My address is a city address, but technically I don't live in the city. Therefore, the city fireworks restrictions don't apply to my neighborhood. Everyone in my neighborhood knows this, and takes full advantage for several days surrounding Independence Day. This practice was hair-raising when my son was afraid of the constant pop of firecrackers, but luckily now it's just nerve-wracking, waiting for the errant ember to set the house ablaze.
We were on vacation until July 3rd this year, and it was a stressful time for my son and I. As a parent, I realize my mistakes in hindsight: no naps, not enough playtime, not enough attention, no Mommy/Son quiet time, Mommy didn't leave enough room in her suitcase for patience. However, even in the best of circumstances, Bug is a handful, and his behavior was no less frustrating at the time. Add to that my husband had to extend his business trip for 3 more days, so it was just Bug and me, alone, for longer than I'd expected. I was simply worn out. Worn. Out. I was just ready for things to get back to normal, so I didn't plan on doing anything - not a single thing - on the 4th of July. If I'm being perfectly honest, July 4th is Husband's holiday - he usually plans our fireworks viewing. Given that he wasn't home, I especially wasn't motivated to go anywhere.
So we didn't. Bug and I slouched together on the couch as I introduced him to James and the Giant Peach (which, for days afterward, he would beg to watch again and again, and I secretly cheered each time). We watched the movie until Bug noticed the increasingly louder popping.
"What's that noise?" he asked me.
"Fireworks, buddy."
He runs to the window and marvels. The downstairs windows don't get the best views of the pyrotechnics going on, so we moved upstairs. I picked him up so he could see out of my bedroom window. Because these aren't professional fireworks shows, the displays can be sporadic, but they can also be quite impressive. We stood there for hours in the dark, mostly quiet but for a few naturally-curious-boy questions, oohing and aahing while I cuddled him, and enjoying how it was just the two of us slowed down in a calm, quiet moment.
The Independence Days before this one I would wonder, "Where is the fire marshal when you need one?" but this year I was only concerned with that stillness in the shared anticipation for the next big firework, and the excitement when we saw it, as I reconnected with my sweet baby boy. This was the vacation we needed.
8/31/2010
8/29/2010
Beauty Editor 7/28/10
Makeup has been on my mind a lot lately. Aside from the quest for the
perfect lip gloss that will never end, my mascara is clumping and my
concealer (unsurprisingly) runneth low. Anytime I consider buying new
beauty products, I consult a couple of magazines' "Best Of" lists. A lot
of times I end up testing the recommended product, twirling it in my
hand, reading the ingredients, mulling over the (usually high) price,
putting it in the basket...and then putting it back after I've decided
on something else. For me, the buying decision typically ends up being
based on instinct. Even when I have purchased the year's best lipstick,
I've been disappointed. Buying makeup is always a chore, and these lists are supposed to make it easier, but not for me. I really can't help but wonder what I'm doing wrong when my eyes look
like I pasted tarantulas on them after applying the latest volumizing-curling-lenghthening-strengthening formula mascara, and my undereye circles
peek out like fresh bruises under the new improved
no-more-undereye-circles-guaranteed! formula concealer.
Here's my proposition for you beauty editors out there: Stop using average people to test these products; or do, but put them in extreme conditions. Example: I am not your average shade of pale. There is Simpson in my DNA, judging by my skin tone, only paler, like if Lisa ever discovered WoW and had only the glow of her monitor to bask in for 7 months. Let me be the judge of which eyeshadow/blush/lipstick "flatters every skin tone." Example 2: I have average skin texture at sea level, but a mile above that I turn into a Komodo dragon. It takes a heavy lotion, Olympic timing, aligning moon cycles, and witchcraft to keep my skin moisturized for any length of time. Send one of your colleagues up here to the mountains to test the latest Jergens formula and see if she isn't disappointed after 5 minutes.
