There's a universal nature to being a beach person. It isn't whether you surf or fish or build sand castles, it's whether you get what it means to be at the beach, and how to beach.
The waitress at the seafood restaurant who couldn't tell me what the zip code was for the town where we were so we could get the five day forecast from a weather app, she is a beach people.
I also met a leather tanned woman at the pier, she could string tackle with ease and used her teeth to cut the lines.
The man who brought his dog Bailey with him to fish, who argued it wasn't true a bad day fishing beats a good day working if you don't work, and who took the fish off the hook for my daughter and used them for cut bait. (He asked), also a beach person. He also got mad at his dog for trying to eat the head.
So how do you know if you're a beach people?
How many times today have you been swimming? How many times today have you changed clothes. If the first number is greater than the second number, you might be a beach people person.
When your husband suggests that while ice cream twice a day might be indulgent, perhaps it is reasonable today and you're already en route to the store before the discussion concludes...
Napping is considered part of the day, and taken seriously.
You start to know how to navigate based on the signs for the various tackle shops.
The TV, computer, phones and ipads are put aside for the pool towel, beach shovel, card deck and again, napping.
You start thinking, I could live here.
There's a storm. You still think it.
There's a report of a shark attack and you've been watching shark week all week in the evening.
You still think, why not?
and you go back to the waitress at the restaurant, who turned to a fellow waitress to ask if she knew the zip code and she didn't know either. "We don't get much mail here." she explained.
When can I move?
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Friday, July 1, 2016
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Moments of Perfection
We did the epic. We took all ten children to Disneyworld.
Despite long debates and agreement that breaking the groups into two and tailoring the experience to the ages involved, we ultimately wanted this to be a family vacation and so we all went together. We dressed alike, had assigned partners and switched off often.
Here were the moments that acted as a photograph in my mind, of the experience.
Regina's sly smile became a wide mouthed grin as she saw the princesses dancing at the castle.
Rita's euphoric "I'm driving! I'm driving! Faster Mom! I'm just like a teenager." (editorial note, she's almost as good but that shout has made me consider the possibility that she shouldn't be liscenced until she's 18).
Anna Maria in "It's a Small World." Up until that point, she'd shook her head "No." to everything, but this was the ride that began to uncurl her from thinking this world was just too unreal for her sensibilities.
Getting completely drenched top to bottom with six of my children --not from the ride of Splash Mountain, but from the rain which started falling with a vengeance during Splash Mountain. We all started laughing. They did warn us, we might get wet.
Marta going into the sweet shop to buy her sister a rice crispy treat when the samples got devoured before she got one.
William lifting his brother John up onto his shoulders so he could see the electric light parade.
Bonnie playing with her younger siblings and really helping them experience Disney. She lifted up Regina to look out the ferry so she could see the final parade on the lake surrounding the Magic Kingdom.
Faith and John driving by themselves on the speedway. Both felt very important and proud.
Peter going on multiple rollercoasters (twice).
My beloved husband shouting out in surprised joy at the fireworks. They were lovely.
Paul wanting to hold both his dad's and my hand during the laser show. He got that this was a communal experience, that it should be, and that this was a perfect moment to be cherished. He was right.
Despite long debates and agreement that breaking the groups into two and tailoring the experience to the ages involved, we ultimately wanted this to be a family vacation and so we all went together. We dressed alike, had assigned partners and switched off often.
Here were the moments that acted as a photograph in my mind, of the experience.
Regina's sly smile became a wide mouthed grin as she saw the princesses dancing at the castle.
Rita's euphoric "I'm driving! I'm driving! Faster Mom! I'm just like a teenager." (editorial note, she's almost as good but that shout has made me consider the possibility that she shouldn't be liscenced until she's 18).
Anna Maria in "It's a Small World." Up until that point, she'd shook her head "No." to everything, but this was the ride that began to uncurl her from thinking this world was just too unreal for her sensibilities.
Getting completely drenched top to bottom with six of my children --not from the ride of Splash Mountain, but from the rain which started falling with a vengeance during Splash Mountain. We all started laughing. They did warn us, we might get wet.
Marta going into the sweet shop to buy her sister a rice crispy treat when the samples got devoured before she got one.
William lifting his brother John up onto his shoulders so he could see the electric light parade.
Bonnie playing with her younger siblings and really helping them experience Disney. She lifted up Regina to look out the ferry so she could see the final parade on the lake surrounding the Magic Kingdom.
Faith and John driving by themselves on the speedway. Both felt very important and proud.
Peter going on multiple rollercoasters (twice).
My beloved husband shouting out in surprised joy at the fireworks. They were lovely.
Paul wanting to hold both his dad's and my hand during the laser show. He got that this was a communal experience, that it should be, and that this was a perfect moment to be cherished. He was right.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
7 Quick Takes
1. Helen is due out in 26 days. Good news. My mom and brother both enjoyed it. Bad news. I'm still editing. Good news. It's not as clunky as it was. Bad news. It still needs buffing and polishing in places. Good news. It holds. Bad news. There is so much more I want to put into this book, because I really have enjoyed having her wander around in my head these past six years. I'll miss her occasional running dialogue on life.
New caption...what do you mean you're no longer taking my calls?
2. The smell of summer, it is there in the morning. I can feel it. Hints of the hot sticky days to come in the width of a sunbeam and the stillness of the trees. Even better, we booked a vacation!!! We never are this organized. We never think, hey, summer is coming, we should plan something. This year we did! Can't wait! 
YES!!!!!
3. That reminds me....I need to sign up for swimming lessons for at least 5 of them. I did sign up one for summer school for an extra math class, so that's something...
4. My children sometimes weary I suspect of being on auto-witness. As part of a large family, it is inevitable that any conversation between adults results in somewhere, somehow, the talk turning to 1) what do you do and 2) do you have any children? The other day, my second daughter explained what drives her nuts. It doesn't matter where we are. If someone asks me, "How many children do you have?" she knows the next 20 minutes are shot because there are always follow up questions when the answer is ten. I pointed out there were always follow up question when the answer was five but she countered that she's heard the answers all her life, and that people romanticize big families because I speak about it happily. It doesn't help that their mother loves to talk.
5. But what she doesn't realize, is that even at two children, this was part of the reality of our lives. I had just delivered my second child. She was being cleaned at the nurse's station. I was calming down and looking at her. "She's beautiful." I said. The nurse held her up for me to see. "Are you going to have any more?" she asked as she handed me my first daughter. I looked at her eyes, at her face, I breathed in the perfume of a newborn and said, "Oh yes."
6. The Book of Penelope...yes...I'm writing my second book. Yes, it is a continuation of what happened in The Book of Helen, but also...not.
It is the same time. It is the same world. It is a very different woman, a woman whose power and authority rest internally, rather than manifest itself as luminous. Helen was beauty. Penelope is not Helen. Helen's life, her sins and virtues were largely public knowledge. Penelope's struggle was quiet, long, domestic, intimate and only celebrated in relation to her husband. Her faithfulness in his absence, her crafty handling of multiple predator men in a world ruled by men, these are what has made her famous. But what made Odysseus choose her. How did he court her? Where did she find the internal fortitude to hold on for twenty years? How did they come back together after such a long separation and what scars were created by wounds from the long years of absence? These are the questions.
My initial thinking is that Penelope is first and foremost, a creature of duty. But duty, done even faithfully without love, done without relationship, becomes a form of bitter martyrdom of all the sweetness of life. So it is that Odysseus must re-win his wife's true affection and willingness to share what she has spent twenty years mastering to withhold, her own thoughts and feelings on everything. He will also have to come face to face with the problems of having been a ghost of a memory as a father for so long, and competing with his own history/legend when the real person must face the consequences a legendary story version of the same man, never did.
