Well I really fell off the blogging wagon for a while. I think you're starting to get the idea of what happens when I try to keep a journal. But with a journal, there's zero accountability...who knows if I actually write or not? Here, anyone can see how bad I am about regularly writing for fun. I'm reading a memoir by a guy who's a novelist and a runner. And he admits that he has never been good about keeping a journal (about life) but is steady about keeping a running journal. Well amen to that because I feel the same way. Last spring I bought a runner's journal. Up until mid-December I was really good about recording workouts, whether running, swimming, strength training, or what-have-you. I don't know what it is about daily life that keeps me from writing, but I look at the times when I have kept a journal (a semester abroad in Australia), and I really enjoy looking back at my thoughts.
Perhaps I've been an intermittent blogger because I don't have a focus. This isn't a blog about fixing cars or reducing the fat content in America's favorite comfort foods. It's Seinfeld-ian in a way...it's a blog about nothing. I can only hope to be half as entertaining.
Now that that's off my chest, here are a couple of thoughts about the holidays:
You know that program "One Laptop Per Child" which strives to provide a laptop for all children in developing countries? I have a new proposal -- the "One Portable DVD Player Per Child" initiative. All parents on long road trips should seriously consider this for the sake of sanity. After a few antsy trips to and from New Jersey, we finally bit the Best Buy bullet and bought a portable DVD player for our son. Hallelujah. Not a peep out of him on either leg of the trip. He watched DVDs for about an hour or so on the way to NJ and for about three hours on the way back. Not only did it keep him quiet but he now can't stand to watch TV for more than 30 minutes at a time. He used to watch an hour of "Curious George" from 5 to 6 p.m. while I made dinner, but since the trip he promptly shuts it off at 5:30, declaring, "I'm tired of watching George." I guess I better dust off the 30-Minute Meals cookbook.
Speaking of meals, I love how the holidays revolve around food. I mean, I want to throw up at the thought of a Christmas cookie right now, but while you're in the thick of it, the feasting isn't so bad. Part of the feasting, at least in my family, has always involved the holiday box of chocolates. And I don't mean the Godiva ballotin...I'm talking about the Russell Stover rectangular trough with the candy diagram on the inside of the lid. Year after year, the box is passed, and everyone tries to figure out if the candy is still in the same position as the diagram. Because once you remove an empty wrapper, you've pretty much ruined the diagram's integrity. You don't know what's where. Coconuts are now where the cremes used to be, and a caramel has slid over to the walnut section. It's a complete disaster. But anyway, you do your best to find what you're looking for -- albeit the lumpy tops of the nut clusters are a dead giveaway -- yet it's inevitable that you bite into a strawberry creme when you were hoping for a mocha truffle. But you know you're among family when the person next to you says, "Ooh! Strawberry creme! Are you going to finish that?" and takes the other half so you can guiltlessly troll for that truffle.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Friday, November 14, 2008
A One-Way Ride to Tinsel Town
When I walked past a Christmas tree at BJ's around Labor Day, I shook my head. Here I was in shorts and a tank top while the wholesaler was pushing a fake fir for my living room. Yikes, wasn't it incredibly early to think about Christmas?
Perhaps not.
The calendar turned to November, and one of my ten FM presets began playing holiday music. The windows were down to let in the mild air, and I don't think I was wearing even a light jacket yet my speakers sang out, "It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid."
It's not Christmas time. It's November 1st, and I'm scared out of my mind.
The next week, another FM preset station followed suit. "Have a holly, jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year! I don't know if there'll be snow..."
Hey Burl, can we rake the leaves first?
I once worked with someone who insisted we start playing holiday music in the hospital lobby as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were done. And I thought that was rushing it.
But you know, this may all work out in the end. If we keep extending the season earlier and earlier, we'll never have to take down our Christmas lights.
Perhaps not.
The calendar turned to November, and one of my ten FM presets began playing holiday music. The windows were down to let in the mild air, and I don't think I was wearing even a light jacket yet my speakers sang out, "It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid."
