I've always loved cheese. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to most varieties of it, particularly those that are soft (I have a severe mold allergy in addition to a host of other allergic ailments). For that reason, for most of my life, I tended to stick to the harder, more mild cheeses, such as cheddar and jack. Then last year, while complaining about how I'm not supposed to eat feta but it's in basically every delicious-looking salad I've seen, my allergy nurse asked why I didn't just use goat cheese as a substitute. I'd always assumed I couldn't eat it, but apparently a lot of people who can't eat soft cheese can get away with mild goat cheese. After years of passing it by without a second thought, I realized exactly what I had been missing.
Goat cheese, to me, is like that boy you knew your entire life and always thought of as the kinda-cute-husky-kid in elementary school, who then blew your freakin’ mind by showing up on the first day of junior high looking like Adonis.
Which is, of course, how you proceeded to refer to him as you professed the pains of your unrequired love to all of your twittering girlfriends. You never know when Gretchen Wieners and that hair are lurking around the corner, just waiting to spread the news of your totally-out-of-league crush.
Did I mention I was really, really awkward in junior high school? Another story for another day (or forty). Lucky for me, most of my friends had the same taste in guys that I did. At fourteen, we were prototypical pubescent balls of hormones-run-amok. Although we all had secret little code names for our crushes, as I think most teenage girls do, my friend TBB#1 and I took the process of creating them to a completely other (borderline disturbing) level.
Now, we’re not talking about some cutesy little “omg! Teehee! I heart APM!” and “Caitlin + Crush = Lurve” doodled all over our notebooks. We are talking about a complicated system involving numerous names for the same person, deliberate red herrings created to throw inquiring minds off the scent, entire notebooks devoted to keeping track of the objects of our affection (complete with AOL profile details and photos of them taken over each other’s awkwardly-posed shoulders) and, of course, a ridiculously intricate method for developing descriptive, yet non-specific, codenames for our crushes.
There was The Joker, termed as such for his inordinately massive smile. There were The Butlers, whose parents had taken it upon themselves to spell “J” names with "G”s, forever relegating them, in our Fresh Prince-influenced minds, to the status of house servants. The Mustang, The Rainbow, Dodger, Therapist, FM Radio – all created to keep the identities of our crushes clandestine and, in part, to drive our male friends wild as they tried to figure out exactly to whom we were referring at any given time.
Of these dozens of carefully coined nom de plumes, the one of which we were most proud was The Sheep. Seems innocuous enough, right? What you don’t know is that to reach this pinnacle of our awkwardness, we first had to create three other coded names, put them together in a twisted equation that would have made even the algebra teacher that flunked me proud, then take the resulting letters (B.A.), pronounce them phonetically and, finally, use that sound to create our masterpiece. He had numerous other aliases, including, but not limited to, The Artist, The Royal Sheep and His Highness.
Despite all of the desperate measures we took to hide it, The Sheep et al. had to have been aware of our madness. My propensity for turning bright red in the presence of boys notwithstanding, the fact that TBB#1 and I appeared in their lives at "random" intervals almost every day was probably a bit alarming. So for that, I want to issue a public apology and thanks. Men of my high school from years 1999-2002, I am sorry that I was so awkward. Thank you for putting up with the shenanigans of two silly teenage girls and, more importantly, thanks for not calling us stalkers to our faces (or the police). Facebook tells me that you are all leading healthy, normal lives with beautiful people by your sides. I promise not to take unknowing photos of you for my scrapbook at the reunion next year.
And to my dear high school friend BowlCut, I'm really sorry that TBB#1 and I mistakenly took your lost fleece because we thought it belonged to The Sheep. May it provide you some comfort to know that though you probably froze that spring, it had a place of prominence in the center of our shrine.
For my parting words today: TBB#1, if you are reading this, I believe we both missed out on a very lucrative career in the CIA.
(Disclaimer: Though based on recollections of my very awkward high school years, this piece was written in jest. I am not, nor have I ever been, anything close to a stalker, and I don't find the subject of actual stalkers funny in any way. It goes without saying that if you or someone you know feels threatened, you should alert the authorities.)
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
One Day
I've spent a full year trying to figure out how to frame this post; it has been in my drafts folder since September 10th, 2011. This subject has eluded me not because I don't care, but because I can never get the words right, can never strike that balance between overly sentimental and pessimistically preachy. Obviously, the subject of 9/11 is touchy to begin with -- a political hotbed of accusation, a stark and painful reminder of the day that changed everything. Eleven years, it seems, have flown by in an instant. For the past week, I have been filled with an odd sensation, just thinking about how, eleven years ago today, I had no idea that in a few short hours -- 144, 96, now just under one -- my life, and the lives of every other citizen of this world we call home, would be irrevocably altered.
The loss that we endured on that crisp September morning eleven years ago... the loss of lives, of our sense of security, of our perceived national innocence.... was, and remains to this day, impossible to capture in words. The sacrifice of countless innocent lives since, of men and women, mothers and fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, friends – it seems senseless in a way that I can't describe. The world as we knew it spun off course that day, and sometimes it feels like it hasn’t stopped since. The hatred and vitriol spewed across our televisions, facebook and other social media is increasingly alarming, particularly during election years such as this. I fear that as time goes on, the tragedy that occurred just eleven short years ago, a series of moments that most of us can recall in the minutest of detail, will be swept up in the tide of partisan politics and other modern issues, joining the list of anniversaries that prompt us to ask, “where were you?” and then, without even stopping to hear the answer, go on with our individual lives.