His wife and son know the tales. Neither is willing to gloss over the injuries done to them by Odysseus's dalliances with Calypso and Circe and others. Combined, they should make for a serious powder keg of feeling. Whereas with Helen, I collected luminous moments like fireflies, I will be trying to weave al the threads of these three broken lives into one coherent tapestry.
7. Is this thing on? I keep seeing that the people who read my posts go up and up and up, while the only comments I get are from Spambots.
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So if you're human, if any of this made you laugh or think or remember, I've got to start planning a vacation, leave a comment. I'm starting to think this blog is me and the spambot crickets.
For whoever does leave a comment who is not a spambot...here.
P.S. Don't feed the spambots. It makes them multiply...like tribbles.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Back in the Saddle...or at least...out of the car...
We're back. It was fun and awesome and filling and luminous and joyful and loud and fattening and everywhere I looked was a person I hadn't seen in years and for whom my heart ached to spend the whole time just catching up. It was a perpetual interruption of joy by more joy. It's hard to explain other than to say I loved every minute. That being said, my family did miss the comforts of their home. I submit my 18 month old daughter's response.
When we got home, it was 9 in the evening. Time for bath and bed. This was my final heroic gesture to the toddlers, as I had no gas left in my tank after three days of driving after 5 days of really partying preceded by three days of driving.
I put her in her crib. She slumped into the sleeping position immediately. An hour later when I was crawling into bed, she woke up. She ran around the crib four or five times. "MOM!" she shouted.
Her dad and I looked over. "WOW! WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!" She ran around the crib again, every once in a while saying the "WOW! WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!"
"I think she's glad to be home." I quipped. She nodded her head.
I have a 1000 stories from the trip...but they'll have to wait. I have 11 days of mail to catch up.
When we got home, it was 9 in the evening. Time for bath and bed. This was my final heroic gesture to the toddlers, as I had no gas left in my tank after three days of driving after 5 days of really partying preceded by three days of driving.
I put her in her crib. She slumped into the sleeping position immediately. An hour later when I was crawling into bed, she woke up. She ran around the crib four or five times. "MOM!" she shouted.
Her dad and I looked over. "WOW! WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!" She ran around the crib again, every once in a while saying the "WOW! WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!"
"I think she's glad to be home." I quipped. She nodded her head.
I have a 1000 stories from the trip...but they'll have to wait. I have 11 days of mail to catch up.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Disconnect
Last week, I was on vacation.
In Florida, I sat and had my hair done and didn't think about how much time it was taking.
I read books by the pool. We drank mohitos and saw the sun set every night. We walked on the beach and swam in the ocean. We collected shells and I ate fish almost every meal except breakfast. There was live music everywhere, bongo drums and salsa dancing. I did turn down going to the ritzy night club that played until 5 in favor of sleep but got up early to walk in the sand and admire the tall clear green and ice white waves. In one store, I tried on a red dress but bought new sneakers.
Today...is tax day. The septic man came at 7. I found four loads of laundry in the basement and have to pick up suits, get a present, refill a prescription and tonight is Daisy Scouts. We will have ham and pasta for dinner with vegetables. I ate cereal and changed diapers.
But to keep the rare air of vacation alive just a little longer, I'm wearing my diamond earings and had the last of the Easter chocolate.
In Florida, I sat and had my hair done and didn't think about how much time it was taking.
I read books by the pool. We drank mohitos and saw the sun set every night. We walked on the beach and swam in the ocean. We collected shells and I ate fish almost every meal except breakfast. There was live music everywhere, bongo drums and salsa dancing. I did turn down going to the ritzy night club that played until 5 in favor of sleep but got up early to walk in the sand and admire the tall clear green and ice white waves. In one store, I tried on a red dress but bought new sneakers.
Today...is tax day. The septic man came at 7. I found four loads of laundry in the basement and have to pick up suits, get a present, refill a prescription and tonight is Daisy Scouts. We will have ham and pasta for dinner with vegetables. I ate cereal and changed diapers.
But to keep the rare air of vacation alive just a little longer, I'm wearing my diamond earings and had the last of the Easter chocolate.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Until Easter
Taking a brief break from blogging. I'll still do Small Success Thursdays, but there's just too much going on right now that requires all of my attention. I'd considered giving up blogging for Lent and it seems, life will ensure it by being simply more than will allow for good writing. So I'll still be around, answer email, and work on Helen, but the blog will be allowed to take a break until Easter other than for Small Success Thursday. Thanks for understanding. So I guess I'm giving up Chocolate for Lent. :)
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Everything is Grist for the Mill
Last week I was in San Diego. We toured Midway, the aircraft carrier.
Returning from the trip, I decided to put my new knowledge of how things got done to work. I summoned the largest possible number of children (8) as the youngest two don't have the capacity to contribute in this endeavor. I had them line up from tallest to smallest without explaining.
I then told them how multi-million dollar aircrafts could get destroyed and lives lost if so much as a single bolt was loose on the deck and that the soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder and walked the length of the ship inspecting to make sure all was clear.
Wearing what we affectionately refer to as the "hat of command," (it says Zookeeper), I ordered a FOD (foreign object damage) walk across the living room. The walk afforded them a view of many potential threats to any wayward aircraft that might consider making our home their runway, shoes, my little ponies, hotwheels, legos and books were amongst the chief offenders, not to mention the batgirl cape, Nintendo DS, a pair of sunglasses and four throw pillows and blankets. "I want it all clear!" I barked.
There were some that could be said to utter mutinous remarks, but the lower ranks were clearly enthused for the idea and ran about sweeping the room in eager anticipation of a F-18 arriving soon.
Fortunately for me, my middle son is something of a wit. He fired up the paper airplanes and his remote controlled flying saucer after the FOD had been completed to the delight of all. The oldest followed suit and googled some top gun music for added ambiance.
Hopefully, they'll be just as enthused when I introduce rolling one's laundry.
Somehow I doubt it.
Maybe next vacation, we'll try the Marines.
Returning from the trip, I decided to put my new knowledge of how things got done to work. I summoned the largest possible number of children (8) as the youngest two don't have the capacity to contribute in this endeavor. I had them line up from tallest to smallest without explaining.
I then told them how multi-million dollar aircrafts could get destroyed and lives lost if so much as a single bolt was loose on the deck and that the soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder and walked the length of the ship inspecting to make sure all was clear.
Wearing what we affectionately refer to as the "hat of command," (it says Zookeeper), I ordered a FOD (foreign object damage) walk across the living room. The walk afforded them a view of many potential threats to any wayward aircraft that might consider making our home their runway, shoes, my little ponies, hotwheels, legos and books were amongst the chief offenders, not to mention the batgirl cape, Nintendo DS, a pair of sunglasses and four throw pillows and blankets. "I want it all clear!" I barked.
There were some that could be said to utter mutinous remarks, but the lower ranks were clearly enthused for the idea and ran about sweeping the room in eager anticipation of a F-18 arriving soon.
Fortunately for me, my middle son is something of a wit. He fired up the paper airplanes and his remote controlled flying saucer after the FOD had been completed to the delight of all. The oldest followed suit and googled some top gun music for added ambiance.
Hopefully, they'll be just as enthused when I introduce rolling one's laundry.
Somehow I doubt it.