I suppose there are more "average" women out there than there are women like myself, or they wouldn't be considered "average." I'm guessing. You want a large reader base, I understand, so you cater to average women. You give them affirmation, coddle them, chew their food for them. But I also suppose your average woman doesn't really have trouble walking into a drugstore, picking a shade of lipstick, and being satisfied with it. Meanwhile, the rest of us stare at ourselves in the makeup counter mirror, at the ghastly oh-so-wrong blush on our cheeks, "This is the best for fair skin?" we think incredulously, "What's their definition of 'fair?' Jennifer Lopez?" We - your not-so-average - are the ones who need help, here. So how about it, beauty editors: once a year, at testing time, round up a few testers on the extreme ends of the spectrum and publish their results. It's what I would do if I were in your shoes.
Here's my proposition for you beauty editors out there: Stop using average people to test these products; or do, but put them in extreme conditions. Example: I am not your average shade of pale. There is Simpson in my DNA, judging by my skin tone, only paler, like if Lisa ever discovered WoW and had only the glow of her monitor to bask in for 7 months. Let me be the judge of which eyeshadow/blush/lipstick "flatters every skin tone." Example 2: I have average skin texture at sea level, but a mile above that I turn into a Komodo dragon. It takes a heavy lotion, Olympic timing, aligning moon cycles, and witchcraft to keep my skin moisturized for any length of time. Send one of your colleagues up here to the mountains to test the latest Jergens formula and see if she isn't disappointed after 5 minutes.
I suppose there are more "average" women out there than there are women like myself, or they wouldn't be considered "average." I'm guessing. You want a large reader base, I understand, so you cater to average women. You give them affirmation, coddle them, chew their food for them. But I also suppose your average woman doesn't really have trouble walking into a drugstore, picking a shade of lipstick, and being satisfied with it. Meanwhile, the rest of us stare at ourselves in the makeup counter mirror, at the ghastly oh-so-wrong blush on our cheeks, "This is the best for fair skin?" we think incredulously, "What's their definition of 'fair?' Jennifer Lopez?" We - your not-so-average - are the ones who need help, here. So how about it, beauty editors: once a year, at testing time, round up a few testers on the extreme ends of the spectrum and publish their results. It's what I would do if I were in your shoes.
8/26/2010
Credit Underwriter 7/21/10
I have had a Target card for several years now. My credit limit has remained exactly the same for all those years, until recently. My credit limit went from a very reasonable discount store limit of $200.00, to a whopping, and completely unreasonable for a discount store $2,000.00. I don’t know if it’s even possible to spend that kind of money at Target. You would have to buy most of the store to even approach that figure. I would love to try, except for the whole having-to-pay-it-back-plus-interest “catch” that comes with most credit cards. I appreciate (I guess) the gesture, telling me in no mistakable terms that I am wholly trustworthy when it comes to giving money to Target. But really, who made that call, a former mortgage lender?
I've never been a credit underwriter, but are you sure that someone who racks up $2,000.00 at Target has the means to pay it all back?
I've never been a credit underwriter, but are you sure that someone who racks up $2,000.00 at Target has the means to pay it all back?
8/25/2010
Book Collector 7/14/10
I should have seen the Nook coming for Mother's Day. I'd been discussing them for a while, unsure if I really wanted one. I don't buy books for myself. I buy them for others, quite often, actually; and I read them, of course, but they are almost always borrowed when I do. To me, buying a book you've never read is like buying a DVD of a movie you've never seen. You may love the author's/director's previous work, but that doesn't guarantee you're going to like this one. So my book collection is slim. Very slim. I-don't-even-have-bookshelves slim. I only buy books that I love; books that when I am out of other reading material I don't mind revisiting. This is why I didn't buy an e-reader years ago. Fortunately, the Nook supports e-pub format, which means I get to borrow the e-books from the library. What! I know.
The surprising thing is that the Nook has actually gotten me to purchase books more. I've still done my fair share of borrowing, but since Mother's Day, I have purchased 3 books. That's about 3 times the number of books I've purchased for myself each year prior to this one. Blame it on my being a sucker for cool electronic gadgets, I guess.
I'll never be the expert who enters used book stores trying to find the first edition of an obscure 19th century novel to add to their reading room (complete with laddered bookshelves!), but I haven't minded adding to my tiny collection, even as I acknowledge I was tricked into it by a shiny novelty device.
