on what happened after sophomore year. I had also been to her house in Houston and vacation house on Galveston Bay, so it was nice, as well, to get an update on her parents. Her gramma makes the best cakes and pies of anyone in the world. And I mean that. At no offense to either GrammaMondays. Long story short, she’s doing exactly what she wants to be doing, and I’m happy for her. It’s her plan to not have to work, to just stay at home (with the cutest, calmest 10-month old I’ve ever seen. Truly. He just gurgled and cooed for about 4 hours in the heat of NOLA while we lunched. It made me want a baby).
Reunion3: This one is short because it’s still on-going. I went to NOLA to bring my hunnie home. He’s been down there for 3 and a half years, but has a new job that he’s starting next month. So I went down there to pack, celebrate a last weekend in one of my favorite cities (I drank Abita, wore beads, ate at my favorite places, scarfed down jambalaya on my way to Harrah’s , won $20 on slots, and generally sweated myself to death). Then I had the pleasure of following a 16’ moving truck across the county in a 15-hour drive on Monday (don’t worry, we stopped at Ikea, so it wasn’t all painful). But I got my baby home. If only for the next month.
The Funeral. The Family dog passed away Friday afternoon after a long, hard-fought battle with bone cancer. The dog has been “dying” since the end of February when he was diagnosed with one to two months to live. This spring has been a really hard one for DaddyMonday, who got this dog from a puppy seven+ years ago. They’ve weathered countless storms (including HurricaneLinda, my former stepmom) and are really each other’s closest friends. Many of you would think, “it’s just a dog,” but for us Mondays, regardless of whether it is a dog or not, we get very attached, very easily. And this wasn’t just any dog. He really was something special and seemed to be very in-tune with dad. I won’t go into all the dog’s wonderful attributes, but will say that this is a huge loss to our family. So please keep DaddyMonday in your prayers.
Reunion4: Before I left for my whirlwind trip across the South last week, I dropped off GirlFairway to stay with dad and his dog. It worked out so that I saved money on the kennel (aka, sleep-away camp), she got to say goodbye to his dog (I will humanize her for these purposes…), and his dog got some company during the day when dad was at work. Turns out she was really freaked out the first several days she was there. It’s not like going to dad’s is something new for her. In her three years, we’ve probably been there 50+ times. But apparently she could tell the dog was sick. She stayed away from him and dad, retreating to the bed in the guest bedroom. But at some point last weekend, she mad a complete 360, instead choosing to be right there with his dog, laying close, but not touching him, at all times. So Sunday DaddyMonday called and asked (instead of me swinging by on our drive back) if she could stay. So she stayed until then end, being there to comfort both dad and his dog Friday when they both needed it the most. But that means I’ve been away from my dog for almost two weeks! Sunday was the reunion of all reunions. I’m just kidding. GirlFairway, for those of you who know her, is not one to show excitement. AT ALL. So I think she’s happy to be back, but she’s still a little skittish, I think, from all the stress of the last week. We’re going to have to get her some doggie therapy.
Reunion1: I had the luxury (and trust me, it is a luxury in this economy when someone flies somewhere just for the day to hang out with you) of meeting a friend in Dallas for a Rangers game. We both flew in that morning (he was supposed to get there the night before, but due to the first of several flight complications, he got there about 10 am the morning of the game). I arrived with not a minute to spare (okay, really about 15 minutes to get my bag checked for my return flight, catch a cab, and get to the game) because of some additional flight complications and some terrible weather somewhere in the country. Isn’t the issue always weather somewhere. We only missed the first inning, but had enough time before my return flight to see the whole game. And what a game it was. This may not mean a lot to those of you who don’t know a thing about baseball, but there was a walk-off HR in the bottom of the ninth that won it for the Rangers. And we got to see it all from the third row. What a fabulous day?! Not only was the game great, but I got to catch up with an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in almost five years. And the best part is, he was exactly the same. And I knew he would be. As predictable as the sun rising. Only we’d both matured and gotten to the point where we can laugh about the stupidity of the way we acted in college. I think if it was five years before we saw each other again (and I really hope it’s not!), it would feel the same way.