It's not Christmas time. It's November 1st, and I'm scared out of my mind.
The next week, another FM preset station followed suit. "Have a holly, jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year! I don't know if there'll be snow..."
Hey Burl, can we rake the leaves first?
I once worked with someone who insisted we start playing holiday music in the hospital lobby as soon as the Thanksgiving dishes were done. And I thought that was rushing it.
But you know, this may all work out in the end. If we keep extending the season earlier and earlier, we'll never have to take down our Christmas lights.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Or So I Thought...
Last night my preschooler was "reading" one of his latest favorites, "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom." For those of you not familiar with the book, all of the letters of the alphabet go up the coconut tree until the massive weight of them causes all to plummet to the earth. Some letters invite others to "meet" at the top of the tree, while others offer the challenge of "beat"-ing other letters to the top.
I don't want to ruin the ending, so I'll just continue with the point of my story. Since my son was "reading" it by memory, the words he recited reflected his interpretation of the story, or that is, the words he thinks he hears when someone reads the story to him. At first it goes, "A told B and B told C, I'll meet you at the top of the coconut tree." But in my son's violent re-telling, he recites, "A told B and B told C, I'll beat you at the top of the coconut tree." Yikes! Who knew A and B were such aggressive letters? I guess that's why they're first.
On the next page, after shrieking gleefully, D challenges E, F, and G to a race up the tree. But in my son's rendition: "Whee, says D, to E, F, G, I'll beat you to the cop of the coconut tree." Well, obviously there is a cop at the top. He's there collecting witness accounts of the butt-whooping A and B delivered to C.
Anyway, I'm sure once he actually reads, he'll figure out the more politically correct version of the coconut tree. His recitation reminded me of misconceptions I had as a kid. Things I thought I had straight in my mind but were really way off-base. For example, I thought the phrase "next door" was actually "next store," and I couldn't understand why we referred to other houses as stores. And speaking of houses, I was nearly certain that the house numbered one on our street was the first house ever built, and that's why it was assigned a one. Goes to show you how small a kid's world is. But I couldn't get it entirely straight in my mind because I considered that tee-pees were the first "houses" built, and how could this neighbor of mine have the first house ever built because it was not a tee-pee? Wow, sort of makes the whole coconut tree debacle seem not-so-crazy.
I don't want to ruin the ending, so I'll just continue with the point of my story. Since my son was "reading" it by memory, the words he recited reflected his interpretation of the story, or that is, the words he thinks he hears when someone reads the story to him. At first it goes, "A told B and B told C, I'll meet you at the top of the coconut tree." But in my son's violent re-telling, he recites, "A told B and B told C, I'll beat you at the top of the coconut tree." Yikes! Who knew A and B were such aggressive letters? I guess that's why they're first.
On the next page, after shrieking gleefully, D challenges E, F, and G to a race up the tree. But in my son's rendition: "Whee, says D, to E, F, G, I'll beat you to the cop of the coconut tree." Well, obviously there is a cop at the top. He's there collecting witness accounts of the butt-whooping A and B delivered to C.
Anyway, I'm sure once he actually reads, he'll figure out the more politically correct version of the coconut tree. His recitation reminded me of misconceptions I had as a kid. Things I thought I had straight in my mind but were really way off-base. For example, I thought the phrase "next door" was actually "next store," and I couldn't understand why we referred to other houses as stores. And speaking of houses, I was nearly certain that the house numbered one on our street was the first house ever built, and that's why it was assigned a one. Goes to show you how small a kid's world is. But I couldn't get it entirely straight in my mind because I considered that tee-pees were the first "houses" built, and how could this neighbor of mine have the first house ever built because it was not a tee-pee? Wow, sort of makes the whole coconut tree debacle seem not-so-crazy.
Friday, October 3, 2008
No-Frills TV
Last night I actually opted out of high-definition television. I wasn't watching sports or the latest adventure flick, just the VP debate. So why should it matter? Well these days everything is high-def...you'd be crazy to watch "regular" TV, right? I beat my husband to the couch last night, which probably has happened three times in our seven-year marriage. By default, I had remote control control. And since I'm not used to that kind of power, when the debate magically appeared after simply pressing the power button, I didn't wander off looking for another broadcast. Ten minutes into the debate, my husband congratulated me on finding a channel without "those graphics." My fixation with "those graphics" started last week...