The surprising thing is that the Nook has actually gotten me to purchase books more. I've still done my fair share of borrowing, but since Mother's Day, I have purchased 3 books. That's about 3 times the number of books I've purchased for myself each year prior to this one. Blame it on my being a sucker for cool electronic gadgets, I guess.
I'll never be the expert who enters used book stores trying to find the first edition of an obscure 19th century novel to add to their reading room (complete with laddered bookshelves!), but I haven't minded adding to my tiny collection, even as I acknowledge I was tricked into it by a shiny novelty device.
8/24/2010
Vegan 7/7/10
My husband went to California on a business trip. During this trip, he visited a vegan restaurant. I am not vegan, but I am thoroughly jealous. Life is hard enough being a vegetarian; I can’t imagine trying to attempt veganism. Being vegetarian means asking questions about nearly every dish at nearly every restaurant – including salad. To eat at a restaurant where I wouldn’t have to ask a single question about where a dish fell on my dietary chart would be pure heaven. My husband loves meat; the universal imbalance of his getting to go to a restaurant the likes of which I can only dream is astounding. He is now, and will be for quite a while, in trouble for this.
“I brought you back a menu,” he tries to console me.
A menu? To perhaps muffle my aching sobs and absorb my bitter tears with?! You’re killing me!
“Why would you tease me with a menu?” is what I actually ask.
“I thought you could get some ideas from it. And there’s a recipe on it, too.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“And there’s a website, and the chef also sells cookbooks.”
I checked the restaurant, just to be sure, but alas, there are none of these restaurants anywhere near me. So for now, I have no haven for safely meat-free fare except my own kitchen. Good thing I like to cook. Even if I didn’t, I think I’d still like it better than asking, “Is there chicken broth in your spinach-artichoke dip?” whenever I tried a new restaurant. Worse, sometimes I forget to ask entirely. If I were vegan I'm not sure I could ever eat out. "What's your soup of the day?" "Tomato." "Great! I'll have tha-" "Tomato Creme, with Parmesan croutons." "Okay, how about spaghetti with tomato sauce?" "Oh, you'll love it, we actually use egg noodles, and our tomato sauce is made with a beef broth to give it a hearty, smoky taste!" "Fine, I'll just have a salad, then." "Sure, would you like Caesar, Ranch, Thousand Island, or Light Ranch?" "Actually, I'd like a menu for another restaurant, if you have it."
I'm sure I'd learn how to get along without any animal products whatsoever, but for now, the above scenario plays like a broken record when I consider this lifestyle change, so I'm going to leave it to the more seasoned vegans. ...And remain jealous of Husband's good fortune.
“I brought you back a menu,” he tries to console me.
A menu? To perhaps muffle my aching sobs and absorb my bitter tears with?! You’re killing me!
“Why would you tease me with a menu?” is what I actually ask.
“I thought you could get some ideas from it. And there’s a recipe on it, too.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“And there’s a website, and the chef also sells cookbooks.”
I checked the restaurant, just to be sure, but alas, there are none of these restaurants anywhere near me. So for now, I have no haven for safely meat-free fare except my own kitchen. Good thing I like to cook. Even if I didn’t, I think I’d still like it better than asking, “Is there chicken broth in your spinach-artichoke dip?” whenever I tried a new restaurant. Worse, sometimes I forget to ask entirely. If I were vegan I'm not sure I could ever eat out. "What's your soup of the day?" "Tomato." "Great! I'll have tha-" "Tomato Creme, with Parmesan croutons." "Okay, how about spaghetti with tomato sauce?" "Oh, you'll love it, we actually use egg noodles, and our tomato sauce is made with a beef broth to give it a hearty, smoky taste!" "Fine, I'll just have a salad, then." "Sure, would you like Caesar, Ranch, Thousand Island, or Light Ranch?" "Actually, I'd like a menu for another restaurant, if you have it."
I'm sure I'd learn how to get along without any animal products whatsoever, but for now, the above scenario plays like a broken record when I consider this lifestyle change, so I'm going to leave it to the more seasoned vegans. ...And remain jealous of Husband's good fortune.