Reunion2: After the return flight (which was a return flight to the ‘Burg for him, but really more like a second leg after a long, long layover in Dallas for me) I got to NOLA on Thursday night where I was to spend the weekend. I had arranged to have lunch with a friend from college (we were friends freshman and sophomore years when she played soccer and we lived on the same hall, but not really after that. Don’t know why….) the next day. I found out that she was living there through the alumni magazine and sent her an email letting her know I was in town (for the last time, sad!) to see if she wanted to get lunch. She falls into that second group of friends from years past. Not the ones like Pittsburgh who haven’t changed at all since college, but one of those friends who is completely different. Husband, check. More grad degrees, check. Baby, check. Different outlook on life, check. Anyway, I remember her as being this real goof-off from college (and luckily she admitted that she wasn’t very good at school. But not that it matters now….you’ll see where I’m going). It turns out she married the boyfriend from sophomore year (and the reason she later dropped off the face of the Earth) who’s now a doctor. Which means that while she got an MBA (just killing time while he was in med school), she’s a full-time stay at home mom. Who doesn’t work. And doesn’t ever want to work. Wants to stay at home with children if only because that means she won’t have to work .Love it!! It was nice to catch up with her and sort of get the scoop on what happened after sophomore year. I had also been to her house in Houston and vacation house on Galveston Bay, so it was nice, as well, to get an update on her parents. Her gramma makes the best cakes and pies of anyone in the world. And I mean that. At no offense to either GrammaMondays. Long story short, she’s doing exactly what she wants to be doing, and I’m happy for her. It’s her plan to not have to work, to just stay at home (with the cutest, calmest 10-month old I’ve ever seen. Truly. He just gurgled and cooed for about 4 hours in the heat of NOLA while we lunched. It made me want a baby).
Reunion3: This one is short because it’s still on-going. I went to NOLA to bring my hunnie home. He’s been down there for 3 and a half years, but has a new job that he’s starting next month. So I went down there to pack, celebrate a last weekend in one of my favorite cities (I drank Abita, wore beads, ate at my favorite places, scarfed down jambalaya on my way to Harrah’s , won $20 on slots, and generally sweated myself to death). Then I had the pleasure of following a 16’ moving truck across the county in a 15-hour drive on Monday (don’t worry, we stopped at Ikea, so it wasn’t all painful). But I got my baby home. If only for the next month.
The Funeral. The Family dog passed away Friday afternoon after a long, hard-fought battle with bone cancer. The dog has been “dying” since the end of February when he was diagnosed with one to two months to live. This spring has been a really hard one for DaddyMonday, who got this dog from a puppy seven+ years ago. They’ve weathered countless storms (including HurricaneLinda, my former stepmom) and are really each other’s closest friends. Many of you would think, “it’s just a dog,” but for us Mondays, regardless of whether it is a dog or not, we get very attached, very easily. And this wasn’t just any dog. He really was something special and seemed to be very in-tune with dad. I won’t go into all the dog’s wonderful attributes, but will say that this is a huge loss to our family. So please keep DaddyMonday in your prayers.
Reunion4: Before I left for my whirlwind trip across the South last week, I dropped off GirlFairway to stay with dad and his dog. It worked out so that I saved money on the kennel (aka, sleep-away camp), she got to say goodbye to his dog (I will humanize her for these purposes…), and his dog got some company during the day when dad was at work. Turns out she was really freaked out the first several days she was there. It’s not like going to dad’s is something new for her. In her three years, we’ve probably been there 50+ times. But apparently she could tell the dog was sick. She stayed away from him and dad, retreating to the bed in the guest bedroom. But at some point last weekend, she mad a complete 360, instead choosing to be right there with his dog, laying close, but not touching him, at all times. So Sunday DaddyMonday called and asked (instead of me swinging by on our drive back) if she could stay. So she stayed until then end, being there to comfort both dad and his dog Friday when they both needed it the most. But that means I’ve been away from my dog for almost two weeks! Sunday was the reunion of all reunions. I’m just kidding. GirlFairway, for those of you who know her, is not one to show excitement. AT ALL. So I think she’s happy to be back, but she’s still a little skittish, I think, from all the stress of the last week. We’re going to have to get her some doggie therapy.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Off Topic Saturday
As Girl Friday pointed out, the universe works in hilarious ways. Presumably like my fellow weekday dishers, I was hard pressed to find time to sit down with blogger this week-- but for me it was because I was on the road in the deep south. My first trip there, ever.
