In the checkout line at Walmart, the cashier gave me a compliment which pleased me ridiculously. It reminded me of the best compliment I got all summer.
The Walmart compliment: I know how I like my groceries packed, so when I'm checking out I place on the conveyor belt first my insulated bag, then all my cold things, then my canvas shopping bags, then the remaining groceries grouped for each bag. After checking out my groceries, the cashier said, "You know, I wish everyone would load the belt like you do. It really makes things easier for me." How embarrassing how thrilled I was!
The best compliment of the summer: I was driving my mother and two daughters across the state to visit my sister and her family. We picked up lunch on the way at a McDonald's drive-thru. I placed my order* at the menu board, then drove to the first window. As I handed the clerk my money, she said, "Wow! You gave the best order! I didn't have to ask any questions. You really did that well!" Driving to the second window, my mom said, "She sure went on and on about that," which proves that I am, in fact, an impressive orderer. I was so proud that, for the rest of the weekend whenever I wanted a boost, I'd replay my order in my head. We stopped at a different McDonald's on the way home. I felt a bit cocky when my turn came. And I blew it! I believe that's called "hubris."
*The Order (as spoken at the Carlisle McDonald's on August 9, 2009)
"I'd like a hamburger kid's meal with french fries, a Diet Coke, and a girl's toy (Author's note: Yes, I'm a bad mom). I'd also like a kid's meal that's a cheeseburger plain with no meat, so it's just a grilled cheese sandwich, with french fries, Hi-C, and a girl's toy. I'd like a Number 7, grilled, sandwich only, with a large Diet Coke, and a Number 11 meal with a Diet Coke." (All rights reserved.)
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Heckuva Job, Cathy
Proof that, once again, I'm deficient as a mom.
I believe that screen time of all sorts should be limited. Really, I do. But since my daughter said, after I kept reminding her she had to be back home by 8:00, "Geez, I heard you. Be back by 8; 7 Central", I'm guessing my money and my mouth are in separate places.
I believe that screen time of all sorts should be limited. Really, I do. But since my daughter said, after I kept reminding her she had to be back home by 8:00, "Geez, I heard you. Be back by 8; 7 Central", I'm guessing my money and my mouth are in separate places.
Monday, August 10, 2009
My Boyfriends
In no particular order:
1. Russell Brand (British comedian, seen in the movies "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" and "Bedtime Stories"): He's just so crazy sexy and edgy and confident.
2. Duane "The Rock" Johnson: He's gorgeous and sweet.
3. Doug Fabrizio (NPR radio guy out of Salt Lake City): He always reads the books his guests are shilling and asks insightful questions. Also, in conversation (with his radio guests, not with me), he takes a moment before he speaks, because (unlike me) he doesn't confuse "listening" with "waiting."
4. Jeff Bridges: Such charisma is breathtaking.
5. Keith Partridge (not David Cassidy, though): My first true love. I cannot speak more about it.
My girls get crazy when I refer to these men as my boyfriends. "But you like Daddy more, right?" is the common refrain. I'm not sure if I actually do like Daddy more, but at least I know him, which is always helpful in a relationship. More importantly, Bill (aka Daddy) is excellent first-husband material. We are truly yin yang. I'm verbal, he's mathematical. I'm, let's say, relaxed; he's industrious. I'm frugal; he's (because I like the way this word sounds) spendy. I like to sit; he likes to move. I'm very much the mother/nurturer; he's very much the father/protector. Being so different means we can fill in each other's gaps, creating a whole for our children. This also means we don't have too much in common. (Though I do like Dr. Phil's answer to that complaint - "You share children and a house! What more do you want in common?" - comforting, even if it comes from such a pompous windbag.)
I've been noticing that second marriages, entered after the children are grown, are often between yin and yin (not counting, of course, the trophy wife thing), and these marriages seem very companionable. Without the imperative of providing that balance of differences to the children, it's time to kick back with a spouse not so different, and lose all the drama that comes from being opposites. Plus, since the husband and wife have their own kids, no spouse can credibly accuse the other of having wrecked them.
Here's where my friend Mary would squint in incredulity and wonder why I'd want to be with someone just like me, instead of with someone who would challenge me in new directions and remind me that my perspective isn't the only one. (My answer, of course, is that I've always preferred the easy way out.) Since I know how much divorce hurts even grown children, I'd never really try to go for the easy marriage anyway. And my survival mechanism knows that, without someone like Bill in my life, I'd get bedsores from the couch (couchsores?). Plus, I love him.