It feels easy to mash them all together, doesn't it? To wrap the whole thing in a neat bundle in our brains, dubbed "the tragedies of our nation," and drag it out of our mental dustbins to be reflected on once a year?
That cannot happen. We cannot LET that happen. We owe it to the people who woke up that morning excited for a trip across the country. The people who, just going about their regular day, didn’t get to see tomorrow. The incredibly brave, strong, heroic people who stood up on that day, and have continued to stand for us every day since, to say, “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever again.”
In 2009, Congress passed a bipartisan act declaring September 11th the National Day of Service and Remembrance. It isn't about political affiliation; it's about personal appreciation and respect for our fellow countrymen and human beings, for those here with us and those who are gone. With that in mind, I encourage you to step up today, if even in the smallest of ways, to show that you care. Donate blood, smile at a stranger, register to vote – whatever we can do to remember, to reflect on that day and to honor those people: do it.
We owe it to them.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Five Rings
Every family has its quirks and traditions; I believe this is true because it's the only thing that reminds us that we are all one related unit and as such, it keeps us from clawing out each others' eyes at family parties.
My family, on both sides, has a vast array of traditions. My mother's side uses the same christening gown for every child, and the only one who hasn't been baptized in it is my brother Brian (and that's only because his twin brother was wearing it at the time). We have a habit of doing the Electric Slide in inappropriate places, stepping up as the fourth in the Siege of Ennis and, since we all suffer the famed "Irish Whisper," no family party is complete without a game that I like to call, "Who Can Yell The Loudest?" And there isn't a soul on the planet who can hold a candle to my Nana's mashed potatoes or her Irish bread, and no one on Earth will ever be able to convince me otherwise.
On my father's side, we have our common idiosyncrasies, too. My stepmom once commented on our reliance on ice cream, and she was right; in my experience, there is no situation, good or bad, that cannot be enhanced by a large, cold bowl of ice cream. Though we all tend to lean the same way, we are very politically informed and can (usually) see the merit in all sides of an argument. I've already waxed poetic on our love of college football and the fact that I can blame my running problems on genetics is well-documented. Our love of all things sport runs deep through our veins.
Today's topic is one of the few that I can say mean a lot to both sides of my family: The Olympic Games.
Winter, Summer -- it doesn't matter; much like parents and their children, I love them both equally, for so many different reasons.
I grew up in the frigid northeast, so the Winter games are particularly dear to me. My mom enrolled me in figure skating at the age of seven so I could be just like my idol, Kristi Yamaguchi. Once I hit puberty and my center of gravity changed, I spent a portion of my teen years convinced I would make a grand transition to speed skating, and I still lament the fact that my mom refused to let me play hockey. I'm so amazed by what people can accomplish on ice, snow and other various elements, particularly because I now refuse to run outside in the winter because hello, I could slip! It's also a bonus that when his hair is long, my youngest brother is a dead-ringer for Shaun White.
Yes, I love the Winter Olympics.
Ah, but then we have summer. I always feel like the Summer Games have an entirely different feel than the Winter, and it has nothing to do with the temperature outside. The intensity of the athletes remains the same, of course, because one does not reach the pinnacle of sport without a hefty dose of dedication, determination and drive. For whatever reason, though, a lot of the summer athletes seem more laid-back once their events are over, as well as a bit more open with the media (Hope Solo and Ryan Lochte and their "scandalous" confessions, anyone?). The world at large seems to prefer the Summer Olympics, which makes perfect sense considering that outside of a very small percentage, the events are more readily accessible to most countries, given the moderate climates needed to train.
Of course, the glamor of physically seeing so much skin and muscle in the Summer Games might have something to do with it, too; no one can argue that speedos and spandex are a lot sexier than mittens and mufflers.
There is often a debate between Olympics fans as to which sport is the best to watch. I love them all, from diving to track and field to table tennis, but I come out on one of the popular sides as far as my favorite: swimming, hands down. This has been true for my entire life, to the point that I once let my mother talk me into swimming as an alternate on our local Y swim team for a year (I never actually raced, thank goodness!). My sister and Andrew prefer gymnastics, both men's and women's, and I have to admit that I love watching people contort their bodies into ridiculous positions on insane contraptions. I'm also really looking forward to the running events this year, for obvious reasons, and am anxious to see which random sport catches my attention this time around (it happens every. single. time. For example, with Beijing, I found myself at a bar cheering on the steeplechasers like a maniac).
My family shares this enthusiasm for the world's largest display of athleticism and sportsmanship. Some of my fondest memories are of all of us gathered around an old tv on an ugly shag rug, cheering on Team USA and rolling in laughter as my sister perfectly mimicked Kerry Strug or my brother repeatedly declared his love for Shawn Johnson at Nastia Liuken's expense. These are the memories that I most looking forward to making each time the Games come around. I'm also looking forward to the long chats and arguments amongst my coworkers, aka my "work family", whom I am very fortunate to say comprise a true global melting pot. Over lunch breaks and coffee and happy hours, everyone will cheer on everyone else's home country, and together we will cheer on Team USA.