Maybe next vacation, we'll try the Marines.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Episode VI: The Return of the Not Named Jeffy
Attention proud reader, you have checked this blog expecting insightful theology, in-depth political thoughts, and high brow comedy. So unfortunately for you it is time for a week of guest blog posts while my mother is on vacation. Some of you may remember I've had a few guest posts before, and like when Family Circus is taken over by Jeffy, when this blog is taken over by Not Named Jeffy, the quality takes a dive. For those of you who can't bear it, my mother will be back Saturday, and will still post the small success Thursday. Today, Tommorow, Wednesday, and Friday will have posts by me for your amusement.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Pre-Vacation Jitters
Any parent worthy of the title preparing for a trip goes through more emotional upheaval than the lava suspended in a lamp.
I'm going on vacation! I can read! I can sleep in! I don't have to share my lunch! I don't have to make lunch! I don't have to change diapers! It will be the first time in ages! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
Then, one of your babies comes up and cuddles up on your lap, says, "Huggies" and asks you to read a book and you start to shake in remorse.
I am a terrible person. I'm leaving my babies! How could I even THINK of leaving my babies? Maybe I'll take one with me....and you start considering how to break it to your husband that there will be three of us on this trip.
And then they come to you with a fight over the remote to the Wii and the fact that one of the kids refuses to use her own Mii on the Wii because she doesn't want to hurt her pro stats while testing out her tennis game.
We're going away in two days. Come on come on come on come on. Time is CRAWLING. It's time to pack. I can't believe I'm going! We'll get to see a baseball game from start to finish. He bought tickets to a play for us! I can swim without worrying that anyone other than me is drowning. Maybe I'll even try surfing. That would be cool! And I can eat fish without commentary like EWWWWW GROSSS! I can also wear a swimsuit without the commentary like EWWW and Mom, you should exercise. Yes, it's been said by tactful ones. I'm no longer remorseful. I'm anxious, let's GET Going!
My littlest one crinkles up her nose to smile at me as I change her into a new outfit and stop to admire her beautiful dimples in her cheeks and her buddah like form. I breathe in the perfume that is a baby's, my baby's scent. There is no way I'm getting on that plane. How could I possibly leave this little dumpling? She's adorable and she's so little.
MOM! The upstairs bathroom toilet is clogged and you don't want to see the basement.
Leaving in two days. Leaving in two days. Five days no dishes! Five days no laundry! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Does this mean we won't go see Harry Potter together for opening night? Hey Mom, my tooth is loose!
I've gone to opening night with them for every movie of this series!!! How could I have been so thoughtless? And she's going to lose her first tooth and I'm going to miss it. Ah!!!! I'm going to miss out on so much! What am I doing? I don't have to go...I could stay here....a staycation, write a bit, maybe take them to the pool...
Then it hits me, I'm really going. It's like the start of school caught up with me when I wasn't looking. I'm taking a big chunk of summer by going right in the middle.
MOMMMM! The washer didn't work, all the clothes are soggy.
48 hours. 48 hours. 47 hours and 59 minutes....
While packing, my brain goes into guilt overtime. What am I going to do on vacation? How will I fill up the time? I've been so much do...I don't know if I can just be. What if the kids are angry I left? My youngest son comes to grab my leg. My lip quivers. He won't understand that I'll be back. He'll just know Mom is gone.
I'm a mess.
The only thing that will brake this ongoing cycle in my brain will be the actual trip! It's a good thing my husband bought the tickets already.
As for the blog, not to worry, I've secured my oldest son, "Not Named Jeffy" to take on next week's postings and humor. I'll be back on Friday!
I'm going on vacation! I can read! I can sleep in! I don't have to share my lunch! I don't have to make lunch! I don't have to change diapers! It will be the first time in ages! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
Then, one of your babies comes up and cuddles up on your lap, says, "Huggies" and asks you to read a book and you start to shake in remorse.
I am a terrible person. I'm leaving my babies! How could I even THINK of leaving my babies? Maybe I'll take one with me....and you start considering how to break it to your husband that there will be three of us on this trip.
And then they come to you with a fight over the remote to the Wii and the fact that one of the kids refuses to use her own Mii on the Wii because she doesn't want to hurt her pro stats while testing out her tennis game.
We're going away in two days. Come on come on come on come on. Time is CRAWLING. It's time to pack. I can't believe I'm going! We'll get to see a baseball game from start to finish. He bought tickets to a play for us! I can swim without worrying that anyone other than me is drowning. Maybe I'll even try surfing. That would be cool! And I can eat fish without commentary like EWWWWW GROSSS! I can also wear a swimsuit without the commentary like EWWW and Mom, you should exercise. Yes, it's been said by tactful ones. I'm no longer remorseful. I'm anxious, let's GET Going!
My littlest one crinkles up her nose to smile at me as I change her into a new outfit and stop to admire her beautiful dimples in her cheeks and her buddah like form. I breathe in the perfume that is a baby's, my baby's scent. There is no way I'm getting on that plane. How could I possibly leave this little dumpling? She's adorable and she's so little.
MOM! The upstairs bathroom toilet is clogged and you don't want to see the basement.
Leaving in two days. Leaving in two days. Five days no dishes! Five days no laundry! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Does this mean we won't go see Harry Potter together for opening night? Hey Mom, my tooth is loose!
I've gone to opening night with them for every movie of this series!!! How could I have been so thoughtless? And she's going to lose her first tooth and I'm going to miss it. Ah!!!! I'm going to miss out on so much! What am I doing? I don't have to go...I could stay here....a staycation, write a bit, maybe take them to the pool...
Then it hits me, I'm really going. It's like the start of school caught up with me when I wasn't looking. I'm taking a big chunk of summer by going right in the middle.
MOMMMM! The washer didn't work, all the clothes are soggy.
48 hours. 48 hours. 47 hours and 59 minutes....
While packing, my brain goes into guilt overtime. What am I going to do on vacation? How will I fill up the time? I've been so much do...I don't know if I can just be. What if the kids are angry I left? My youngest son comes to grab my leg. My lip quivers. He won't understand that I'll be back. He'll just know Mom is gone.
I'm a mess.
The only thing that will brake this ongoing cycle in my brain will be the actual trip! It's a good thing my husband bought the tickets already.
As for the blog, not to worry, I've secured my oldest son, "Not Named Jeffy" to take on next week's postings and humor. I'll be back on Friday!
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Try Dyed For Mother's Day
It began with a Mother's Day card.
My seven year old son had created a booklet at school. Each page had a fill in the blank. My mom likes to...My mom doesn't like to...with the answers having been supplied by each individual first grader. The impressions a child has of their parents is often widely at odds with reality or at least the impression I'm trying to give in this world.
For instance, according to John, my favorite food is crabs. This despite the fact that I obsess over chocolate and diet coke daily and haven't eaten any side walkers in about a year. My only explantion was a conversation I had two weeks ago with my two oldest daughters about how much fun it was to make gumbo growing up. They were recalling their last trip to the beach where they caught a mess of blue crabs and did the same with my folks.
Apparently my favorite vacation spot is Texas but the place I loathe is Pennsylvania.* Again, I could piece together the reasoning of my son; he knows I love to visit my family and the beach on the gulf coast. He also knows family lore. Years back before he was even born, we had a bad experience once in Amish country at one of those theme hotels designed to be fun for kids, a hotel composed entirely of train cars. We tried to be good sports but the place was so dusty and our bed so awful, my husband made an emergency trip to Walmart to purchase new sheets and comforters so we could sleep. He stayed up all night in the recliner watching March madness and we didn't stay the second of the mandatory two night reservation. To this date, while we know there are plenty of fun things to do in our neighboring state, we remain gun shy about an overnight stay; with the money quote being, "This would be pretty if it weren't Pennsylvania." The Hotel which shall not be named, still evokes shivers at the memory and a case of the imaginary itchies.