Still, all of the above is up for grabs if Russell, Duane, Doug, Jeff, or Keith ever come calling.
1. Russell Brand (British comedian, seen in the movies "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" and "Bedtime Stories"): He's just so crazy sexy and edgy and confident.
2. Duane "The Rock" Johnson: He's gorgeous and sweet.
3. Doug Fabrizio (NPR radio guy out of Salt Lake City): He always reads the books his guests are shilling and asks insightful questions. Also, in conversation (with his radio guests, not with me), he takes a moment before he speaks, because (unlike me) he doesn't confuse "listening" with "waiting."
4. Jeff Bridges: Such charisma is breathtaking.
5. Keith Partridge (not David Cassidy, though): My first true love. I cannot speak more about it.
My girls get crazy when I refer to these men as my boyfriends. "But you like Daddy more, right?" is the common refrain. I'm not sure if I actually do like Daddy more, but at least I know him, which is always helpful in a relationship. More importantly, Bill (aka Daddy) is excellent first-husband material. We are truly yin yang. I'm verbal, he's mathematical. I'm, let's say, relaxed; he's industrious. I'm frugal; he's (because I like the way this word sounds) spendy. I like to sit; he likes to move. I'm very much the mother/nurturer; he's very much the father/protector. Being so different means we can fill in each other's gaps, creating a whole for our children. This also means we don't have too much in common. (Though I do like Dr. Phil's answer to that complaint - "You share children and a house! What more do you want in common?" - comforting, even if it comes from such a pompous windbag.)
I've been noticing that second marriages, entered after the children are grown, are often between yin and yin (not counting, of course, the trophy wife thing), and these marriages seem very companionable. Without the imperative of providing that balance of differences to the children, it's time to kick back with a spouse not so different, and lose all the drama that comes from being opposites. Plus, since the husband and wife have their own kids, no spouse can credibly accuse the other of having wrecked them.
Here's where my friend Mary would squint in incredulity and wonder why I'd want to be with someone just like me, instead of with someone who would challenge me in new directions and remind me that my perspective isn't the only one. (My answer, of course, is that I've always preferred the easy way out.) Since I know how much divorce hurts even grown children, I'd never really try to go for the easy marriage anyway. And my survival mechanism knows that, without someone like Bill in my life, I'd get bedsores from the couch (couchsores?). Plus, I love him.
Still, all of the above is up for grabs if Russell, Duane, Doug, Jeff, or Keith ever come calling.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tae Kwon
Tonight, we (and I mean all of us - parents and children) have Tae Kwon Do class. Bill is a second-degree black belt; the girls and I have red belts with a black stripe. We need to earn two more black stripes before we qualify to test for our black belts. I'm not a natural (yoga is my niche), but it's a great workout, a family activity, and we all adore our Saba Nim (venerated master instructor) Robert Zang.
Master Zang started with Tae Kwon Do at the age of 4, under the tutelage of a Grandmaster of Tae Kwon Do. He stayed with Quanja Nim (aka Grandmaster) for thirty years, ending up in charge of one of Quanja Nim's do jangs (I'm phonetically spelling all the TKD stuff). Master Zang was like a son to Quanja Nim. Ever the Korean patriarch, Quanja Nim would both shower him with praise and verbally eviscerate him.
At belt testings, Quanja Nim, Saba Nim, and other masters of Tae Kwon Do sit at a long table in the front of the room and evaluate the students as they perform their patterns, spar with fellow students, and break a number of boards. After everyone has been tested, protocol demands that Saba Nim give a little speech about how lucky we are to have our Grandmaster, what a great champion he was, and what a wonderful Quanja Nim he remains. Then Quanja Nim would riff on whatever topic seemed to cross his mind until he ran out of things to say.