8/23/2010
Flyer - 6/30/10
It’s 10:00am the morning of our departure date, and we’re rushing around like headed hens (I prefer hens that way) finalizing the packing, loading, and basic grooming so we can get the heck to the airport. Actually, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s 10:00pm the night before our departure date, and I have just given my son his antibiotic for his 4th ear infection of the year. We are getting all the clothes washed and dishes done. Bug stands in the living room, and begins vomiting. Husband grabs him and rushes him to the bathroom as Bug is heaving, leaving a trail ofhalf-digested – nevermind, I’ll just say grossness – behind. Apparently Bug is allergic to this antibiotic, as well as amoxicillin. Go figure. It is also late Friday night, which means the following day is Saturday, and quite a busy Saturday at that, so too late for me to call in and attempt to get a replacement medicine. Go figure. While Husband is tending to Bug in the bathroom, I immediately arm myself with paper towels, hot water, and disinfectant and begin cleaning up the mess. It’s not an easy job, and only adds to the delay in the getting-ready-to-go schedule. Having done the best I can, I sprinkle baking soda over it to keep our home from smelling terrible when we get back, and we go to bed.
Cut to 10:30 the following morning. Packed and car loaded up, we head to the airport. Husband’s flight (to another state, on business) leaves just after mine and Bug’s, so Bug rides with Husband to the airport. I’m following Husband’s truck. This is embarrassing, because I have lived and driven in my city for 15 years. I know my way around. What I don’t know is whether I need to turn left or right at a particular interchange to head south to the airport. It’s right; I am in the left lane. Naturally. So I miss my turn. The only place to turn around at this point is a mile down the road.
I call Husband, “I saw you in the left lane, so I got in the left lane, and I didn’t see you get in the right lane so I missed the turn.” I don’t add, “If I’m failing this spectacularly without the hyperactive preschooler with me, how on Earth am I going to pull this off?” And I breathe deeply the rest of the way to the airport.
Weeks ago I had the brilliant idea of attaching the car seat to the top of my rolling suitcase instead of purchasing a luggage roller for it. I even practiced at home, and was pleased with the results. Now that I am parked 20 miles from the terminal (okay, not even one mile, but still really, really, really, extremely very far away – almost as far away as one can park and still be charged $8.00 a day for parking) realize that I was not fully packed when I attempted this, nor did I have my enormous backpack on. I am having a difficult time. I am stopping often, and unable to keep up with Husband and Bug. Husband offers to help, but I won’t have his help coming back, I remind him, and need to do this myself, thank you anyway, I love you, too. I am sweaty and the car seat is banging against my arm, sure to leave a bruise. I switch suitcase-dragging arms often. I take a corner too quickly and the suitcase and car seat fall over. Not even five minutes into this trip, I have sworn to purchase a luggage cart for the ride home.
I check in with a live human, who is wonderfully cheerful to me despite my wonderfully un-cheerful demeanor. Our seats? Side-by-side. Score! Onward to security.
For a small airport, the line is long. When our turn arrives, I ask if there’s a slow line, because we’re going to be a while. “That’s okay,” the TSA agent assures me.
I have forgotten what to do between my last flight one year ago and today. I have lost Husband since checking in, and now Bug and I are about to take our shoes off and get X-rayed. The shoes go into a bin and through the machine. "Uh, I'm not sure how to do this," I gesture to the car seat/rolling suitcase combo. I am told I have to detach them from each other. Sigh. "Ma'am, you'll have to put your wallet in a bin here," I'm instructed, not having realized I was even still clutching it in my sweaty little hand. "Ma'am, his toy will have to be put in a bin as well," I'm further instructed, not having imagined I would have to pry Bug's best friend Scratchy Puppy from his sweaty little hands. Luckily he doesn't protest too much about parting with Puppy. He does protest about walking through the metal detector. I have to carry him through. On the other side, after passing the extra screening our medicine requires, and being reunited with our disjointed stuff I sit Bug down in a small chair and attempt to re-pack. Bug disappears. "Bug!" I shriek. "I'm right here," says a small voice in a chair of his own choosing. "Don't move!" I sternly command, "I have to get our stuff, then we'll get on the airplane." My attempt to be cheerful there may be mitigated by my clenched teeth; I cannot be certain.