But the page that drew the most response was this: My mom's hair color is.....What is this, a commercial for L'Oreal? My son had written grey. He wrote grey. My hair is black. Well alright, it's black with grey highlights and an skunk stripe in the front. I looked in the mirror. The standard pony tail masked how grey I'd become, bundling all the brown and black.The skunk stripe had encroached out of it's acceptable territory and I now had a large swath that his seven year old eyes had spotted correctly. I couldn't be grey. The little bit of vanity left in this mother of ten body railed against the idea of having my son think I had grey hair. Off to the hairdresser I went.
I have discovered the limits of my vanity. Two hours. It takes three hours to get one's hair colored. After 120 minutes, I was done and tired of reading magazines that told me how to lose weight, budget, organize, think like a man, raise perfect sons, grill, improve my insurance I.Q. and where to eat in Bangladesh. I'd said a rosary. I'd written a list of things to do for the next week. I'd fretted about not being home and wondered if they'd started dinner. I'd wished I'd gone shopping for sneakers instead or gone for a walk. I'd considered getting into an email fight with the editor of a travel magazine for a snide comments about Houston not having much beyond steak until recently. Clearly they didn't know Houston worth a darn. Then I realized, she'd missed out on some good mexican tamales and good seafood and fantsized briefly about Pappadeaux's soft shell crabs.. then I thought oh well, more for me. Whoa! Maybe my son knew more about me than I'd thought.
Finally sprung from the beautician's chair, I drove home and showed off my newly not grey hair. He didn't really notice. I looked at my mother's day car again. The page after the hair said, "My eyes are....green," only they're not.
Next week, I'm going to the eye doctor. My oldest son told me to get contacts if I need correction, so maybe when I go to the visit, I'll fix it so the other son's observations are more accurate.
*I like Pennsylvania. We've taken trips and have friends in Pennsylvania. I'm just never going to a theme hotel that has a mandatory two night stay again unless the family needs new bedding and even then, I think I'll just buy the sheets and skip the possible nightmare vacation spot.
My seven year old son had created a booklet at school. Each page had a fill in the blank. My mom likes to...My mom doesn't like to...with the answers having been supplied by each individual first grader. The impressions a child has of their parents is often widely at odds with reality or at least the impression I'm trying to give in this world.
For instance, according to John, my favorite food is crabs. This despite the fact that I obsess over chocolate and diet coke daily and haven't eaten any side walkers in about a year. My only explantion was a conversation I had two weeks ago with my two oldest daughters about how much fun it was to make gumbo growing up. They were recalling their last trip to the beach where they caught a mess of blue crabs and did the same with my folks.
Apparently my favorite vacation spot is Texas but the place I loathe is Pennsylvania.* Again, I could piece together the reasoning of my son; he knows I love to visit my family and the beach on the gulf coast. He also knows family lore. Years back before he was even born, we had a bad experience once in Amish country at one of those theme hotels designed to be fun for kids, a hotel composed entirely of train cars. We tried to be good sports but the place was so dusty and our bed so awful, my husband made an emergency trip to Walmart to purchase new sheets and comforters so we could sleep. He stayed up all night in the recliner watching March madness and we didn't stay the second of the mandatory two night reservation. To this date, while we know there are plenty of fun things to do in our neighboring state, we remain gun shy about an overnight stay; with the money quote being, "This would be pretty if it weren't Pennsylvania." The Hotel which shall not be named, still evokes shivers at the memory and a case of the imaginary itchies.
But the page that drew the most response was this: My mom's hair color is.....What is this, a commercial for L'Oreal? My son had written grey. He wrote grey. My hair is black. Well alright, it's black with grey highlights and an skunk stripe in the front. I looked in the mirror. The standard pony tail masked how grey I'd become, bundling all the brown and black.The skunk stripe had encroached out of it's acceptable territory and I now had a large swath that his seven year old eyes had spotted correctly. I couldn't be grey. The little bit of vanity left in this mother of ten body railed against the idea of having my son think I had grey hair. Off to the hairdresser I went.
I have discovered the limits of my vanity. Two hours. It takes three hours to get one's hair colored. After 120 minutes, I was done and tired of reading magazines that told me how to lose weight, budget, organize, think like a man, raise perfect sons, grill, improve my insurance I.Q. and where to eat in Bangladesh. I'd said a rosary. I'd written a list of things to do for the next week. I'd fretted about not being home and wondered if they'd started dinner. I'd wished I'd gone shopping for sneakers instead or gone for a walk. I'd considered getting into an email fight with the editor of a travel magazine for a snide comments about Houston not having much beyond steak until recently. Clearly they didn't know Houston worth a darn. Then I realized, she'd missed out on some good mexican tamales and good seafood and fantsized briefly about Pappadeaux's soft shell crabs.. then I thought oh well, more for me. Whoa! Maybe my son knew more about me than I'd thought.
Finally sprung from the beautician's chair, I drove home and showed off my newly not grey hair. He didn't really notice. I looked at my mother's day car again. The page after the hair said, "My eyes are....green," only they're not.
Next week, I'm going to the eye doctor. My oldest son told me to get contacts if I need correction, so maybe when I go to the visit, I'll fix it so the other son's observations are more accurate.
*I like Pennsylvania. We've taken trips and have friends in Pennsylvania. I'm just never going to a theme hotel that has a mandatory two night stay again unless the family needs new bedding and even then, I think I'll just buy the sheets and skip the possible nightmare vacation spot.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Memo to Residents of This Home
The following is a public service announcement, designed to make your stay here at our home more comfortable. Please familiarize yourself with the stated policies and as always, Manager Mom and Dad are on call to clarify any confusion you may have about any given regulation.
10) If you get up after 10 a.m. the kitchen is closed for breakfast; fix your own...use paper plates and clean up afterwards.
9) Working business hours are from 7 am to 10 pm. Emergencies happen, but watching TV, playing DS or the Wii or fighting with your brother do not qualify.
8) Daily hygiene is required for and by all even on school break when there is nothing on the schedule.
7) This includes getting dressed for the day....and bedtime.
6) It is not a requirement of Christmas that we open every game, project, do-hickey, thingamabob and gizmo within the first 24 hours.
5) It is a requirement of this house that if you do open every game, project, do-hickey, thingamabob and gizmo, that you put them away when finished, bored or summoned to eat.
4) Ordinary life still requires that Mom run occasional boring errands like dry cleaning and cook food that includes non favorites like vegetables. Deal.
3) Nutrition still matters even in this celebratory season. Christmas cookies do not qualify as a meal except on Christmas morning. Ditto on ice cream, pie, birthday cake and soda. Those who recognize themselves; ugh. Boo. Stop.
2) If you can't find an item that is beloved, necessary or as of yet, unopened, try looking before calling out a draft search party consisting solely of a parent.
1) Vacation from school is not vacation from reality. The trash still has to be taken out, beds made, clothes put away and towels hung up. Cope.
Thank you, love Mom and Dad.
10) If you get up after 10 a.m. the kitchen is closed for breakfast; fix your own...use paper plates and clean up afterwards.
9) Working business hours are from 7 am to 10 pm. Emergencies happen, but watching TV, playing DS or the Wii or fighting with your brother do not qualify.
8) Daily hygiene is required for and by all even on school break when there is nothing on the schedule.
7) This includes getting dressed for the day....and bedtime.
6) It is not a requirement of Christmas that we open every game, project, do-hickey, thingamabob and gizmo within the first 24 hours.
5) It is a requirement of this house that if you do open every game, project, do-hickey, thingamabob and gizmo, that you put them away when finished, bored or summoned to eat.
4) Ordinary life still requires that Mom run occasional boring errands like dry cleaning and cook food that includes non favorites like vegetables. Deal.