So, this Girl Wednesday wanted to take a few minutes this Saturday to think about what I witnessed and to see what yaw'll think about it.
Having grown up in a part of Long Island that's so heavily visited by people from New York City, and having grown up to move there, I usually have a hard time figuring out what draws people to live in parts of the country that do not at least somewhat frequently interact with city folk.. Not to mention places that are planes, trains, and automobiles away from the Big Apple. (I fully recognize my ignorance here, is equivalent to one's small-town mentality. I am not proud of this by the way).
My producer and I drove from the airport in New Orleans to Gulfport, Mississippi. A three hour trip. We drove the low bridge that hovers over boisterous muddy waters, the humid green of the bayou, the endless stretch of rolling highway surrounded cavernous woods in the brightest greens I've ever seen. We switched highways, briefly passing through bursts of oversized strip malls; then, less populated areas with mom-and-pop truck stops surrounded by small junk yards, antique shops, and magnolia trees.
Right before we hit the gulf, there was a long row of fast food restaurants, and a vacant border town.
Then-- remnants of old southern mansions dotted the coast, amid sun-bleached sand and blue water: Long Beach, Gulfport, Biloxi, Bay St. Louis and Pass Christian- where hurricane winds and waters have left almost nothing of a sleepy, happy town.
I was sort of knocked off my feet by the beauty- especially of Pass Christian- which actually felt so much like home, I was surprised when people spoke and a southern drawl came out.
We were there interviewing hurricane survivors for a show we're working on. And speaking with these people, who so loved their home that literally not hell nor high water could convince them to live someplace else, made me realize that maybe not everyone cares about New York City and wishes they were there. And maybe I am still lucky that the vegetable of the day in my neighborhood will never be "fried-red-beans-ma'am," but it doesn't mean that its the only place I'll ever love and call home. Maybe I'll find a place that I'd cling to a tree for, in the middle of 200 mile-per-hour winds, walk home barefoot, and then go rebuild my home, right where it stood before the storm wiped it out to sea.
So, this Girl Wednesday wanted to take a few minutes this Saturday to think about what I witnessed and to see what yaw'll think about it.
Having grown up in a part of Long Island that's so heavily visited by people from New York City, and having grown up to move there, I usually have a hard time figuring out what draws people to live in parts of the country that do not at least somewhat frequently interact with city folk.. Not to mention places that are planes, trains, and automobiles away from the Big Apple. (I fully recognize my ignorance here, is equivalent to one's small-town mentality. I am not proud of this by the way).
My producer and I drove from the airport in New Orleans to Gulfport, Mississippi. A three hour trip. We drove the low bridge that hovers over boisterous muddy waters, the humid green of the bayou, the endless stretch of rolling highway surrounded cavernous woods in the brightest greens I've ever seen. We switched highways, briefly passing through bursts of oversized strip malls; then, less populated areas with mom-and-pop truck stops surrounded by small junk yards, antique shops, and magnolia trees.
Right before we hit the gulf, there was a long row of fast food restaurants, and a vacant border town.
Then-- remnants of old southern mansions dotted the coast, amid sun-bleached sand and blue water: Long Beach, Gulfport, Biloxi, Bay St. Louis and Pass Christian- where hurricane winds and waters have left almost nothing of a sleepy, happy town.
I was sort of knocked off my feet by the beauty- especially of Pass Christian- which actually felt so much like home, I was surprised when people spoke and a southern drawl came out.
We were there interviewing hurricane survivors for a show we're working on. And speaking with these people, who so loved their home that literally not hell nor high water could convince them to live someplace else, made me realize that maybe not everyone cares about New York City and wishes they were there. And maybe I am still lucky that the vegetable of the day in my neighborhood will never be "fried-red-beans-ma'am," but it doesn't mean that its the only place I'll ever love and call home. Maybe I'll find a place that I'd cling to a tree for, in the middle of 200 mile-per-hour winds, walk home barefoot, and then go rebuild my home, right where it stood before the storm wiped it out to sea.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Diamonds in the Rough
I think it's hillarious that only GirlTuesday has posted so far. Even I am several hours late as you can see. It's funny how the universe works. Even though we are all living totally different lives, we all find ourselves extremely busy on the same week. Except for GirlTuesday- she has tons of time. J/K! She's probably the busiest, but also the most responsible.