At this point, it has been an hour or two since the application of my antiperspirant, to which I must give a failing grade. Come on, Degree, don't you have a "Too-heavy-suitcase-and-hyperactive-preschooler-going-through-post-9/11-airport-security-Mom" formula? What are you paying your researchers for?
Security screening over with, I begin to relax. Plenty of time before the flight. After a few minutes, Husband joins us. We eat brunch. The stress is lifting for the moment.
Next we head to our gate. I seat Bug and I at the end of a row of chairs, across from a single gentleman working on his laptop. The gentleman promptly moves. I imagine he didn't want to sit next to a bouncing preschooler and his sweaty, crazy-eyed, shrill-voiced mother, and I can't be offended. Within a few seconds of our arrival, Bug pushes the car seat/rolling suitcase monstrosity over. It lands directly onto the seat Single Gentleman had just abandoned. If I had the presence of mind, I would have asked Apparently Psychic Single Gentleman to tell me if my Partylite investments will ever pay off, but I do not. Our flight is delayed, and Husband's is not; he has to leave us to catch his plane. The stress has settled back in. Bug is stressed as well, and not afraid to let me know. He will not sit still. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He wants Daddy. Is Daddy coming back? He will not be comforted. He loses a toy.
When it is time to board, I do not make it to the line fast enough to board early to get the car seat installed. It takes forever to install the thing. I am still quite sweaty from physical exertion, stress, and the embarrassment of holding up the passengers behind me. Bug is not excited about the flight, as I had anticipated. I try in earnest, but am unable to prevent him from repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him. Deja vu: He does not want to sit in his car seat. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He needs to potty only at the end of the 2-hour flight, just as the "Fasten Seatbelt" signs are lighting.
I wait for everyone else to deplane before I even attempt to. As I watch the bruises form on my arms in all their purple glory, I promise myself I will travel lighter - and buy a damn carrier for the car seat! - next time. I promise myself that unless I absolutely have to, there won't be a next time. As my sweat glands will attest, flying is most definitely not something I am cut out for.
It’s 10:00pm the night before our departure date, and I have just given my son his antibiotic for his 4th ear infection of the year. We are getting all the clothes washed and dishes done. Bug stands in the living room, and begins vomiting. Husband grabs him and rushes him to the bathroom as Bug is heaving, leaving a trail of
Cut to 10:30 the following morning. Packed and car loaded up, we head to the airport. Husband’s flight (to another state, on business) leaves just after mine and Bug’s, so Bug rides with Husband to the airport. I’m following Husband’s truck. This is embarrassing, because I have lived and driven in my city for 15 years. I know my way around. What I don’t know is whether I need to turn left or right at a particular interchange to head south to the airport. It’s right; I am in the left lane. Naturally. So I miss my turn. The only place to turn around at this point is a mile down the road.
I call Husband, “I saw you in the left lane, so I got in the left lane, and I didn’t see you get in the right lane so I missed the turn.” I don’t add, “If I’m failing this spectacularly without the hyperactive preschooler with me, how on Earth am I going to pull this off?” And I breathe deeply the rest of the way to the airport.
Weeks ago I had the brilliant idea of attaching the car seat to the top of my rolling suitcase instead of purchasing a luggage roller for it. I even practiced at home, and was pleased with the results. Now that I am parked 20 miles from the terminal (okay, not even one mile, but still really, really, really, extremely very far away – almost as far away as one can park and still be charged $8.00 a day for parking) realize that I was not fully packed when I attempted this, nor did I have my enormous backpack on. I am having a difficult time. I am stopping often, and unable to keep up with Husband and Bug. Husband offers to help, but I won’t have his help coming back, I remind him, and need to do this myself, thank you anyway, I love you, too. I am sweaty and the car seat is banging against my arm, sure to leave a bruise. I switch suitcase-dragging arms often. I take a corner too quickly and the suitcase and car seat fall over. Not even five minutes into this trip, I have sworn to purchase a luggage cart for the ride home.