3) Nutrition still matters even in this celebratory season. Christmas cookies do not qualify as a meal except on Christmas morning. Ditto on ice cream, pie, birthday cake and soda. Those who recognize themselves; ugh. Boo. Stop.
2) If you can't find an item that is beloved, necessary or as of yet, unopened, try looking before calling out a draft search party consisting solely of a parent.
1) Vacation from school is not vacation from reality. The trash still has to be taken out, beds made, clothes put away and towels hung up. Cope.
Thank you, love Mom and Dad.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
We Interrupt This Regular Blog to Bring You a Vacation Moment....
First, a disclaimer: I am not a "spa" type person.
I get twitchy during the occasional manicure. My legs start bouncing if after 35 minutes, the sytlist is still messing with my hair. I think a lot of the emulsifying, purifying, hydrating, vitamin enriching theraputetic gobbilty gook that is offered at resorts and the like, are over-priced over-hyped hokum that wastes what could have otherwise been in the hands of a professional chef or even a rank amature, good food. "Honey cucumber facial, blueberry seaweed body raps, rice and salt rubs, chocolate mud bath..." the lists of options for putting edibles anywhere and everywhere but your mouth are as endless as the inventory of a Whole Foods warehouse.
So when my husband signed me up for a Tri-fecta spa day while on our vacation, while moved by the lavish and sweet gesture, I secretly viewed the whole idea with suspicion. I told myself, just order a hair cut and a pedicure and manicure and get them all done at once.
The spa however, while hailed as one of "The Places" in Maine, did not offer hair cuts, only hair nourishment (whatever that was). So I settled on a facial for novelty's sake, a pedicure and a shoulder and neck rub. The woman wrote down my selections and said, "Fine, here is your robe and here is the changing room. Lock your clothes and things in this locker and come to the waiting room."
I have to get undressed? Really? Frankly, it took all my mental control not to bolt that instant. My brain raced for an alternative: I'd jog for the hour and a half before my husband came back. Yeah! Then I'd have the glow of having worked out and he'd mistake it for a facial.
There were three problems with this plan: 1) my inability to in all likelyhood jog for more than ten minutes; 2) the unmistakable smell of me if I did manage to run all that time and 3) the fact that my beloved had just shelled out 100 bucks to be romantic to his spouse of 20 years. Not wanting to be a sissy, I told myself, you've had nine kids, you're raising nine kids and pregnant with the tenth, you can handle this now stop being such a baby and get in the robe!
The lounge was full of adults of all ages. No one made eye contact and everyone was silent. All were painfully aware that each of us was only wearing a borrowed robe. Most were trying desperately to appear diffident or overly interested in the fire, the ocean view or the new age art on the wall, and everyone jumped a bit whenever one of the clinicians would come out dressed smartly in all black and call out someone's name. "Hi, I'm Julie. How are you today?" as if each of us was dying to make our next new bestest friend while clad only in a loaned terry cloth.
When it was my turn, the woman asked me, "Do you have any conditional issues?" "What does that mean?" I asked. She rattled off broken bones, recent injuries, diseases, pregnancy.
"I'm three months pregnant." I explained.
"Oh. Then you can't do the massage or the pedicure."
"What? Why not?" I asked. I'd had pedicures before; why was this suddenly verboten?
"Well, there are certain places on the foot we don't touch for fear of stimulating labor."
"I'm three months."
"Well, we like to be safe."
"I've had nine. If foot rubs could have induced labor, believe me women would be lining up the manicurists at the hospital rather than taking on those petocin drips."
She gave me a reproachful look. "Most hospitals don't appreciate the healing and helpful powers of touch."
Maybe so but I still thought she was way way way overdoing it. I mean, I'd had foot rubs. My husband specializes in them in the third trimester. Not once have we not needed that stupid IV drip to deliver one of our children. Realizing having an arguement with the woman who is supposed to pamper you would probably be a bad starting point and that this discussion would be breeching possible theological grounds for her if I mocked it too much, I asked, "Where is the spot that brings on labor?" She motioned her hand in a cupped position and stroked the bottom of my foot. I promise I didn't but man was I tempted to yell "OW OW OW OW OWWWW!" Instead, I said, "I'll remember that for my husband come January." with a smile.
"Now, since we can't do what you requested, how about a pregnancy massage? It's only 50 minutes and it will cost less than what your husband signed you up for."
Pregnancy massage? I thought okay....and immediately began hoping it didn't involve rubbing my belly. But only 50 minutes? Sign me up.
"Fine, first I need to get you the pregnancy pillows." This seemed a bit much. I mean, I'm only three months. She came back with a special hollowed spa black foam shapes. One was for my face so I could lay on my stomach; there was also a molded pillow for my chest and two curved ones that would lift the belly and support the hips and two for my knees. She placed them on the bed and put a sheet over it. "Get inbetween the sheets while I'm out."
Now again, I felt like bolting. This was just to wierd and too intimate but I quickly scuttled into the bed and positioned myself on the pillows. My neck was a bit extended. The first sign that spa-itis has set in, you begin expecting only to be comfortable. She came in and asked how I felt. I mentioned my neck, feeling a bit silly. She adjusted it. "Perfect." I said as I settled into the warm and now amazingly comfortable bed and began spa type thinking, "9 times and I've been doing this all wrong. You know Sher, being hardy is way overrated. Why couldn't you ever be just a bit more high maintenance? I mean man this is nice. I like these. I wonder if we could buy these. These are good, even it this is the last pregnancy, these are really really good."
Then she said, "Whoops, you're pregnant so we have to turn off the heat from the bed."
"But I like heat..." I wimpered as she flicked the switch. I wanted to say, no whine, "Turn the heat back on." but I knew she wouldn't for the same reason I wasn't getting a pedicure and I also was mildly annoyed and amused by my own petty demand. The second sign I was beginning to get into the spa type experience.
New age bird song music began being piped in the room and my brain hit the spa brakes.
"Don't you ever have a day when the spa music gets to be a bit dull and ever want to shake things up by putting on acid rock?" I asked. She said, straight faced, "No, then I just ask to do any pounding massages that get requested." I wondered what massage therapists do to unwind at the end of a given day but given that she hadn't laughed at anything I'd said up to now, I decided not to pry.
She started rubbing and I flinched but she didn't. She started asking me about my kids as a means of distracting me and it worked. After ten minutes of banter, I stopped talking because the rub was having it's intended effect. The lazy thought "After the beast has been tranquilized, she'll be tagged and released back into the wild for future monitoring." skirted across my brain as I drifted off.
Thirty minutes later, only at her request, I flipped over. It took a tremendous act of will.
When the whole thing finally ended, I felt as if I'd been asleep for hours. She handed me a glass of ice water and told me it was important to hydrate a lot after a massage. I was too dopey to ask why even though I couldn't figure out how lying innert for an hour would deplete one of water. I did manage a groggy and grateful "Thank you." and felt the abrupt return to reality when she said, "Get out of the bed and back in your robe so you can get dressed." I had to move? How much for another hour part of my brain wondered. Could I come back tomorrow or would that be too much?
Getting dressed, I felt floaty, as if I wasn't exactly of this earth. I also felt rarified, in that I noticed everything. The air in the hallway was colder than that of the room where I'd been massaged and that bothered me. The bathroom where I changed was luxurious and the act of washing one's hands felt somehow transformed into both a pampering act and forced labor because I had to do it. I noticed the paint on the walls, the details of the carpet, the ambient noise of the hotel. It felt as if everything else and everyone else was moving at 78 rpms while I was blissfully trodding along at 33 and almost irritated at the demand I speed back up.