In this day and internet age, where we are inundated 24/7 with scandal and heartbreak and everything in between, a bunch of immensely talented individuals will remind us that while their feats of athleticism are nothing short of amazing, it's the texts, tweets, posts, articles, interviews and water cooler talk already taking place around the globe that will make the next few weeks truly special. That no matter what colors we wear, whether on the Olympic podium or sitting at home on the couch, we all have something in common: our shared humanity and a desire to achieve greatness.
That's what the Olympics are all about, Charlie Brown.
My family, on both sides, has a vast array of traditions. My mother's side uses the same christening gown for every child, and the only one who hasn't been baptized in it is my brother Brian (and that's only because his twin brother was wearing it at the time). We have a habit of doing the Electric Slide in inappropriate places, stepping up as the fourth in the Siege of Ennis and, since we all suffer the famed "Irish Whisper," no family party is complete without a game that I like to call, "Who Can Yell The Loudest?" And there isn't a soul on the planet who can hold a candle to my Nana's mashed potatoes or her Irish bread, and no one on Earth will ever be able to convince me otherwise.
On my father's side, we have our common idiosyncrasies, too. My stepmom once commented on our reliance on ice cream, and she was right; in my experience, there is no situation, good or bad, that cannot be enhanced by a large, cold bowl of ice cream. Though we all tend to lean the same way, we are very politically informed and can (usually) see the merit in all sides of an argument. I've already waxed poetic on our love of college football and the fact that I can blame my running problems on genetics is well-documented. Our love of all things sport runs deep through our veins.
Today's topic is one of the few that I can say mean a lot to both sides of my family: The Olympic Games.
 |
| My Paint skills aren't the best, but just go with it. |
Winter, Summer -- it doesn't matter; much like parents and their children, I love them both equally, for so many different reasons.
I grew up in the frigid northeast, so the Winter games are particularly dear to me. My mom enrolled me in figure skating at the age of seven so I could be just like my idol, Kristi Yamaguchi. Once I hit puberty and my center of gravity changed, I spent a portion of my teen years convinced I would make a grand transition to speed skating, and I still lament the fact that my mom refused to let me play hockey. I'm so amazed by what people can accomplish on ice, snow and other various elements, particularly because I now refuse to run outside in the winter because hello, I could slip! It's also a bonus that when his hair is long, my youngest brother is a dead-ringer for Shaun White.
 | |
| [Source] |
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| Freaky, right? |
Yes, I love the Winter Olympics.
Ah, but then we have summer. I always feel like the Summer Games have an entirely different feel than the Winter, and it has nothing to do with the temperature outside. The intensity of the athletes remains the same, of course, because one does not reach the pinnacle of sport without a hefty dose of dedication, determination and drive. For whatever reason, though, a lot of the summer athletes seem more laid-back once their events are over, as well as a bit more open with the media (Hope Solo and Ryan Lochte and their "scandalous" confessions, anyone?). The world at large seems to prefer the Summer Olympics, which makes perfect sense considering that outside of a very small percentage, the events are more readily accessible to most countries, given the moderate climates needed to train.
Of course, the glamor of physically seeing so much skin and muscle in the Summer Games might have something to do with it, too; no one can argue that speedos and spandex are a lot sexier than mittens and mufflers.
There is often a debate between Olympics fans as to which sport is the best to watch. I love them all, from diving to track and field to table tennis, but I come out on one of the popular sides as far as my favorite: swimming, hands down. This has been true for my entire life, to the point that I once let my mother talk me into swimming as an alternate on our local Y swim team for a year (I never actually raced, thank goodness!). My sister and Andrew prefer gymnastics, both men's and women's, and I have to admit that I love watching people contort their bodies into ridiculous positions on insane contraptions. I'm also really looking forward to the running events this year, for obvious reasons, and am anxious to see which random sport catches my attention this time around (it happens every. single. time. For example, with Beijing, I found myself at a bar cheering on the steeplechasers like a maniac).
 |
| [Source] |
My family shares this enthusiasm for the world's largest display of athleticism and sportsmanship. Some of my fondest memories are of all of us gathered around an old tv on an ugly shag rug, cheering on Team USA and rolling in laughter as my sister perfectly mimicked Kerry Strug or my brother repeatedly declared his love for Shawn Johnson at Nastia Liuken's expense. These are the memories that I most looking forward to making each time the Games come around. I'm also looking forward to the long chats and arguments amongst my coworkers, aka my "work family", whom I am very fortunate to say comprise a true global melting pot. Over lunch breaks and coffee and happy hours, everyone will cheer on everyone else's home country, and together we will cheer on Team USA.
In this day and internet age, where we are inundated 24/7 with scandal and heartbreak and everything in between, a bunch of immensely talented individuals will remind us that while their feats of athleticism are nothing short of amazing, it's the texts, tweets, posts, articles, interviews and water cooler talk already taking place around the globe that will make the next few weeks truly special. That no matter what colors we wear, whether on the Olympic podium or sitting at home on the couch, we all have something in common: our shared humanity and a desire to achieve greatness.
That's what the Olympics are all about, Charlie Brown.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Thankfully Back
Guess who's back... back again... (you're welcome for the earworm). I took an impromptu hiatus for a few weeks because I was feeling so stale you could have used me for stuffing, but now I'm rejuvenated and writing again. I hope that those of you here in the US had a fantastic Thanksgiving! Mine was... eventful, beginning with a 5k for which I was completely underfueled, progressing to a gig as Chief Spectator and Keg Girl for A's family's annual touch football game and culminating in a mad dash to the bathroom, mid-feast, due to a wily stomach virus courtesy of the two rugrats we babysit for.