I check in with a live human, who is wonderfully cheerful to me despite my wonderfully un-cheerful demeanor. Our seats? Side-by-side. Score! Onward to security.
For a small airport, the line is long. When our turn arrives, I ask if there’s a slow line, because we’re going to be a while. “That’s okay,” the TSA agent assures me.
I have forgotten what to do between my last flight one year ago and today. I have lost Husband since checking in, and now Bug and I are about to take our shoes off and get X-rayed. The shoes go into a bin and through the machine. "Uh, I'm not sure how to do this," I gesture to the car seat/rolling suitcase combo. I am told I have to detach them from each other. Sigh. "Ma'am, you'll have to put your wallet in a bin here," I'm instructed, not having realized I was even still clutching it in my sweaty little hand. "Ma'am, his toy will have to be put in a bin as well," I'm further instructed, not having imagined I would have to pry Bug's best friend Scratchy Puppy from his sweaty little hands. Luckily he doesn't protest too much about parting with Puppy. He does protest about walking through the metal detector. I have to carry him through. On the other side, after passing the extra screening our medicine requires, and being reunited with our disjointed stuff I sit Bug down in a small chair and attempt to re-pack. Bug disappears. "Bug!" I shriek. "I'm right here," says a small voice in a chair of his own choosing. "Don't move!" I sternly command, "I have to get our stuff, then we'll get on the airplane." My attempt to be cheerful there may be mitigated by my clenched teeth; I cannot be certain.
At this point, it has been an hour or two since the application of my antiperspirant, to which I must give a failing grade. Come on, Degree, don't you have a "Too-heavy-suitcase-and-hyperactive-preschooler-going-through-post-9/11-airport-security-Mom" formula? What are you paying your researchers for?
Security screening over with, I begin to relax. Plenty of time before the flight. After a few minutes, Husband joins us. We eat brunch. The stress is lifting for the moment.
Next we head to our gate. I seat Bug and I at the end of a row of chairs, across from a single gentleman working on his laptop. The gentleman promptly moves. I imagine he didn't want to sit next to a bouncing preschooler and his sweaty, crazy-eyed, shrill-voiced mother, and I can't be offended. Within a few seconds of our arrival, Bug pushes the car seat/rolling suitcase monstrosity over. It lands directly onto the seat Single Gentleman had just abandoned. If I had the presence of mind, I would have asked Apparently Psychic Single Gentleman to tell me if my Partylite investments will ever pay off, but I do not. Our flight is delayed, and Husband's is not; he has to leave us to catch his plane. The stress has settled back in. Bug is stressed as well, and not afraid to let me know. He will not sit still. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He wants Daddy. Is Daddy coming back? He will not be comforted. He loses a toy.
When it is time to board, I do not make it to the line fast enough to board early to get the car seat installed. It takes forever to install the thing. I am still quite sweaty from physical exertion, stress, and the embarrassment of holding up the passengers behind me. Bug is not excited about the flight, as I had anticipated. I try in earnest, but am unable to prevent him from repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him. Deja vu: He does not want to sit in his car seat. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He needs to potty only at the end of the 2-hour flight, just as the "Fasten Seatbelt" signs are lighting.
I wait for everyone else to deplane before I even attempt to. As I watch the bruises form on my arms in all their purple glory, I promise myself I will travel lighter - and buy a damn carrier for the car seat! - next time. I promise myself that unless I absolutely have to, there won't be a next time. As my sweat glands will attest, flying is most definitely not something I am cut out for.