I got back to our room and my husband smiled at me, "How was your time at the spa?" he asked. "Man, the rich live in a much rarer air than the rest of us. I'm not sure I'd be tolerable if I could have that sort of luxury more often. It's like I can feel everything and so I'm hyper aware of even the mildest discomfort."
"Poor baby." he laughed. "Guess we should go cheer you up with some lobster for lunch."
"Yes. That would be perfect!"
Still not a spa person but I've got to say, having a 20th anniversary rocks!
Happy Anniversary My Love! You are Magnificent and I am a very blessed woman to be married to you!
I get twitchy during the occasional manicure. My legs start bouncing if after 35 minutes, the sytlist is still messing with my hair. I think a lot of the emulsifying, purifying, hydrating, vitamin enriching theraputetic gobbilty gook that is offered at resorts and the like, are over-priced over-hyped hokum that wastes what could have otherwise been in the hands of a professional chef or even a rank amature, good food. "Honey cucumber facial, blueberry seaweed body raps, rice and salt rubs, chocolate mud bath..." the lists of options for putting edibles anywhere and everywhere but your mouth are as endless as the inventory of a Whole Foods warehouse.
So when my husband signed me up for a Tri-fecta spa day while on our vacation, while moved by the lavish and sweet gesture, I secretly viewed the whole idea with suspicion. I told myself, just order a hair cut and a pedicure and manicure and get them all done at once.
The spa however, while hailed as one of "The Places" in Maine, did not offer hair cuts, only hair nourishment (whatever that was). So I settled on a facial for novelty's sake, a pedicure and a shoulder and neck rub. The woman wrote down my selections and said, "Fine, here is your robe and here is the changing room. Lock your clothes and things in this locker and come to the waiting room."
I have to get undressed? Really? Frankly, it took all my mental control not to bolt that instant. My brain raced for an alternative: I'd jog for the hour and a half before my husband came back. Yeah! Then I'd have the glow of having worked out and he'd mistake it for a facial.
There were three problems with this plan: 1) my inability to in all likelyhood jog for more than ten minutes; 2) the unmistakable smell of me if I did manage to run all that time and 3) the fact that my beloved had just shelled out 100 bucks to be romantic to his spouse of 20 years. Not wanting to be a sissy, I told myself, you've had nine kids, you're raising nine kids and pregnant with the tenth, you can handle this now stop being such a baby and get in the robe!
The lounge was full of adults of all ages. No one made eye contact and everyone was silent. All were painfully aware that each of us was only wearing a borrowed robe. Most were trying desperately to appear diffident or overly interested in the fire, the ocean view or the new age art on the wall, and everyone jumped a bit whenever one of the clinicians would come out dressed smartly in all black and call out someone's name. "Hi, I'm Julie. How are you today?" as if each of us was dying to make our next new bestest friend while clad only in a loaned terry cloth.
When it was my turn, the woman asked me, "Do you have any conditional issues?" "What does that mean?" I asked. She rattled off broken bones, recent injuries, diseases, pregnancy.
"I'm three months pregnant." I explained.
"Oh. Then you can't do the massage or the pedicure."
"What? Why not?" I asked. I'd had pedicures before; why was this suddenly verboten?
"Well, there are certain places on the foot we don't touch for fear of stimulating labor."
"I'm three months."
"Well, we like to be safe."
"I've had nine. If foot rubs could have induced labor, believe me women would be lining up the manicurists at the hospital rather than taking on those petocin drips."
She gave me a reproachful look. "Most hospitals don't appreciate the healing and helpful powers of touch."
Maybe so but I still thought she was way way way overdoing it. I mean, I'd had foot rubs. My husband specializes in them in the third trimester. Not once have we not needed that stupid IV drip to deliver one of our children. Realizing having an arguement with the woman who is supposed to pamper you would probably be a bad starting point and that this discussion would be breeching possible theological grounds for her if I mocked it too much, I asked, "Where is the spot that brings on labor?" She motioned her hand in a cupped position and stroked the bottom of my foot. I promise I didn't but man was I tempted to yell "OW OW OW OW OWWWW!" Instead, I said, "I'll remember that for my husband come January." with a smile.
"Now, since we can't do what you requested, how about a pregnancy massage? It's only 50 minutes and it will cost less than what your husband signed you up for."
Pregnancy massage? I thought okay....and immediately began hoping it didn't involve rubbing my belly. But only 50 minutes? Sign me up.
"Fine, first I need to get you the pregnancy pillows." This seemed a bit much. I mean, I'm only three months. She came back with a special hollowed spa black foam shapes. One was for my face so I could lay on my stomach; there was also a molded pillow for my chest and two curved ones that would lift the belly and support the hips and two for my knees. She placed them on the bed and put a sheet over it. "Get inbetween the sheets while I'm out."
Now again, I felt like bolting. This was just to wierd and too intimate but I quickly scuttled into the bed and positioned myself on the pillows. My neck was a bit extended. The first sign that spa-itis has set in, you begin expecting only to be comfortable. She came in and asked how I felt. I mentioned my neck, feeling a bit silly. She adjusted it. "Perfect." I said as I settled into the warm and now amazingly comfortable bed and began spa type thinking, "9 times and I've been doing this all wrong. You know Sher, being hardy is way overrated. Why couldn't you ever be just a bit more high maintenance? I mean man this is nice. I like these. I wonder if we could buy these. These are good, even it this is the last pregnancy, these are really really good."
Then she said, "Whoops, you're pregnant so we have to turn off the heat from the bed."
"But I like heat..." I wimpered as she flicked the switch. I wanted to say, no whine, "Turn the heat back on." but I knew she wouldn't for the same reason I wasn't getting a pedicure and I also was mildly annoyed and amused by my own petty demand. The second sign I was beginning to get into the spa type experience.
New age bird song music began being piped in the room and my brain hit the spa brakes.
"Don't you ever have a day when the spa music gets to be a bit dull and ever want to shake things up by putting on acid rock?" I asked. She said, straight faced, "No, then I just ask to do any pounding massages that get requested." I wondered what massage therapists do to unwind at the end of a given day but given that she hadn't laughed at anything I'd said up to now, I decided not to pry.
She started rubbing and I flinched but she didn't. She started asking me about my kids as a means of distracting me and it worked. After ten minutes of banter, I stopped talking because the rub was having it's intended effect. The lazy thought "After the beast has been tranquilized, she'll be tagged and released back into the wild for future monitoring." skirted across my brain as I drifted off.
Thirty minutes later, only at her request, I flipped over. It took a tremendous act of will.
When the whole thing finally ended, I felt as if I'd been asleep for hours. She handed me a glass of ice water and told me it was important to hydrate a lot after a massage. I was too dopey to ask why even though I couldn't figure out how lying innert for an hour would deplete one of water. I did manage a groggy and grateful "Thank you." and felt the abrupt return to reality when she said, "Get out of the bed and back in your robe so you can get dressed." I had to move? How much for another hour part of my brain wondered. Could I come back tomorrow or would that be too much?
Getting dressed, I felt floaty, as if I wasn't exactly of this earth. I also felt rarified, in that I noticed everything. The air in the hallway was colder than that of the room where I'd been massaged and that bothered me. The bathroom where I changed was luxurious and the act of washing one's hands felt somehow transformed into both a pampering act and forced labor because I had to do it. I noticed the paint on the walls, the details of the carpet, the ambient noise of the hotel. It felt as if everything else and everyone else was moving at 78 rpms while I was blissfully trodding along at 33 and almost irritated at the demand I speed back up.
I got back to our room and my husband smiled at me, "How was your time at the spa?" he asked. "Man, the rich live in a much rarer air than the rest of us. I'm not sure I'd be tolerable if I could have that sort of luxury more often. It's like I can feel everything and so I'm hyper aware of even the mildest discomfort."