I thought a lot of teachers in my school district were deplorable. When I was in 4th grade and we did a Social Studies unit on our town, my teacher insisted that our town was incorporated. It's not. I got that fact wrong on the test, even though I was actually right, but the test ending up being thrown out anyway because it was so poorly constructed. Yup, teachers that can't write a decent exam for 4th graders learning about their hometown. That's my district.
But okay, some were good. My 3rd grade teacher was extremely demanding and yelled all the time. No one wanted her. I was really scared when I was assigned to her class. But thank goodness I was. She was one of the only teachers I have had who actually pushed her kids and wanted them to literally be the best they could. 3rd grade was a crucial year for me-- it was the year I became the girl who would eventually be in all honors and AP's, and go on to elite schools and jobs. Now that is influence.
Someone else I also really appreciate is my junior high orchestra teacher. Since we had to set up our instruments before we starting rehearsing in class, a lot of students would take advantage and get to Orchestra class after the bell rang, since it was hard for the teacher to notice. But she started to. She warned us that we would get detention if we were late. But I didn't worry about it. I figured, I was a good kid, I had never gotten in trouble and I never would. Sure enough, I was late one day and she made me go to detention. I think this was also a great lesson, that you can't expect your reputation to save you, and you will lose it if you don't maintain it.
Teachers do have a lot of influence and I'm quite relieved that although there were a lot of duds involved in my education, there were also some gems.
I thought a lot of teachers in my school district were deplorable. When I was in 4th grade and we did a Social Studies unit on our town, my teacher insisted that our town was incorporated. It's not. I got that fact wrong on the test, even though I was actually right, but the test ending up being thrown out anyway because it was so poorly constructed. Yup, teachers that can't write a decent exam for 4th graders learning about their hometown. That's my district.
But okay, some were good. My 3rd grade teacher was extremely demanding and yelled all the time. No one wanted her. I was really scared when I was assigned to her class. But thank goodness I was. She was one of the only teachers I have had who actually pushed her kids and wanted them to literally be the best they could. 3rd grade was a crucial year for me-- it was the year I became the girl who would eventually be in all honors and AP's, and go on to elite schools and jobs. Now that is influence.
Someone else I also really appreciate is my junior high orchestra teacher. Since we had to set up our instruments before we starting rehearsing in class, a lot of students would take advantage and get to Orchestra class after the bell rang, since it was hard for the teacher to notice. But she started to. She warned us that we would get detention if we were late. But I didn't worry about it. I figured, I was a good kid, I had never gotten in trouble and I never would. Sure enough, I was late one day and she made me go to detention. I think this was also a great lesson, that you can't expect your reputation to save you, and you will lose it if you don't maintain it.
Teachers do have a lot of influence and I'm quite relieved that although there were a lot of duds involved in my education, there were also some gems.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Those who can, teach.
Chalk it up to the fact that I come from a long line of teachers, but I've always had the utmost respect for academia. So I'm finding it particularly difficult to craft a blog entry about a single teacher or professor who had a significant impact on my life. The truth of the matter is, when you add up my pre-school, elementary school, middle-school, high school, college, graduate school, and law school experiences, I am the product of nearly 200 teachers. Add to that the coaches, mentors, TAs, guidance counselors, advisors, each bestowing upon me the lessons you cannot learn in a classroom, and the number approaches closer to 250.
I'd be lying to say that every single one of those 250 people imparted upon me a lesson I carry with me today. And it would be absolutely false to suggest that I enjoyed each and every class I sat through. Frankly, there were some in middle-school that I probably could have taught better than the teacher. . . BUT- I can say that who I am today because of the support and encouragement of a long line of teachers. So I thought I'd adopt yet another list highlighting the very best.
- My mom. No, I was not homeschooled. But my mom was my gifted education teacher in elementary school. I found it terribly annoying at the time, but she was, hands-down, the only teacher in the gifted curriculum that actually did well at making extracurricular actually fun and challenging. While I'm glad she didn't follow me to middle and high-school, the folks who were around when she did move up to those grades were far more fortunate than I.