We were watching our local CBS affiliate broadcast of the Obama-McCain debate. After a few go-rounds on what's wrong with Wall Street, I found that I couldn't focus on the candidates. I kept looking at the bottom of the screen where a waving American flag graphic flanked the network logo. I tried to concentrate, but my eyes kept coming back to that flag. So I asked my husband to find a different broadcast. (I did not have remote control control that night.) We went to the ABC affiliate. Same waving flag, only smaller. Moving on... NBC affiliate, even bigger graphics. Fox, more of the same. "Let's try CNN," my husband suggested. OH MY WORD... or rather, lots of words. Panic-attack-inducing graphics on both sides and bottom of the screen. There were six analysts rating the candidates throughout the debate, plus updates running on the bottom of the screen. As a last resort, we tried C-SPAN after crowing "No way will C-SPAN have graphics!" but they were running Congressional talks rather than the debate. Dizzy with visual stimuli, we settled on the ABC affiliate because it had the "slimmest" graphics. Fine. A few minutes later I was distracted by this shooting arrow thing revolving around the station logo. Overwhelmed I fell asleep ten minutes later.
But last night, having watched Curious George earlier, the television was already on Channel 11, the New Hampshire public tv station. I didn't even realize what channel I was on until my husband pointed it out. Of course we had to compare the low-def to high-def (I could discern Palin's lipstick color!). CNN was still running the same hyper graphics, and even though low-def, the Boston public tv station actually had a small PBS logo in the corner. (Even that sideways-looking, bald-headed, empty eye socket graphic freaked me out.) It was back to NH public tv, where I was able to follow every word and wink from the candidates.
We were watching our local CBS affiliate broadcast of the Obama-McCain debate. After a few go-rounds on what's wrong with Wall Street, I found that I couldn't focus on the candidates. I kept looking at the bottom of the screen where a waving American flag graphic flanked the network logo. I tried to concentrate, but my eyes kept coming back to that flag. So I asked my husband to find a different broadcast. (I did not have remote control control that night.) We went to the ABC affiliate. Same waving flag, only smaller. Moving on... NBC affiliate, even bigger graphics. Fox, more of the same. "Let's try CNN," my husband suggested. OH MY WORD... or rather, lots of words. Panic-attack-inducing graphics on both sides and bottom of the screen. There were six analysts rating the candidates throughout the debate, plus updates running on the bottom of the screen. As a last resort, we tried C-SPAN after crowing "No way will C-SPAN have graphics!" but they were running Congressional talks rather than the debate. Dizzy with visual stimuli, we settled on the ABC affiliate because it had the "slimmest" graphics. Fine. A few minutes later I was distracted by this shooting arrow thing revolving around the station logo. Overwhelmed I fell asleep ten minutes later.
But last night, having watched Curious George earlier, the television was already on Channel 11, the New Hampshire public tv station. I didn't even realize what channel I was on until my husband pointed it out. Of course we had to compare the low-def to high-def (I could discern Palin's lipstick color!). CNN was still running the same hyper graphics, and even though low-def, the Boston public tv station actually had a small PBS logo in the corner. (Even that sideways-looking, bald-headed, empty eye socket graphic freaked me out.) It was back to NH public tv, where I was able to follow every word and wink from the candidates.
Friday, September 12, 2008
I Hate to Harp on this Old Thing But...
The new 90210 makes me feel old. And not just because I can see the slight aging around Jennie Garth's eyes during the Kelly Taylor close-ups. My husband and I both think that the show's music -- intro, backgrounds, transitions -- is louder than the original series. Is it, or are we just more sensitive to it? I started noticing that a long time ago...probably around my mid-twenties at the entrance of an Abercrombie and Fitch store. Why was the music so loud and the clothes so wrinkly? I fled to Banana Republic.