8/22/2010
Advice columnist - 6/23/10
I have a kind face. It’s a curse. While shopping at a thrift store, about to try on some clothes, a woman pops out of an adjacent dressing room, contorting herself to view the pants she’s wearing and asks, “Are these okay?” Because I have made the mistake of answering someone who is actually talking to a Bluetooth headset before, I hesitated. She looked directly at me. “Um, yeah, they’re nice pants,” or something else generically approving was my reply. The pants were actually a handful of sizes too small for her. Did she really expect honesty from a complete stranger? Since I was a complete stranger, not likely to ever see her again, should I have given it to her? Moments later, she did it again. “Those pants are better than the others,” I honestly replied, in all honesty being perfectly honest this time. They were still too small.
Having a kind face - an approachable, even inviting face – is as much a curse for the people who approach me as for myself, because I will be nice. I can’t help it. My mother tells me all the time that I’m too nice. I’ve learned that I simply believe it to be better, when a stranger approaches my kind, trustworthy face, not to betray that trust with hostility or suspicion. Obviously a woman who will ask a stranger’s opinion of her appearance needs the reassurance; what does it cost me to provide it to her? A strange man who approaches me in a grocery store parking lot to ask me on a date while I’m wearing my most unflattering sweater and with my 5th-grader in tow - here I’m assuming he wasn’t doing this as part of some joke or dare - is choosing a very non-threatening target for a reason; I could be silently suspicious of him later, but at the moment there was no reason to insert sarcasm or acidity when I informed him of my marital status, and as he slinked back to his car muttering, “Yeah, I should have known,” I believed I had made the right choice. Besides, I read Miss Manners; I know even when asserting yourself you should remain considerate of others' fragile feelings.
Perhaps that's it: I missed my calling. Perhaps this is the face of an advice columnist, the photograph of whom, showing the slightest of smiles, is placed to the left of the warm, comforting answers to the readers' dilemmas. The unfair advantage being allotted the time to ponder my answers before they're dispensed, as opposed to needing to come up with a better answer than, "Uh," when asked if these towels match this shower curtain. I am doubtful, though, seeing as how I'm already amazed at what a fellow human will ask a complete stranger; I'm not sure I would be willing to volunteer to have these queries thrust upon me. Better leave it to the professionals.
Having a kind face - an approachable, even inviting face – is as much a curse for the people who approach me as for myself, because I will be nice. I can’t help it. My mother tells me all the time that I’m too nice. I’ve learned that I simply believe it to be better, when a stranger approaches my kind, trustworthy face, not to betray that trust with hostility or suspicion. Obviously a woman who will ask a stranger’s opinion of her appearance needs the reassurance; what does it cost me to provide it to her? A strange man who approaches me in a grocery store parking lot to ask me on a date while I’m wearing my most unflattering sweater and with my 5th-grader in tow - here I’m assuming he wasn’t doing this as part of some joke or dare - is choosing a very non-threatening target for a reason; I could be silently suspicious of him later, but at the moment there was no reason to insert sarcasm or acidity when I informed him of my marital status, and as he slinked back to his car muttering, “Yeah, I should have known,” I believed I had made the right choice. Besides, I read Miss Manners; I know even when asserting yourself you should remain considerate of others' fragile feelings.
Perhaps that's it: I missed my calling. Perhaps this is the face of an advice columnist, the photograph of whom, showing the slightest of smiles, is placed to the left of the warm, comforting answers to the readers' dilemmas. The unfair advantage being allotted the time to ponder my answers before they're dispensed, as opposed to needing to come up with a better answer than, "Uh," when asked if these towels match this shower curtain. I am doubtful, though, seeing as how I'm already amazed at what a fellow human will ask a complete stranger; I'm not sure I would be willing to volunteer to have these queries thrust upon me. Better leave it to the professionals.
8/21/2010
Travel Agent - 6/16/10
I'm going to be traveling with my three-year-old this summer - just me and my three-year-old. I am terrified. Imagine the Tasmanian Devil, of Looney Tunes fame. Now imagine him as a child, when he had even more energy. Now imagine trying to hold him on a leash, pulling a rolling suitcase behind you, a backpack weighing you down, and a car seat in the other hand. Did you notice that in this scenario you need three hands? For added fun, the Tasmanian Devil will have to be somehow persuaded to wait patiently while you have his medications screened. Just an extra challenge that you know will make you feel even more accomplished as you sit on the airplane, mocha in hand, having quite comfortably made first boarding call.