A happy Thanksgiving, indeed.
Though it was (thankfully) only a 24-hour bug and I was recovered enough to eat my weight in beef wellington and 16-year old wine at the MIL's 50th birthday party on Saturday night, I'm still in a lot of physical pain as a result of my bout with The Demon. Perhaps it has something to do with the 22.5 hours I spent in bed between 3pm Thursday and 3pm Friday (half hour in the car to get home, 2 hours on the couch the next day), but for the past four days, my back has been absolutely throbbing.
I wish that I could blame it entirely upon the whole bed rest thing, but in reality, that's only half the story. The kink in my neck? Sure, that was from only moving my upper body enough to hit rewind on the DVD remote over and over again (I'll get back to that) while spooning wonton soup broth into my mouth. And it was easily solved with some ibuprofen, a couple hot showers and some active stretching on Sunday. The lower back/hip/glute pain, on the other hand, is a far more sinister presence with a few harder-to-fix roots.
It all started when I was 18 andkind of a bitch. On a frigid New England Sunday, not long after New Years 2003, I was sitting in my living room with my dad and stepmom drinking hot chocolate. I was a senior in high school, coasting into that last semester when the college applications are out, Early Decision results are in, and you're hedging your bets that you're going to get into the school of your dreams even though you got deferred as a legacy (damn you, BC). Per usual at the time, what started out as a nice little chat about the holidays and my life rapidly devolved into a screaming match of epic proportions. As my stepmother and I took turns screeching about my plan to finance my private secondary education through loans and black market sale of vital organs, my poor father just sat there with a vaguely dazed look on his face and the occasional, "HEY!" thrown in for good measure.
After hurling my final insult (something revolutionary and poetic, probably along the lines of, "I HATE YOU, WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE!?"), I proceeded with my next demonstration of maturity: grabbing my coat and storming out of the house in a fit of hormonal rage. Clad in my new couture Payless ankle boots and black leather jacket I'd saved months to purchase, stomping through the door without a thought to the artic temperature and fact that it had raining, it was an exit that would have made James Dean proud.
I think you know where this is going.
Those first 30 seconds were some of the longest of my life. As I lay prostrate on the front steps of my father's house, the icy slabs of cement nestled cozily against the soft tissues of my lumbar spine and neck, I had one of those moments that people experience right after they receive word of some life-altering event. I'd like to say it was some kind of divine enlightenment, complete with insight into the future and a desire to mend my ways, but really, it was something a little less spiritual than that. In fact, I remember the message with distinct clarity: "I just paralyzed myself over a fucking harpie bitchsnit."
In those initial moments after I slipped, I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't even cry; these huge sobs were wracking my upper body but there was no sound, not even the faintest squeak. My brain said, "move!" and nothing did. After what seemed like forever (probably a second), my fingers and toes complied and I thanked the good Lord that at least I wasn't paralyzed. I was still terrified, though, and didn't move a micrometer for fear that I would somehow do more damage than I'd already done. My brother, having seen my failed double axel through the foggy glass window of his bedroom, flew outside with my dad on his heels. Together, they managed to calm me down enough for me to slowly (oh, so slowly) push myself up. It was better than the very best Christmas present, leather jacket and acceptance letter combined. I could breathe; I could sit; I could move!
Obviously, I went on an intimate emergency date with my doctor as soon as possible following the slip. I know I can be somewhat overly dramatic, but in 100% honesty, I'm very lucky that I escaped my little teenage tirade not only with the occasional flare of lower back pain, but with my life. The official diagnosis was a bruised spinal column at both the base of my neck (from hitting the top step) and the base of my back (bottom step). Ever the bedside specialist, my doctor bluntly told me that if I had fallen a hair to the left or right, I would have probably snapped either my spine or, even more horrifying, my neck.
Thankfully, it didn't come to that. With the help of a good chiropractor, some strong muscle relaxants and a sweet little device composed of electrodes and wires that made me look like ET post-discovery, I came away from it without a ton of lasting damage. Every so often, usually once or twice a year, I'll inadvertently do something that causes little spiderwebs of pain to radiate out of my lower back, around through my hips and crawling down my legs. It's hard to treat with regular methods, because most of the time I don't know where exactly the pain is coming from. Ibuprofen, heating pads, hot showers and rest are typically the only relief I get during these little spells.
As annoying as it is, I know that I am very lucky. I am thankful both because mine was a minor injury with negligible repercussions and because I don't live in chronic pain, where so many others do due to one reason or another. It definitely gives me a greater appreciation for what those people go through each day, and in a weird way it's a good reminder that while I act like a paper cut is the end of the world, there are people out there who deal with constant aches and pains on a daily basis. It's an interesting perspective that I think a lot of us don't stop to think about very often. Not to say that we don't hurt sometimes -- just that it's always nice to keep in mind that others do, too.
************************
Well, true to form, I started writing this post on Monday. It is now Thursday, and I'm happy to say that thanks to my friends IcyHot, Advil and Memory Foam, my back feels as good as it ever has. I even managed to go for another run on Tuesday, and it was honestly the best run I've had in months. Part of it, I think, was telling myself during the hard parts that it didn't hurt as badly as my back had, and also being thankful that I have the ability to run at all.