"Poor baby." he laughed. "Guess we should go cheer you up with some lobster for lunch."
"Yes. That would be perfect!"
Still not a spa person but I've got to say, having a 20th anniversary rocks!
Happy Anniversary My Love! You are Magnificent and I am a very blessed woman to be married to you!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Survival of the Dullest
It’s summer. We’re going on vacation and once again, it’s near my birthday. Every year I suffer from the annual temptation to prove I’m just as big an idiot as I sometimes know that I am.
On my thirty ninth birthday, we went to Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. My husband and I took turns staring at the Top Thrill Dragster, a 420 foot high monster that essentially launched its cars and halpless passengers with air craft carrier type precision. We’d take the kids to the mini coaster and the log flume and come back to stare. We got food and drinks and took in a show but we came back just to look. At some moment, we became desensitized to the fear factor and began to mention the idea of each of us having a go. We’d laugh and demand to know who was going first. The danger point was when we were walking back from the haunted house. My husband noticed, “The line’s not that long.” The ride had suffered a malfunction and so people had cleared out. I’d just worked up the nerve to get in line when we discovered, the car with people in it was stuck suspended 374 feet up and just now getting freed to come back down. Cowardice or sanity, take your pick, it prevailed and I did not proclaim my foolishness or temporarily gain back my youth by defying death as a result.
At 40, my annual danger lust sought again to be sated when the local sporting goods store put up a climbing wall. I so wanted to climb it but I was six months pregnant and even extreme sporting good stores it seems, have limits. My husband breathed a sigh of relief. I told him I’d be back next year but the place closed that part of the store down for some reason. At 42, I got roller blades. Nuff said.
My desire for something beyond the ordinary occasionally allows me to sometimes impress my children, like when I dive off the high dive or do stand up. Weirding them out I think is an equally desired reaction. It has also resulted in the occasional trip to the emergency room, like after I tried to do the monkey bars at 32. However my carefree spirit conflicts with my equally natural maternal instincts which scream No! when my sons or daughters propose engaging in reckless activity like wanting to take the metro to downtown DC to catch a movie, biking to the 7-11 for ice cream or proposing a roadtrip with friends to California after graduation.
The “AHhhhhhhhh are you NUTS?” gene activates and their somewhat show-offy daredevil mom becomes the safety first and always and only mommy. Regardless of my own predilections to court danger, I’m not about to oblige my children’s wilder sides. Why not? Because I'm the Mommy that's why. Because I like their insides inside of them and their outsides just the way they are. They can risk their necks once they’re middle aged like me and they’re someone else’s worry.
This year, we’re going to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee for a family reunion. Our family has vacationed here before. When last we visited, there was a pending attraction, the Zorb. For the uninitiated, Zorb is the latest import from New Zealand designed to kill off much of the existing population between the ages of 11 and well, I’m turning 44. It has the added bonus of being legal. The Zorbonaut or victim (take your pick), is strapped into a plastic clear globe inside of another plastic clear globe. For variety’s sake, you can opt for a wet or dry Zorb run. The wet one has the added bonus of water in the outside globe and being shot down one of two water flume tracks so the rolling and drowning occur within a controlled setting. In the dry scenario, you add the bonus of random gravity as you are thrown down a cliff/hill and left to bounce until you stop or die whichever comes first. I can readily attest to the absolute idiocy of paying to potentially die, drown, become a broken pile of bones or paralyzed in the name of fun. I must also concede the siren like call of this thrill ride is not without appeal.
In the meantime, my shrewd husband uses my dual nature to his advantage and my long term viability. In planning for this trip, having seen my eyes gleam as I mentioned, “Zorb is up and running,” and in an effort to make sure he isn’t suddenly a widower with nine children, he’s shown the promos from the web for Zorb to my oldest four. They all now desperately want to go. That sly dog just guaranteed I’ll be pool side reading books the whole week even if my life insurance is paid up. It just goes to show, you marry what you need and the species survives.
On my thirty ninth birthday, we went to Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. My husband and I took turns staring at the Top Thrill Dragster, a 420 foot high monster that essentially launched its cars and halpless passengers with air craft carrier type precision. We’d take the kids to the mini coaster and the log flume and come back to stare. We got food and drinks and took in a show but we came back just to look. At some moment, we became desensitized to the fear factor and began to mention the idea of each of us having a go. We’d laugh and demand to know who was going first. The danger point was when we were walking back from the haunted house. My husband noticed, “The line’s not that long.” The ride had suffered a malfunction and so people had cleared out. I’d just worked up the nerve to get in line when we discovered, the car with people in it was stuck suspended 374 feet up and just now getting freed to come back down. Cowardice or sanity, take your pick, it prevailed and I did not proclaim my foolishness or temporarily gain back my youth by defying death as a result.
At 40, my annual danger lust sought again to be sated when the local sporting goods store put up a climbing wall. I so wanted to climb it but I was six months pregnant and even extreme sporting good stores it seems, have limits. My husband breathed a sigh of relief. I told him I’d be back next year but the place closed that part of the store down for some reason. At 42, I got roller blades. Nuff said.
My desire for something beyond the ordinary occasionally allows me to sometimes impress my children, like when I dive off the high dive or do stand up. Weirding them out I think is an equally desired reaction. It has also resulted in the occasional trip to the emergency room, like after I tried to do the monkey bars at 32. However my carefree spirit conflicts with my equally natural maternal instincts which scream No! when my sons or daughters propose engaging in reckless activity like wanting to take the metro to downtown DC to catch a movie, biking to the 7-11 for ice cream or proposing a roadtrip with friends to California after graduation.
The “AHhhhhhhhh are you NUTS?” gene activates and their somewhat show-offy daredevil mom becomes the safety first and always and only mommy. Regardless of my own predilections to court danger, I’m not about to oblige my children’s wilder sides. Why not? Because I'm the Mommy that's why. Because I like their insides inside of them and their outsides just the way they are. They can risk their necks once they’re middle aged like me and they’re someone else’s worry.
This year, we’re going to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee for a family reunion. Our family has vacationed here before. When last we visited, there was a pending attraction, the Zorb. For the uninitiated, Zorb is the latest import from New Zealand designed to kill off much of the existing population between the ages of 11 and well, I’m turning 44. It has the added bonus of being legal. The Zorbonaut or victim (take your pick), is strapped into a plastic clear globe inside of another plastic clear globe. For variety’s sake, you can opt for a wet or dry Zorb run. The wet one has the added bonus of water in the outside globe and being shot down one of two water flume tracks so the rolling and drowning occur within a controlled setting. In the dry scenario, you add the bonus of random gravity as you are thrown down a cliff/hill and left to bounce until you stop or die whichever comes first. I can readily attest to the absolute idiocy of paying to potentially die, drown, become a broken pile of bones or paralyzed in the name of fun. I must also concede the siren like call of this thrill ride is not without appeal.
In the meantime, my shrewd husband uses my dual nature to his advantage and my long term viability. In planning for this trip, having seen my eyes gleam as I mentioned, “Zorb is up and running,” and in an effort to make sure he isn’t suddenly a widower with nine children, he’s shown the promos from the web for Zorb to my oldest four. They all now desperately want to go. That sly dog just guaranteed I’ll be pool side reading books the whole week even if my life insurance is paid up. It just goes to show, you marry what you need and the species survives.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Top Ten Signs You've Been Beached
We went to the beach yesterday. It's a required ritual of Summer. There are no bad days at the beach. However, there is a tipping point, where the sun and the sand and the surf work together in as symphonic siren like formula to induce temporary sanity or insanity depending upon your point of view.