The volume of music is not the only issue. In conversations with background music, I usually can't make out what the characters are saying. Sadly I have AARP-card-carrying relatives with this same problem in everyday life. (Is this how it starts -- with TV?)
And even if I do make out what they're saying, someone went and changed all the slang I knew in high school. At one point, Annie got a text from her date that said something like, "I had to bowl to catch [some musical act I've already forgotten]." At least that's what I think it said. I had no idea what he meant by "bowl," especially since they were at a bowling alley. I wondered why he was staying to bowl if he had to leave. My husband explained that "bowl" probably meant leave. Urbandictionary.com confirms that "bowl" can mean "to leave someplace," among other more interesting definitions. Why not bail? Maybe it was bail but again, my declining hearing...(it's the iPod-listening, not my age, I swear). At any rate, I'm sure the message looked more like this: A I M BLG CU L8R. Rendering it completely incomprehensible to anyone over the age of 25.
And finally, the show's plot reflects how much more we cram into life these days. In the premiere, Annie passed an old essay to a friend who then plagarized it. In the next scene, Annie and her brother left for a party without waiting for their parents' approval. And later in the episode, Annie flew to San Francisco for dinner with a guy she barely knows. All of this in a two-hour episode, and the only punishment (for the last infraction) is the prohibition of school-night dates. Hello?!? When Brenda drove to Mexico with Dylan, it was World War III in la casa de Walsh, with a lasting aftermath. Each of Annie's transgression would easily have been fodder for three or more episodes. It's no wonder I'm exhausted after an episode of the new 90210. Oh wait, that's because it's past my bedtime.
The volume of music is not the only issue. In conversations with background music, I usually can't make out what the characters are saying. Sadly I have AARP-card-carrying relatives with this same problem in everyday life. (Is this how it starts -- with TV?)
And even if I do make out what they're saying, someone went and changed all the slang I knew in high school. At one point, Annie got a text from her date that said something like, "I had to bowl to catch [some musical act I've already forgotten]." At least that's what I think it said. I had no idea what he meant by "bowl," especially since they were at a bowling alley. I wondered why he was staying to bowl if he had to leave. My husband explained that "bowl" probably meant leave. Urbandictionary.com confirms that "bowl" can mean "to leave someplace," among other more interesting definitions. Why not bail? Maybe it was bail but again, my declining hearing...(it's the iPod-listening, not my age, I swear). At any rate, I'm sure the message looked more like this: A I M BLG CU L8R. Rendering it completely incomprehensible to anyone over the age of 25.
And finally, the show's plot reflects how much more we cram into life these days. In the premiere, Annie passed an old essay to a friend who then plagarized it. In the next scene, Annie and her brother left for a party without waiting for their parents' approval. And later in the episode, Annie flew to San Francisco for dinner with a guy she barely knows. All of this in a two-hour episode, and the only punishment (for the last infraction) is the prohibition of school-night dates. Hello?!? When Brenda drove to Mexico with Dylan, it was World War III in la casa de Walsh, with a lasting aftermath. Each of Annie's transgression would easily have been fodder for three or more episodes. It's no wonder I'm exhausted after an episode of the new 90210. Oh wait, that's because it's past my bedtime.
Friday, September 5, 2008
A Different Point of View, 15 Years Later
You know you're old when...
I'm blaming parenting as the force that pushed me over the line between young and old. I don't mean old as in creaky knees and cloudy vision. I mean old as in "being a square," to borrow a term from the 60s. (Was it the 60s? I'm old but not that old.) Nothing looks the same when you're a parent. In discussing age-related driving restrictions (for both the elderly and teens), my mom told me the story of a friend whose teenage son had recently got his license. The boy had assured his mom that he would never have more than one passenger with him on the way to or from his afterschool job. Mom knew better because two of his friends worked with him. She waited in the parking lot at quittin' time and nabbed her son trying to drive away with two passengers (against the law for his license status). Fifteen years ago I would have thought, "Wow, what a pain in the backside. Doesn't she have better things to do than lurk behind parked cars?" But upon hearing this story I thought, "Good for her! Good that she cared enough to check it out." And that's when I realized, yes, this is what old feels like. The knees are fine, the vision is great, but welcome to the world of college savings accounts and double-checking toy recall lists.