So yeah, that's my Thanksgiving post. A week late. Oh well. I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving and are now happily ensconced amongst the throngs of overly-caffeinated holiday shoppers out there clogging all centers of commerce. Deck them halls! ;)
Also, can we just talk about the Chuck/Blair scene from the Gossip Girl Season 4 finale for a second? I know I'm like an entire half season behind and all, but for the love of Bendel's, I couldn't decide if I should cry, scream or swoon. As much as I hate the stupid combo name, Team Bluck has my heart forever and always.
The end.
A happy Thanksgiving, indeed.
Though it was (thankfully) only a 24-hour bug and I was recovered enough to eat my weight in beef wellington and 16-year old wine at the MIL's 50th birthday party on Saturday night, I'm still in a lot of physical pain as a result of my bout with The Demon. Perhaps it has something to do with the 22.5 hours I spent in bed between 3pm Thursday and 3pm Friday (half hour in the car to get home, 2 hours on the couch the next day), but for the past four days, my back has been absolutely throbbing.
I wish that I could blame it entirely upon the whole bed rest thing, but in reality, that's only half the story. The kink in my neck? Sure, that was from only moving my upper body enough to hit rewind on the DVD remote over and over again (I'll get back to that) while spooning wonton soup broth into my mouth. And it was easily solved with some ibuprofen, a couple hot showers and some active stretching on Sunday. The lower back/hip/glute pain, on the other hand, is a far more sinister presence with a few harder-to-fix roots.
It all started when I was 18 and
After hurling my final insult (something revolutionary and poetic, probably along the lines of, "I HATE YOU, WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE!?"), I proceeded with my next demonstration of maturity: grabbing my coat and storming out of the house in a fit of hormonal rage. Clad in my new couture Payless ankle boots and black leather jacket I'd saved months to purchase, stomping through the door without a thought to the artic temperature and fact that it had raining, it was an exit that would have made James Dean proud.
I think you know where this is going.
Those first 30 seconds were some of the longest of my life. As I lay prostrate on the front steps of my father's house, the icy slabs of cement nestled cozily against the soft tissues of my lumbar spine and neck, I had one of those moments that people experience right after they receive word of some life-altering event. I'd like to say it was some kind of divine enlightenment, complete with insight into the future and a desire to mend my ways, but really, it was something a little less spiritual than that. In fact, I remember the message with distinct clarity: "I just paralyzed myself over a fucking harpie bitchsnit."
In those initial moments after I slipped, I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't even cry; these huge sobs were wracking my upper body but there was no sound, not even the faintest squeak. My brain said, "move!" and nothing did. After what seemed like forever (probably a second), my fingers and toes complied and I thanked the good Lord that at least I wasn't paralyzed. I was still terrified, though, and didn't move a micrometer for fear that I would somehow do more damage than I'd already done. My brother, having seen my failed double axel through the foggy glass window of his bedroom, flew outside with my dad on his heels. Together, they managed to calm me down enough for me to slowly (oh, so slowly) push myself up. It was better than the very best Christmas present, leather jacket and acceptance letter combined. I could breathe; I could sit; I could move!
Obviously, I went on an intimate emergency date with my doctor as soon as possible following the slip. I know I can be somewhat overly dramatic, but in 100% honesty, I'm very lucky that I escaped my little teenage tirade not only with the occasional flare of lower back pain, but with my life. The official diagnosis was a bruised spinal column at both the base of my neck (from hitting the top step) and the base of my back (bottom step). Ever the bedside specialist, my doctor bluntly told me that if I had fallen a hair to the left or right, I would have probably snapped either my spine or, even more horrifying, my neck.
Thankfully, it didn't come to that. With the help of a good chiropractor, some strong muscle relaxants and a sweet little device composed of electrodes and wires that made me look like ET post-discovery, I came away from it without a ton of lasting damage. Every so often, usually once or twice a year, I'll inadvertently do something that causes little spiderwebs of pain to radiate out of my lower back, around through my hips and crawling down my legs. It's hard to treat with regular methods, because most of the time I don't know where exactly the pain is coming from. Ibuprofen, heating pads, hot showers and rest are typically the only relief I get during these little spells.
As annoying as it is, I know that I am very lucky. I am thankful both because mine was a minor injury with negligible repercussions and because I don't live in chronic pain, where so many others do due to one reason or another. It definitely gives me a greater appreciation for what those people go through each day, and in a weird way it's a good reminder that while I act like a paper cut is the end of the world, there are people out there who deal with constant aches and pains on a daily basis. It's an interesting perspective that I think a lot of us don't stop to think about very often. Not to say that we don't hurt sometimes -- just that it's always nice to keep in mind that others do, too.
************************
Well, true to form, I started writing this post on Monday. It is now Thursday, and I'm happy to say that thanks to my friends IcyHot, Advil and Memory Foam, my back feels as good as it ever has. I even managed to go for another run on Tuesday, and it was honestly the best run I've had in months. Part of it, I think, was telling myself during the hard parts that it didn't hurt as badly as my back had, and also being thankful that I have the ability to run at all.
So yeah, that's my Thanksgiving post. A week late. Oh well. I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving and are now happily ensconced amongst the throngs of overly-caffeinated holiday shoppers out there clogging all centers of commerce. Deck them halls! ;)
Also, can we just talk about the Chuck/Blair scene from the Gossip Girl Season 4 finale for a second? I know I'm like an entire half season behind and all, but for the love of Bendel's, I couldn't decide if I should cry, scream or swoon. As much as I hate the stupid combo name, Team Bluck has my heart forever and always.