- My middle school art teacher. She did far more for my brother than she did for me, but being asked to participate in extra art classes and being given the liberty to explore new mediums outside the every-day classroom instilled in me an appreciation for fine-arts that I carry with me today. It's the same love that leads me to sit, fascinated, for hours in the national gallery, staring at the same picture, and seeing something new each time.
- My ninth grade English teacher. Hands down, the scariest man on the face of the plannet. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to throw Great Expectations out the car window, down the trash chute, into the pool, or off the deck while reading it the summer before I started high school as part of our assigned reading; but the fundamentals of grammar, composition, and critical reading we built during that year-long course planted the seads of the writer and reader I would eventually become.
- My junior and Senior year English teachers. They were the best of friends and the best of teachers. Quirky in a way that I would only later come to realize typified the best of the English profession, they walked me through the woods with Walden and Dillard; guided us to the town square with Hester Pryne; and took us to the Bull Fights with Ernest Hemmingway. Sure, there was Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye and Hamlet and all the "typical" high school thomes. But then there was As You Like It, and As I lay Dying, and Portrait of and Artist as a Young Man, and the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. They taught me to pick apart the words on the pages in search of greater meaning, of aesthetic truth, and of intellectual engagement. And they taught me to put pen to paper. To show, not tell. To craft, not speak.
- My senior year government teacher. Quirkier still than the english pair, she was a rather nutty woman with more passion for the constitution than I have every witnessed. Until, of course, she introduced me to the Federalist Papers. Numbers 10 and 51. That was all we read then. It was not until college that I would come to understand her penchant for all things steeped in the great American Experiment. But, looking back, the passion that still burns deep within me began as a spark in that classrooom.
My college professors were even more important, still. My Poli Sci advisor is probably, hands down, the best mentor I've ever found. Critical yet fair, and always impassioned, she took that spark and helped me shape it into a career. My time and narrative prof helped me not only understand, but actually love Virginia Woolf. Yes, you read that correctly. My American Fiction professor turned Melville into music, and my digital imaging professor opened the world of photoshop to my fingertips.
By the time I'd reached graduate school, my thirst for knowledge had grown a bit less awestruck and a bit more focused. But the inspiration remained-- my International Security Professor taught me the true spirit of courage and service to the country. His stories from Vietnam were breathtaking, and the lessons he sought to impart, even more sobering. My political analysis professor-- a stickler for the red pen, taught me how to peel away verbiage from my prose with the fine scalple of an analyst (no, you wouldn't know it from my blogs, I know). My torts professor didn't teach me much about torts (at least my grades wouldn't seem to say so), but she did teach me about how not to let law school beat me down, but rather, how to hold my head high and succeed. And my constitutional law professor taught better than anyone I've ever met and will likely meet again.
Now that I've been forced into the "real world" and away from the classroom, these are just some of the the voices and lessons I carry with me each and every day. If only the world had more like them.
I'd be lying to say that every single one of those 250 people imparted upon me a lesson I carry with me today. And it would be absolutely false to suggest that I enjoyed each and every class I sat through. Frankly, there were some in middle-school that I probably could have taught better than the teacher. . . BUT- I can say that who I am today because of the support and encouragement of a long line of teachers. So I thought I'd adopt yet another list highlighting the very best.
- My mom. No, I was not homeschooled. But my mom was my gifted education teacher in elementary school. I found it terribly annoying at the time, but she was, hands-down, the only teacher in the gifted curriculum that actually did well at making extracurricular actually fun and challenging. While I'm glad she didn't follow me to middle and high-school, the folks who were around when she did move up to those grades were far more fortunate than I.
- My middle school art teacher. She did far more for my brother than she did for me, but being asked to participate in extra art classes and being given the liberty to explore new mediums outside the every-day classroom instilled in me an appreciation for fine-arts that I carry with me today. It's the same love that leads me to sit, fascinated, for hours in the national gallery, staring at the same picture, and seeing something new each time.