I'll never forget the testing where Quanja Nim lost my respect (and respect is a foundation of Tae Kwon Do). We were all seated on the floor at his feet. As he was expounding, he noticed a boy about 8 years-old sitting on his mother's lap. He said to him, "You are not a baby. Do not sit on your mother's lap." This kid just nuzzled into his mother even more. Even my kids were able to spot that the boy was probably autistic. But Quanja Nim didn't. He harangued the boy, who never responded, reducing the kid's mom to tears. Because they were seated at the front of the room, with about about 50 people crammed in behind them, she couldn't even take her son and flee. The tears streaming down this woman's face did not deter Grandmaster at all. Later, I saw Saba Nim whisper to him, apparently explaining the situation, because Grandmaster then made a show of personally awarding the boy his next belt.
A few years later, in a fit of fury, Quanja Nim fired Master Zang. He soon regretted his outburst, said he didn't mean it, and expected things to continue as always. But Master Zang had had enough. Quanja Nim offered him the do jang outright, an established business with a large clientele. Master Zang would keep all profits, with testing fees still going to Quanja Nim (who has probably 5 other locations). And Master Zang said no. Master Zang decided that, even though he's the sole support of a wife and two young children, he'd had enough. He now has his own do jang, a business based on the idea of mutual respect not obeisance to the lord.
Of everything that he's taught my children, I think the most important is that security is not worth your soul. They saw that Master Zang could say, "You can't treat me this way. I'm worth more than that," and walk away. (Also, learning how to break multiple boards with your hands and feet is quite the rush.)
Master Zang started with Tae Kwon Do at the age of 4, under the tutelage of a Grandmaster of Tae Kwon Do. He stayed with Quanja Nim (aka Grandmaster) for thirty years, ending up in charge of one of Quanja Nim's do jangs (I'm phonetically spelling all the TKD stuff). Master Zang was like a son to Quanja Nim. Ever the Korean patriarch, Quanja Nim would both shower him with praise and verbally eviscerate him.
At belt testings, Quanja Nim, Saba Nim, and other masters of Tae Kwon Do sit at a long table in the front of the room and evaluate the students as they perform their patterns, spar with fellow students, and break a number of boards. After everyone has been tested, protocol demands that Saba Nim give a little speech about how lucky we are to have our Grandmaster, what a great champion he was, and what a wonderful Quanja Nim he remains. Then Quanja Nim would riff on whatever topic seemed to cross his mind until he ran out of things to say.
I'll never forget the testing where Quanja Nim lost my respect (and respect is a foundation of Tae Kwon Do). We were all seated on the floor at his feet. As he was expounding, he noticed a boy about 8 years-old sitting on his mother's lap. He said to him, "You are not a baby. Do not sit on your mother's lap." This kid just nuzzled into his mother even more. Even my kids were able to spot that the boy was probably autistic. But Quanja Nim didn't. He harangued the boy, who never responded, reducing the kid's mom to tears. Because they were seated at the front of the room, with about about 50 people crammed in behind them, she couldn't even take her son and flee. The tears streaming down this woman's face did not deter Grandmaster at all. Later, I saw Saba Nim whisper to him, apparently explaining the situation, because Grandmaster then made a show of personally awarding the boy his next belt.
A few years later, in a fit of fury, Quanja Nim fired Master Zang. He soon regretted his outburst, said he didn't mean it, and expected things to continue as always. But Master Zang had had enough. Quanja Nim offered him the do jang outright, an established business with a large clientele. Master Zang would keep all profits, with testing fees still going to Quanja Nim (who has probably 5 other locations). And Master Zang said no. Master Zang decided that, even though he's the sole support of a wife and two young children, he'd had enough. He now has his own do jang, a business based on the idea of mutual respect not obeisance to the lord.
Of everything that he's taught my children, I think the most important is that security is not worth your soul. They saw that Master Zang could say, "You can't treat me this way. I'm worth more than that," and walk away. (Also, learning how to break multiple boards with your hands and feet is quite the rush.)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tests of Friendship
On screens both large and small, you can tell who the best friend is because she always walks into the lead character's home without knocking and helps herself to a cup of coffee. And she knows where the cups are. I was feeling sorry for myself* because I don't know where anyone keeps their coffee cups (and my mom's house doesn't count, since I used to live there).
On the other hand, I do have four people who will call and say, "Hi, it's me," and I'll know who it is. I think that might be just as good a barometer of friendship as the coffee cup test. Plus, my sister pointed out that I know where she keeps her cups, and not everyone knows that about a sister, so it counts.
*Imagine that
On the other hand, I do have four people who will call and say, "Hi, it's me," and I'll know who it is. I think that might be just as good a barometer of friendship as the coffee cup test. Plus, my sister pointed out that I know where she keeps her cups, and not everyone knows that about a sister, so it counts.