The end.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Tips For Holiday Shopping: Part the First
First off, I want to wish each and every single one of the brave men and women who have and who continue to fight for our freedom here in the US a Happy Veteran's Day --- thank you so much for all that you do. My grandfather, an 88-year old World War II vet, is one of the most determined, inspiring and wise men I have ever known, and to him, I wish a particularly Happy Veteran's Day and heartfelt thank you for all that he has given to his country. We love you!
....There is no appropriate segue into the next topic, so on that note, let's just dive in.
So, as I was showering the other day and singing "Dominick the Donkey" (long story short: a homeless man had serenaded the entire green line train with it the night before... and now that you've remembered it exists, YOU try getting it out of your head), I realized that the holiday season is, crazily, almost upon us. The upsetting part here isn't that we are barely ten days into November and I am already pontificating on the true meaning of Christmas (and all other holiday seasons), but that this season inevitably brings about a minor panic attack, triggered entirely by my memories of holiday shopping hell.
You see, I worked in a major national department store from the age of 16 until I was 20. As anyone who has ever worked in retail can tell you, those four years basically qualified me for "Lifer" status -- a true honor, I assure you. I met some of my best friends and made some of my best memories at that job. In fact, I even chose it as the inspiration for my final work for my Creative Fiction class in college, aptly titled Retail Therapy. While serving my time as a credit-application shilling underling, I worked in every department but mens' suits, window dressing and catalog, including, but not limited to: shoes, stock, visual, lingerie, women's, kid's, petites, juniors, fine jewelry, fragrance, accessories and dresses. Fun fact about your author: I am qualified to fit you for both shoes and jewelry, and am also a certified bra fit specialist.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am a real blast at parties.
Aside from giving me the opportunity to hone these talents, my stint in retail taught me a lot about people in general. I know the prevailing thought is that nothing can teach you more about people than food service, but given my experience, I'd venture a guess that retail is a very close second... particularly around the holidays. Which is why I have taken it upon myself to offer up some tips for the upcoming holiday shopping season, from the perspective of a former retailslave employee:
- Don't bitch to the dude at the register about the Christmas music that started playing the day after Halloween. I'd be willing to wager any amount of money that the employees hate it even MORE than you do. Look, you're in the store for what, an hour, tops? Those poor saps are stuck there between four and a half and nine hours at a time, making $7/hr. Know how long that soundtrack lasts? Two hours. It's six years later and I can still sing "Frosty, the Snowman" in four different styles, including calypso. Don't even get me started on "Santa Baby." And remember: it's not Christmas music. It's Winter Holiday Sounds.
- Trust me, I get as annoyed as you do when an item rings up at a higher price than the sign said it should, but that does not give you a license to take it out on the clerk. As a consumer, this is one of the most frustrating aspects of shopping. You get all excited over a seemingly too-good-to-be-true purchase, get to the register, and BAM! The item rings up at twice the price you expected. Quel horreur! Just remember: it isn't the sixteen year old behind the register's fault; the store has an entire stock/pricing/visual team in charge of these things. Homegirl is just trying to scrape enough pennies together to afford a really fancy date with her boyfriend. At Chili's.
- Don't assume that the creepy man selling you your shoes has a secret life as a pervert. He might just be really socially awkward, and his colleagues might be in the midst of a plot to set him up with the crotchedy old cat lady from the lingerie department (true story).
- Also, don't assume that the person behind that counter is any less intelligent and/or accomplished than you are. There is this pervasive mentality from before the dot-com bust that retail = college dropouts/teenagers/lower middle-upper lower class. In the event that you haven't read Bitter is the New Black, by my idol, Jen Lancaster (in which case, why are we even friends?), let me enlighten you: Times are tough. A lot of people lost everything when the market crashed and are now doing anything to try to make ends meet. Aside from the facts that it's the holiday season AND there is never a reason to treat anyone like shit, keep in mind that your condescending 'tude could be directed at the former head of a company who is one step away from climbing back to the top... where he could become your boss. Plus, it's just rude.
- Parents, don't threaten your kids with, "the lady is going to get mad at you" unless you want me to tell your kid he just won a free supply of chocolate bars, then hand him a bag full of the sugary goodness left over from a previous Willy Wonka-style sale. This used to drive. me. NUTS. While adorable little Johnny is spitting in little sister Susie's face, causing her shrieks and snarls to echo throughout the cavernous walls of the store, please don't tell them to behave, "or the lady will yell at you." This rule is multiplied by infinity when it comes to you asking me to "tell him! If he doesn't behave, you're going to send all of his clothes right back to those racks!". I don't have kids for a reason, and I sure as hell am not going to discipline yours. Parent already.
There are plenty more, which I am working on compiling into a second post, but those are five of the more valuable nuggets of wisdom that I have to bestow upon my fellow holiday shoppers. I urge you to keep them in mind over the next seven weeks or so, and to remember to treat others as you would want to be treated. Which is why I am now going to leave you with a little something that someone recently left me.
Hee-haw! Hee-haw!
....There is no appropriate segue into the next topic, so on that note, let's just dive in.
So, as I was showering the other day and singing "Dominick the Donkey" (long story short: a homeless man had serenaded the entire green line train with it the night before... and now that you've remembered it exists, YOU try getting it out of your head), I realized that the holiday season is, crazily, almost upon us. The upsetting part here isn't that we are barely ten days into November and I am already pontificating on the true meaning of Christmas (and all other holiday seasons), but that this season inevitably brings about a minor panic attack, triggered entirely by my memories of holiday shopping hell.