Then I wake up to the cold realization that the trip remains weeks away, and remember to add floss to my packing list. Also, the flight has yet to be booked.
The only travel arrangements I have ever made have been for myself alone, and luckily I require only one seat. So after choosing a flight that arrived at a decent time of day, had the website not asked me to choose seating, I may never have considered that our seats might be separate. But there I was, staring at the two remaining available seats, several rows apart. Crap. I can just imagine myself in row 19, sipping my coffee, reading my new book, while in row 27 some innocent businesswoman by-sitter has to pause perfecting her financial charts and graphs every twenty seconds to pick up the car my son vroomed right off the tray. Next flight, then.
Only the next flight didn't give me seating options whatsoever. I called the airline. No guarantees. Really? He's three. How can they not seat me with him (see above scenario with frustrated businesswoman)? Next flight: arrives late at night. Sigh. I vent all this frustration to Husband.
"They can't not seat you with him. How could they put him with strangers? Lawsuuuuuit!" he reassures me, "Besides, the flight attendants will ask people to move, and they will. Someone will." So I imagine myself, on a flight alone, being faced with the choice of giving up my window seat, or being seated next to the Tasmanian Devil. Who needs a window seat anyway? So, comforted by Husband, the no-guaranteed-seat flight it is. I'll just take the airline rep's advice and get to check-in extra early to sort this out. These arrangements were such a headache, and I'm still a bit uneasy about it. Sure, passengers may move to accommodate us, but happily? Unlikely. I think most passengers are stressed out enough trying to get to their destination that playing musical cramped-airline-chairs isn't going to add cheer anyone up. Hopefully that won't be necessary. Perhaps what is necessary is to leave these arrangements to a professional travel agent next time. If for some reason my seat isn't adjacent to my son's, I won't stress. Hey, the seats were purchased by a pro. He must know what he's doing. How you doing back there, frustrated businesswoman? Heheheheheheh.
Then I wake up to the cold realization that the trip remains weeks away, and remember to add floss to my packing list. Also, the flight has yet to be booked.
The only travel arrangements I have ever made have been for myself alone, and luckily I require only one seat. So after choosing a flight that arrived at a decent time of day, had the website not asked me to choose seating, I may never have considered that our seats might be separate. But there I was, staring at the two remaining available seats, several rows apart. Crap. I can just imagine myself in row 19, sipping my coffee, reading my new book, while in row 27 some innocent businesswoman by-sitter has to pause perfecting her financial charts and graphs every twenty seconds to pick up the car my son vroomed right off the tray. Next flight, then.
Only the next flight didn't give me seating options whatsoever. I called the airline. No guarantees. Really? He's three. How can they not seat me with him (see above scenario with frustrated businesswoman)? Next flight: arrives late at night. Sigh. I vent all this frustration to Husband.
"They can't not seat you with him. How could they put him with strangers? Lawsuuuuuit!" he reassures me, "Besides, the flight attendants will ask people to move, and they will. Someone will." So I imagine myself, on a flight alone, being faced with the choice of giving up my window seat, or being seated next to the Tasmanian Devil. Who needs a window seat anyway? So, comforted by Husband, the no-guaranteed-seat flight it is. I'll just take the airline rep's advice and get to check-in extra early to sort this out. These arrangements were such a headache, and I'm still a bit uneasy about it. Sure, passengers may move to accommodate us, but happily? Unlikely. I think most passengers are stressed out enough trying to get to their destination that playing musical cramped-airline-chairs isn't going to add cheer anyone up. Hopefully that won't be necessary. Perhaps what is necessary is to leave these arrangements to a professional travel agent next time. If for some reason my seat isn't adjacent to my son's, I won't stress. Hey, the seats were purchased by a pro. He must know what he's doing. How you doing back there, frustrated businesswoman? Heheheheheheh.
Um.
My vacation in June really set me back, and this blog has been as neglected as an original XBox. I'll be trying to make up for this over the next couple of weeks. I'm going to add what should have been the original post date to the title. Here we go.
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