*Imagine that
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Private Lunch and TV
Yesterday noon, my six year-old niece came home from day camp and said to my sister, "Ahhh, my favorite time of the day: private lunch and TV." I must agree. I think it's genetic.
I've always had a hard time falling asleep, so I have several thought projects I work on to lull myself to slumber. One of the most effective is planning my Best Day Ever, a schedule of the food and TV that bring me the most joy. And here it is.
My Best Day Ever:
Breakfast: White toast with butter, coffee
9:00 - 9:30: The Dick Van Dyke Show
9:30 - 10:00 The Mary Tyler Moore Show
10:00-10:30 Designing Women
10:30-11:00 Roseanne
Now here I'd break for a walk, because developing bedsores as a result of TV viewing is just bad. I might even shower, but since it's my Best Day Ever, I might not.
Lunch: Kentucky Fried Chicken meal (all white meat, double mashed potatoes as the sides), Diet Coke
11:00-12:00 Family (the show from the 70's, not spending time with my own)
12:00- 1:00 Thirtysomething
1:00 - 2:00 LA Law
Break to call my sister and brag about how great my day is.
Snack: Kettle-cooked salt and pepper potato chips, seltzer
3:00 - 5:00 The Made for TV Movie (MfTM) Sunshine (a young mother's losing battle with cancer, based on a true story)
5:00 - 7:00 The MfTM Harvest Home (occult happenings in a Connecticut town)
Break to avoid livor mortis.
Dinner: Montecello's Restaurant's spaghetti dinner with meatballs (includes tossed salad with the house dressing and garlic toast), Pinot Grigio
8:00 - 10:00 The MfTM The Girl Most Likely To (Stockard Channing as an ugly duckling turned swan who seeks revenge on the men who spurned her)
And after that Best Day Ever, I'd get into bed with a book, and I wouldn't have the tiniest problem falling asleep.
I've always had a hard time falling asleep, so I have several thought projects I work on to lull myself to slumber. One of the most effective is planning my Best Day Ever, a schedule of the food and TV that bring me the most joy. And here it is.
My Best Day Ever:
Breakfast: White toast with butter, coffee
9:00 - 9:30: The Dick Van Dyke Show
9:30 - 10:00 The Mary Tyler Moore Show
10:00-10:30 Designing Women
10:30-11:00 Roseanne
Now here I'd break for a walk, because developing bedsores as a result of TV viewing is just bad. I might even shower, but since it's my Best Day Ever, I might not.
Lunch: Kentucky Fried Chicken meal (all white meat, double mashed potatoes as the sides), Diet Coke
11:00-12:00 Family (the show from the 70's, not spending time with my own)
12:00- 1:00 Thirtysomething
1:00 - 2:00 LA Law
Break to call my sister and brag about how great my day is.
Snack: Kettle-cooked salt and pepper potato chips, seltzer
3:00 - 5:00 The Made for TV Movie (MfTM) Sunshine (a young mother's losing battle with cancer, based on a true story)
5:00 - 7:00 The MfTM Harvest Home (occult happenings in a Connecticut town)
Break to avoid livor mortis.
Dinner: Montecello's Restaurant's spaghetti dinner with meatballs (includes tossed salad with the house dressing and garlic toast), Pinot Grigio
8:00 - 10:00 The MfTM The Girl Most Likely To (Stockard Channing as an ugly duckling turned swan who seeks revenge on the men who spurned her)
And after that Best Day Ever, I'd get into bed with a book, and I wouldn't have the tiniest problem falling asleep.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Yikes!
My husband doesn't understand my fascination with other people's miseries (and writing it out like that makes me sound both mean and ghoulish). Last night I watched "Zoo," a documentary of men gripped with zoophilia, focusing on a Seattle man who died of internal injuries after enjoying a private moment with a horse. While shocking, more than anything the film shows the sadness and loneliness of these men. I didn't even bother to tell my husband about the movie, because I know the gross-out factor would overwhelm everything else.