Top Ten Signs You've Been Beached
10) Listening to anything other than Jimmy Buffet makes you cranky.
9) Haven't removed swim suit in three days.
8) Beer and pie make good breakfast.
7) Consider moving here year round, begin collecting phone numbers of local realtors.
6) Scruffy looking unshaven smiling man in a t-shirt, ripped cut offs and flip flops is your husband. He looks good.
5) Bouts of serious sleeping are followed by serious bouts of eating and swimming, followed by more sleeping.
4) Newspaper funnies seem like heavy reading material.
3) People at the local Jack's Pack-it where there seems to be an unlimited supply of ice cream and hot dogs for sale, now are on a first name basis.
2) No longer notice sand/grit in food or clothing.
1) Don't know what day it is. Don't care.
Top Ten Signs You've Been Beached
10) Listening to anything other than Jimmy Buffet makes you cranky.
9) Haven't removed swim suit in three days.
8) Beer and pie make good breakfast.
7) Consider moving here year round, begin collecting phone numbers of local realtors.
6) Scruffy looking unshaven smiling man in a t-shirt, ripped cut offs and flip flops is your husband. He looks good.
5) Bouts of serious sleeping are followed by serious bouts of eating and swimming, followed by more sleeping.
4) Newspaper funnies seem like heavy reading material.
3) People at the local Jack's Pack-it where there seems to be an unlimited supply of ice cream and hot dogs for sale, now are on a first name basis.
2) No longer notice sand/grit in food or clothing.
1) Don't know what day it is. Don't care.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Opening Lines
I've got 3 weeks to get ready for Erma Bombeck...here's a bit of my routine, still a work in progress...
"Hello, my name is Sherry Antonetti and I'm a mother of eight children. Now when you are a mom of that many, sometimes it's hard to transition to the adult world. So to the man at the table last night, whose wine I substituted with apple juice...and put in a sippy cup, and whose meat I cut, I'm very very sorry."
"I hadn't planned to come to this workshop, but then I had this dream. Anyone here have toddlers? Then you know who Bob the Builder is, yellow hat, blue overalls, talks with machines that are all primary colors and have googly eyes. He has a partner Wendy with a blonde pony tail and a cell phone, and they chant "Can We do it?" "Yes We Can!"
Anyway, when you have a dream about Bob and Wendy...
having a post coital conversation...
He's in a robe. She's in a button down shirt...
There's reminants of dinner on the table...maybe a fire softly flickering...
When you have THAT sort of a dream...
It's time for an intervention.
I told my husband about this dream.
Now we have a pretty good marriage, seventeen and a half years.
I told my husband about this dream, and he booked me on the next flight to Dayton.
It's been great. I've really enjoyed myself...I have all this time.
Seriously...what do you people do all day? I've brushed my teeth six times already...
just because I can.
I'm thinking of going to the gift store and buying some floss.
Yes...I'm living the dream...
Now raising eight kids is scary. Every time we have a new kid, it's scary. But you know the rule, if you want to stop being scared about something, do something even scarier...so I thought I'd try stand up comedy.
It's pretty cool.
There aren't many things at the age of 41 that one can do that are "cool" that don't involve the distinct possibility of major medical insurance being necessary...unless you count the possibility of psychological counseling for subconcious abuse of animated characters...
Parenting eight...
It's kind of like juggling...as long as you don't drop any of the balls that are in the air, you're okay. My problem? I never really learned to juggle past three...
I mean...when we had one or two, we had as my husband called it, man to man coverage.
Two kids...two adults...easy.
Three and four and five...we switched to zone defense and we bought a mini-van.
Six, Seven and Eight I haven't been on time for something since 2005. We're trying to run out the biological clock.
But it's fun...sometimes we'll go to the airport and just walk through the terminal en masse just to watch the terror on the business travelers faces....I know what you're thinking....that was you?
We get stopped and asked questions often.
people ask questions like "Don't you know how this works?"
and I say "Yeah, you see Wendy and Bob..."
or
"You don't work do you?" I'm sorry, but if the word Mom or Dad is associated with you in anyway as a moniker, you work...it's just the compensation packages that vary.
or
"I guess that's okay if you can afford them all.."
I got news for people. No one says, "According to my economic indicators, we can afford eight children so let's get to it!"
But the biggest question of all I get....and I conceed the most common, is "Why?"
Now I could get spiritual on all you people and say they're gifts from God which they are, or religious and mention that I am a practicing Catholic, which I am, but the real reason is I'm still working through some issues from middle school when I got a report card and the teacher wrote, "Sherry is Very Talented but a perpetual underachiever...."
I'm not sure but I think I showed her.
for humor that isn't always trying to overcompensate, try www.humor-blogs.com!
"Hello, my name is Sherry Antonetti and I'm a mother of eight children. Now when you are a mom of that many, sometimes it's hard to transition to the adult world. So to the man at the table last night, whose wine I substituted with apple juice...and put in a sippy cup, and whose meat I cut, I'm very very sorry."
"I hadn't planned to come to this workshop, but then I had this dream. Anyone here have toddlers? Then you know who Bob the Builder is, yellow hat, blue overalls, talks with machines that are all primary colors and have googly eyes. He has a partner Wendy with a blonde pony tail and a cell phone, and they chant "Can We do it?" "Yes We Can!"
Anyway, when you have a dream about Bob and Wendy...
having a post coital conversation...
He's in a robe. She's in a button down shirt...
There's reminants of dinner on the table...maybe a fire softly flickering...
When you have THAT sort of a dream...
It's time for an intervention.
I told my husband about this dream.
Now we have a pretty good marriage, seventeen and a half years.
I told my husband about this dream, and he booked me on the next flight to Dayton.
It's been great. I've really enjoyed myself...I have all this time.
Seriously...what do you people do all day? I've brushed my teeth six times already...
just because I can.
I'm thinking of going to the gift store and buying some floss.
Yes...I'm living the dream...
Now raising eight kids is scary. Every time we have a new kid, it's scary. But you know the rule, if you want to stop being scared about something, do something even scarier...so I thought I'd try stand up comedy.
It's pretty cool.
There aren't many things at the age of 41 that one can do that are "cool" that don't involve the distinct possibility of major medical insurance being necessary...unless you count the possibility of psychological counseling for subconcious abuse of animated characters...
Parenting eight...
It's kind of like juggling...as long as you don't drop any of the balls that are in the air, you're okay. My problem? I never really learned to juggle past three...
I mean...when we had one or two, we had as my husband called it, man to man coverage.
Two kids...two adults...easy.
Three and four and five...we switched to zone defense and we bought a mini-van.
Six, Seven and Eight I haven't been on time for something since 2005. We're trying to run out the biological clock.
But it's fun...sometimes we'll go to the airport and just walk through the terminal en masse just to watch the terror on the business travelers faces....I know what you're thinking....that was you?
We get stopped and asked questions often.
people ask questions like "Don't you know how this works?"
and I say "Yeah, you see Wendy and Bob..."
or
"You don't work do you?" I'm sorry, but if the word Mom or Dad is associated with you in anyway as a moniker, you work...it's just the compensation packages that vary.
or
"I guess that's okay if you can afford them all.."
I got news for people. No one says, "According to my economic indicators, we can afford eight children so let's get to it!"
But the biggest question of all I get....and I conceed the most common, is "Why?"
Now I could get spiritual on all you people and say they're gifts from God which they are, or religious and mention that I am a practicing Catholic, which I am, but the real reason is I'm still working through some issues from middle school when I got a report card and the teacher wrote, "Sherry is Very Talented but a perpetual underachiever...."
I'm not sure but I think I showed her.
for humor that isn't always trying to overcompensate, try www.humor-blogs.com!
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