You see, I worked in a major national department store from the age of 16 until I was 20. As anyone who has ever worked in retail can tell you, those four years basically qualified me for "Lifer" status -- a true honor, I assure you. I met some of my best friends and made some of my best memories at that job. In fact, I even chose it as the inspiration for my final work for my Creative Fiction class in college, aptly titled Retail Therapy. While serving my time as a credit-application shilling underling, I worked in every department but mens' suits, window dressing and catalog, including, but not limited to: shoes, stock, visual, lingerie, women's, kid's, petites, juniors, fine jewelry, fragrance, accessories and dresses. Fun fact about your author: I am qualified to fit you for both shoes and jewelry, and am also a certified bra fit specialist.
I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am a real blast at parties.
Aside from giving me the opportunity to hone these talents, my stint in retail taught me a lot about people in general. I know the prevailing thought is that nothing can teach you more about people than food service, but given my experience, I'd venture a guess that retail is a very close second... particularly around the holidays. Which is why I have taken it upon myself to offer up some tips for the upcoming holiday shopping season, from the perspective of a former retail
- Don't bitch to the dude at the register about the Christmas music that started playing the day after Halloween. I'd be willing to wager any amount of money that the employees hate it even MORE than you do. Look, you're in the store for what, an hour, tops? Those poor saps are stuck there between four and a half and nine hours at a time, making $7/hr. Know how long that soundtrack lasts? Two hours. It's six years later and I can still sing "Frosty, the Snowman" in four different styles, including calypso. Don't even get me started on "Santa Baby." And remember: it's not Christmas music. It's Winter Holiday Sounds.
- Trust me, I get as annoyed as you do when an item rings up at a higher price than the sign said it should, but that does not give you a license to take it out on the clerk. As a consumer, this is one of the most frustrating aspects of shopping. You get all excited over a seemingly too-good-to-be-true purchase, get to the register, and BAM! The item rings up at twice the price you expected. Quel horreur! Just remember: it isn't the sixteen year old behind the register's fault; the store has an entire stock/pricing/visual team in charge of these things. Homegirl is just trying to scrape enough pennies together to afford a really fancy date with her boyfriend. At Chili's.
- Don't assume that the creepy man selling you your shoes has a secret life as a pervert. He might just be really socially awkward, and his colleagues might be in the midst of a plot to set him up with the crotchedy old cat lady from the lingerie department (true story).
- Also, don't assume that the person behind that counter is any less intelligent and/or accomplished than you are. There is this pervasive mentality from before the dot-com bust that retail = college dropouts/teenagers/lower middle-upper lower class. In the event that you haven't read Bitter is the New Black, by my idol, Jen Lancaster (in which case, why are we even friends?), let me enlighten you: Times are tough. A lot of people lost everything when the market crashed and are now doing anything to try to make ends meet. Aside from the facts that it's the holiday season AND there is never a reason to treat anyone like shit, keep in mind that your condescending 'tude could be directed at the former head of a company who is one step away from climbing back to the top... where he could become your boss. Plus, it's just rude.
- Parents, don't threaten your kids with, "the lady is going to get mad at you" unless you want me to tell your kid he just won a free supply of chocolate bars, then hand him a bag full of the sugary goodness left over from a previous Willy Wonka-style sale. This used to drive. me. NUTS. While adorable little Johnny is spitting in little sister Susie's face, causing her shrieks and snarls to echo throughout the cavernous walls of the store, please don't tell them to behave, "or the lady will yell at you." This rule is multiplied by infinity when it comes to you asking me to "tell him! If he doesn't behave, you're going to send all of his clothes right back to those racks!". I don't have kids for a reason, and I sure as hell am not going to discipline yours. Parent already.
There are plenty more, which I am working on compiling into a second post, but those are five of the more valuable nuggets of wisdom that I have to bestow upon my fellow holiday shoppers. I urge you to keep them in mind over the next seven weeks or so, and to remember to treat others as you would want to be treated. Which is why I am now going to leave you with a little something that someone recently left me.
Hee-haw! Hee-haw!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Farewell, Golden Year
It's that time of year again!
The days are getting shorter, the air is getting colder and I am, per usual, getting fatter. I'm pretty sure I'm a bear trapped in a human's body, as I apparently feel the need to consume enough starch and sugar during months 9 and 10 to get me through a long winter of hibernation.
What, like you don't?
Anyway.
On the eve of my 27th birthday (yes, my birthday is tomorrow), I've been thinking a lot about how I am moving out of the "mid-20s" post-college set and officially joining the ranks of "late-20s" 80s spawn the world over. And you know what? I'm okay with that.
I think it's so funny how some people have this intense dread of turning 30, so the second they pass 25 they start clinging to their mid-20s like crazy. I mean, yeah, my mid-20s brought me my first job, first big promotion, first studio apartment and first shared domicile, but they also delivered my first mammoth student loan payments, the realization that if I want to pursue my dreams I actually have to WORK for them, a harder time deflating the flotation device around my mid-section and a biological clock ticking louder than Big Ben.
As I leave my "golden year" behind, I'm thinking of all of the things that I accomplished while I was 26:
- I went to the dentist 5 times and didn't die (quite a feat, if you knew me two years ago).