I did tell him about the website I looked at, where men who own Real Dolls (lifelike doll-women that cost thousands of dollars) discuss photo shoots, private weekends, and technical problems (apparently the hip socket is easily broken with frequent manipulation). In the "Was My Face Red" section, a man wrote that, with his wife's amused consent, he retreated with his red-headed doll to the basement for an evening of romance. He'd poured the wine, lit the candles, and started the music, when his teenage daughter burst in. He panicked, threw a blanket over the doll, and screamed at this daughter to get upstairs. After calming down, he headed up to the master bedroom, where his wife was laughing with his daughter. Apparently, the girl had thought her father had killed her mother and was planning to have sex with the corpse. Imagine the relief when she learned it was just Daddy and a doll! (I found this site after I watched "Lars and the Real Girl," a very sweet movie I've now seen twice.)
I also skipped telling Bill about transabled.org, a site for sufferers (and they do suffer) of Body Image Identity Disorder (BIID). These people are obsessed with becoming paraplegic or amputee. I first learned of this disorder on Primetime Live (or 20/2o - what's the difference), where they interviewed a woman who parked her car in a secluded area, packed her leg in dry ice, then waited for hours until her leg would be too damaged to save (if I remember correctly, it took more than one try). On this website, these sweet, sad people share their struggles (and sometimes their triumphs when they succeed in disabling themselves).
The shame is in the voyeurism, which I rationalize by noting that a market exists for these stories (HBO documentary, feature film, and TV program). I don't think I'm looking for a thrill. Actually, I know that I'm looking for a validation, along the lines of, "At least I'm not that fucked up." Obviously, I'm not the only member of the audience, so it's not so bad to watch, right? And I guess for the zoo groups, the Real Doll forums, and transabled website, their consolation is that they're not the only ones, too.
A while ago, I was checking out at WalMart, and I saw that the clerk's name was Laken. I mentioned how pretty I thought her name was. She told me that her mom named her after a character in the soap opera "Santa Barbara." She added that she'd even met another Laken (though spelled Lakin) at a softball game. I said, "Wow, that's got to mean something. I just don't know what!" She thought a moment and answered, "I guess it means I'm not the only one." (That line's more effective if you sing it like John Lennon in "Imagine.") I found that thought quite comforting.
I did tell him about the website I looked at, where men who own Real Dolls (lifelike doll-women that cost thousands of dollars) discuss photo shoots, private weekends, and technical problems (apparently the hip socket is easily broken with frequent manipulation). In the "Was My Face Red" section, a man wrote that, with his wife's amused consent, he retreated with his red-headed doll to the basement for an evening of romance. He'd poured the wine, lit the candles, and started the music, when his teenage daughter burst in. He panicked, threw a blanket over the doll, and screamed at this daughter to get upstairs. After calming down, he headed up to the master bedroom, where his wife was laughing with his daughter. Apparently, the girl had thought her father had killed her mother and was planning to have sex with the corpse. Imagine the relief when she learned it was just Daddy and a doll! (I found this site after I watched "Lars and the Real Girl," a very sweet movie I've now seen twice.)
I also skipped telling Bill about transabled.org, a site for sufferers (and they do suffer) of Body Image Identity Disorder (BIID). These people are obsessed with becoming paraplegic or amputee. I first learned of this disorder on Primetime Live (or 20/2o - what's the difference), where they interviewed a woman who parked her car in a secluded area, packed her leg in dry ice, then waited for hours until her leg would be too damaged to save (if I remember correctly, it took more than one try). On this website, these sweet, sad people share their struggles (and sometimes their triumphs when they succeed in disabling themselves).
The shame is in the voyeurism, which I rationalize by noting that a market exists for these stories (HBO documentary, feature film, and TV program). I don't think I'm looking for a thrill. Actually, I know that I'm looking for a validation, along the lines of, "At least I'm not that fucked up." Obviously, I'm not the only member of the audience, so it's not so bad to watch, right? And I guess for the zoo groups, the Real Doll forums, and transabled website, their consolation is that they're not the only ones, too.
A while ago, I was checking out at WalMart, and I saw that the clerk's name was Laken. I mentioned how pretty I thought her name was. She told me that her mom named her after a character in the soap opera "Santa Barbara." She added that she'd even met another Laken (though spelled Lakin) at a softball game. I said, "Wow, that's got to mean something. I just don't know what!" She thought a moment and answered, "I guess it means I'm not the only one." (That line's more effective if you sing it like John Lennon in "Imagine.") I found that thought quite comforting.
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