The parenting perspective carries over into the make-believe world too. Somehow we caught an episode of Different Strokes (nice flashback!) on TV. Arnold had snuck out to a party, leaving his 7-year-old stepbrother asleep at home. Alone. Of course the kid woke up and was freaked out. Granted, the Drummonds lived in an upscale building with a doorman, leaving little possibility of a burglar (although wasn't that another episode?). And granted, Gary Coleman isn't my first choice of sitter. But I couldn't help thinking, "What if there had been a fire?" or wondering if Arnold's careless abandonment had scarred little Sam for life. I wanted to ground Arnold myself. But I'm sure I saw the same episode 20 years ago and at the time hoped that Arnold wouldn't get caught sneaking out.
So I'm old but there's no turning back. Just don't let me catch you smoking.
I'm blaming parenting as the force that pushed me over the line between young and old. I don't mean old as in creaky knees and cloudy vision. I mean old as in "being a square," to borrow a term from the 60s. (Was it the 60s? I'm old but not that old.) Nothing looks the same when you're a parent. In discussing age-related driving restrictions (for both the elderly and teens), my mom told me the story of a friend whose teenage son had recently got his license. The boy had assured his mom that he would never have more than one passenger with him on the way to or from his afterschool job. Mom knew better because two of his friends worked with him. She waited in the parking lot at quittin' time and nabbed her son trying to drive away with two passengers (against the law for his license status). Fifteen years ago I would have thought, "Wow, what a pain in the backside. Doesn't she have better things to do than lurk behind parked cars?" But upon hearing this story I thought, "Good for her! Good that she cared enough to check it out." And that's when I realized, yes, this is what old feels like. The knees are fine, the vision is great, but welcome to the world of college savings accounts and double-checking toy recall lists.
The parenting perspective carries over into the make-believe world too. Somehow we caught an episode of Different Strokes (nice flashback!) on TV. Arnold had snuck out to a party, leaving his 7-year-old stepbrother asleep at home. Alone. Of course the kid woke up and was freaked out. Granted, the Drummonds lived in an upscale building with a doorman, leaving little possibility of a burglar (although wasn't that another episode?). And granted, Gary Coleman isn't my first choice of sitter. But I couldn't help thinking, "What if there had been a fire?" or wondering if Arnold's careless abandonment had scarred little Sam for life. I wanted to ground Arnold myself. But I'm sure I saw the same episode 20 years ago and at the time hoped that Arnold wouldn't get caught sneaking out.
So I'm old but there's no turning back. Just don't let me catch you smoking.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Why I Hate Summer, an essay
No, I was not on another Internet-free vacation. And really, I don't hate summer. I love it. So much that it exhausts me and leaves me with little time for blogging. When you live in New England, summer feels like it lasts only seven or eight weeks. That might seem like a long time, but when you compare it to winter which lasts, oh, seven or eight months, it can feel overwhelming. Why overwhelming, you ask? Isn't summer supposed to be the time to kick back and relax? Well, supposedly. But every year I feel as though I must cram every single hallmark of summer into two months (maybe two and half if the weather is good). BBQs, beach days, bike-riding, marshmallow-toasting, baseball games, popsicle-eating, amusement park trips, more swimming, more hot dogs...it's endless. Every moment seems like it's slipping by. I tried to go to yoga but spending nearly two hours in a dark room on a Saturday morning seems so much more appropriate for February. Almost every thing we do, I try to move to the outdoors. I was painting on the deck with my son yesterday -- it was perfect weather, not too hot or humid -- and I thought about how nice it was to be outside in shorts, just painting. But pretty soon I'll have plenty of time to blog when the snow on the deck is so high I can't even make a path to the grill . And that time must be coming soon because I'm already tripping over the Halloween costumes at the store.
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