- My ninth grade English teacher. Hands down, the scariest man on the face of the plannet. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to throw Great Expectations out the car window, down the trash chute, into the pool, or off the deck while reading it the summer before I started high school as part of our assigned reading; but the fundamentals of grammar, composition, and critical reading we built during that year-long course planted the seads of the writer and reader I would eventually become.
- My junior and Senior year English teachers. They were the best of friends and the best of teachers. Quirky in a way that I would only later come to realize typified the best of the English profession, they walked me through the woods with Walden and Dillard; guided us to the town square with Hester Pryne; and took us to the Bull Fights with Ernest Hemmingway. Sure, there was Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye and Hamlet and all the "typical" high school thomes. But then there was As You Like It, and As I lay Dying, and Portrait of and Artist as a Young Man, and the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. They taught me to pick apart the words on the pages in search of greater meaning, of aesthetic truth, and of intellectual engagement. And they taught me to put pen to paper. To show, not tell. To craft, not speak.
- My senior year government teacher. Quirkier still than the english pair, she was a rather nutty woman with more passion for the constitution than I have every witnessed. Until, of course, she introduced me to the Federalist Papers. Numbers 10 and 51. That was all we read then. It was not until college that I would come to understand her penchant for all things steeped in the great American Experiment. But, looking back, the passion that still burns deep within me began as a spark in that classrooom.
My college professors were even more important, still. My Poli Sci advisor is probably, hands down, the best mentor I've ever found. Critical yet fair, and always impassioned, she took that spark and helped me shape it into a career. My time and narrative prof helped me not only understand, but actually love Virginia Woolf. Yes, you read that correctly. My American Fiction professor turned Melville into music, and my digital imaging professor opened the world of photoshop to my fingertips.
By the time I'd reached graduate school, my thirst for knowledge had grown a bit less awestruck and a bit more focused. But the inspiration remained-- my International Security Professor taught me the true spirit of courage and service to the country. His stories from Vietnam were breathtaking, and the lessons he sought to impart, even more sobering. My political analysis professor-- a stickler for the red pen, taught me how to peel away verbiage from my prose with the fine scalple of an analyst (no, you wouldn't know it from my blogs, I know). My torts professor didn't teach me much about torts (at least my grades wouldn't seem to say so), but she did teach me about how not to let law school beat me down, but rather, how to hold my head high and succeed. And my constitutional law professor taught better than anyone I've ever met and will likely meet again.
Now that I've been forced into the "real world" and away from the classroom, these are just some of the the voices and lessons I carry with me each and every day. If only the world had more like them.
Friday, May 15, 2009
We Are Living in a Material World, and I am a Material Girl.
I once heard on TV (my source for approximately 97 percent of my knowledge), that in Buddhist practice, one attempts to achieve total happiness by letting go of all material things (or something like that). So in theory, there are all of these monks or otherwise religious Buddhists meditating and hanging out and living their lives, and these people are at a place of complete contentment-- with no stuff. They have just what they need to live basically. It doesn't bother them at all that they don't have stuff, because it isn't possible to be any happier.
I can't deal with this concept. Full enlightenment and bliss sound really good. On the one hand, I don't see how you can argue with it. On other other hand, I would rather be miserable half the time and have stuff. Because I may be blissful living an ascetic life, but I would never feel the kind of bliss I feel when I buy a cool painting or bracelet or cell phone. It's a feeling I'm not willing to give up.
I wonder why I derive so much pleasure from shopping, or at least the end result- getting stuff. Is it our society? That may be part of it. It certainly wasn't my super-saver upbringing. I think it also has to do with just plain appreciating products for being pretty, or useful, or entertaining. That's probably quite an American notion, because we've created so many products in America, and so many ways to create and distribute them. Capitalism runs through our veins here, and we want stuff just like good little consumers should. And I love it. If you want to get by on less, that's fine by me. But I'm going to keep my Nike's, my Levi's, my Ann Taylor, my Coach, and my princess cut engagement ring, and holler at you later.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Marital Advice
I have learned some valuable lessons over the last (married) year. One being, that shopping is a whole new ball game once you get married.
When I was single, I will be the first to admit that I was NOT good with my finances. I would buy clothes/expensive makeup as I pleased, I never really saved or budgeted, and typically just lived paycheck-to-paycheck. It never really bothered me, and I didn’t think too much about saving for the future.
Once I met my future husband, he started to show me ways that I could save my money. Little things started to add up. For example, when I went to the grocery store, I would buy the generic brand of food instead of the more expensive brand. Rarely could you really tell a difference, and it usually saved us at least $10-$20 per trip. I limited the number of lattes I was buying each week. I took a look at the things I was spending on and tried to decide if it was something I really needed or just wanted. This doesn’t seem like much, but when you are doing lots of little things like this to cut back on your spending it can really start to add up!
During this time, I also opened a Roth IRA. I started putting away just $100/month into the account. It might not seem like a lot now, but this was during my undergrad years. $100 was a lot to me back then! But, future HThursday showed me the power of compact interest and how much it would help me in the future if I started saving young.
Overall, I cut back significantly on my spending. However, it can be hard to stop buying things once you get into that habit! There were times at the beginning of our relationship that I would tell a little white lie about the amounts I had actually purchased, or if he noticed a new pair of jeans I would just say I found them in the back of my closet, etc. We didn’t have a shared bank account at that time, so I could get away with these little fibs.
Everything changed once we got married. We combined our expenses and no longer could I hide the occasional “secret” purchases I had been making!! :) Not that I had a lot, but having a shared bank account made me accountable for all the “little” purchases I make that add up (coffee here, Walmart trip there, etc). It was definitely something we had to work at those first few months. I realized that it wasn’t necessarily the spending the HThursday would get frustrated with, but rather, it was spending and not letting him know that he didn’t like. Previously, I always had the “better not to ask and beg forgiveness” mentality. I would purchase as I pleased and let him know later on. I’ve realized that if I just run it by him, and let him know that I am doing the purchasing, things are so much better. What I failed to realize was that he wasn’t telling me NOT to make the purchase. He was just frustrated when he wasn’t aware of the purchasing that was going on in our account.
So, to share a little marriage wisdom…it is always better to be upfront about your purchases when you have a combined account. By changing a few small habits in my spending it has avoided so many unnecessary arguments.
When I was single, I will be the first to admit that I was NOT good with my finances. I would buy clothes/expensive makeup as I pleased, I never really saved or budgeted, and typically just lived paycheck-to-paycheck. It never really bothered me, and I didn’t think too much about saving for the future.
Once I met my future husband, he started to show me ways that I could save my money. Little things started to add up. For example, when I went to the grocery store, I would buy the generic brand of food instead of the more expensive brand. Rarely could you really tell a difference, and it usually saved us at least $10-$20 per trip. I limited the number of lattes I was buying each week. I took a look at the things I was spending on and tried to decide if it was something I really needed or just wanted. This doesn’t seem like much, but when you are doing lots of little things like this to cut back on your spending it can really start to add up!
During this time, I also opened a Roth IRA. I started putting away just $100/month into the account. It might not seem like a lot now, but this was during my undergrad years. $100 was a lot to me back then! But, future HThursday showed me the power of compact interest and how much it would help me in the future if I started saving young.
Overall, I cut back significantly on my spending. However, it can be hard to stop buying things once you get into that habit! There were times at the beginning of our relationship that I would tell a little white lie about the amounts I had actually purchased, or if he noticed a new pair of jeans I would just say I found them in the back of my closet, etc. We didn’t have a shared bank account at that time, so I could get away with these little fibs.
Everything changed once we got married. We combined our expenses and no longer could I hide the occasional “secret” purchases I had been making!! :) Not that I had a lot, but having a shared bank account made me accountable for all the “little” purchases I make that add up (coffee here, Walmart trip there, etc). It was definitely something we had to work at those first few months. I realized that it wasn’t necessarily the spending the HThursday would get frustrated with, but rather, it was spending and not letting him know that he didn’t like. Previously, I always had the “better not to ask and beg forgiveness” mentality. I would purchase as I pleased and let him know later on. I’ve realized that if I just run it by him, and let him know that I am doing the purchasing, things are so much better. What I failed to realize was that he wasn’t telling me NOT to make the purchase. He was just frustrated when he wasn’t aware of the purchasing that was going on in our account.
So, to share a little marriage wisdom…it is always better to be upfront about your purchases when you have a combined account. By changing a few small habits in my spending it has avoided so many unnecessary arguments.
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