- I made a list of goals that I hoped to achieve in 2011 and actually followed through on a few.
- I became a Godmother.
- I took my first Zumba class and ran my first two 5ks.
- I actually posted a more creative piece of writing for the world to see.
- I trained for and ran a half marathon.
- I more or less maintained my weight (anything's better than a gain, right?).
- I met awesome fellow bloggers like Stephanie, Ashleigh, Tiffany and Erin.
- I wrote 83 blog posts, including this one.
More importantly, though, I'm looking forward to all of the goals, milestones and unplanned adventures that 27 will bring. I get to welcome two new nieces at the beginning of February, enjoy a much-anticipated vacation to Key West in March and, if all goes well, smash my BAA half-marathon PR to smithereens next October. Knowing me, I'll also manage to stumble into a life lesson or two, a few totally awkward situations and a couple of inappropriately loud conversations at the bar. All of these are things I never would have had the opportunity, guts or ability to laugh off in my earlier years. I don't hate getting older; I hate the idea of never moving forward. I mean, sure, 27 might be one step closer to 30, but it's also another year of practice for all that I hope to accomplish in my life.
But don't think for a second that my new, "mature" late-20s identity is going to stop me from wearing random tiaras at the beach or obsessively marathon-viewing Pretty Little Liars or Gossip Girl.
Because that's just crazy talk.
The days are getting shorter, the air is getting colder and I am, per usual, getting fatter. I'm pretty sure I'm a bear trapped in a human's body, as I apparently feel the need to consume enough starch and sugar during months 9 and 10 to get me through a long winter of hibernation.
What, like you don't?
Anyway.
On the eve of my 27th birthday (yes, my birthday is tomorrow), I've been thinking a lot about how I am moving out of the "mid-20s" post-college set and officially joining the ranks of "late-20s" 80s spawn the world over. And you know what? I'm okay with that.
I think it's so funny how some people have this intense dread of turning 30, so the second they pass 25 they start clinging to their mid-20s like crazy. I mean, yeah, my mid-20s brought me my first job, first big promotion, first studio apartment and first shared domicile, but they also delivered my first mammoth student loan payments, the realization that if I want to pursue my dreams I actually have to WORK for them, a harder time deflating the flotation device around my mid-section and a biological clock ticking louder than Big Ben.
As I leave my "golden year" behind, I'm thinking of all of the things that I accomplished while I was 26:
- I went to the dentist 5 times and didn't die (quite a feat, if you knew me two years ago).
- I made a list of goals that I hoped to achieve in 2011 and actually followed through on a few.
- I became a Godmother.
- I took my first Zumba class and ran my first two 5ks.
- I actually posted a more creative piece of writing for the world to see.
- I trained for and ran a half marathon.
- I more or less maintained my weight (anything's better than a gain, right?).
- I met awesome fellow bloggers like Stephanie, Ashleigh, Tiffany and Erin.
- I wrote 83 blog posts, including this one.
More importantly, though, I'm looking forward to all of the goals, milestones and unplanned adventures that 27 will bring. I get to welcome two new nieces at the beginning of February, enjoy a much-anticipated vacation to Key West in March and, if all goes well, smash my BAA half-marathon PR to smithereens next October. Knowing me, I'll also manage to stumble into a life lesson or two, a few totally awkward situations and a couple of inappropriately loud conversations at the bar. All of these are things I never would have had the opportunity, guts or ability to laugh off in my earlier years. I don't hate getting older; I hate the idea of never moving forward. I mean, sure, 27 might be one step closer to 30, but it's also another year of practice for all that I hope to accomplish in my life.
But don't think for a second that my new, "mature" late-20s identity is going to stop me from wearing random tiaras at the beach or obsessively marathon-viewing Pretty Little Liars or Gossip Girl.
Because that's just crazy talk.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Yellow Line
Yesterday, as I sat at my decrepit old desktop contemplating such important matters as, "if I could have dated one star from the 80s, who would it have been?" and "don't people have anything better to do with their time than engage in frivolous legal matters?", I was sidetracked yet again by the folder of my old college papers. Clicking randomly at documents I don't even remember writing, I realized two things:
1) There is a direct correlation between the decline in the quality of my writing and the advent of my 21st birthday,
and
2) I really like writing about mice.
Odd, considering that when my first apartment had a vermin problem, I called every one of my scientist friends and offered them a free under-the-table supply of specimens if they could get the damn things out of my house. Sadly, there were no takers.
In addition to the Tale of the Chuck, I found two more stories prominently featuring animals of the rodent variety. Here's one of them.
***********************************************
“Whatever you do, never stand on or over the yellow line. I mean it. Don’t do it, ever!"
As I stand on the platform at the Park Street T stop, waiting for the Red Line to come whisk me away to my aunt and uncle’s house, the words my mother uttered over 20 years ago echo around me as if they are embedded in the walls. There are hundreds of people milling around the underground terminal, but as those words echo in my head, it’s as if I am completely oblivious to their presence. This is, after all, where I first heard that singular golden rule of public transportation in Boston; it’s also where I first chose to ignore it.
I must have been around six years old when it happened, because I remember how happy I was to be back in the city after moving to New Hampshire a few month before. Due to the fact that we had been “such good helpers” during the move, Mom and Dad had surprised my brothers, sister and me by getting tickets to see Disney on Ice at the Boston Garden. We had enjoyed the parade of ice skating characters, shrieking and giggling each time the villain was beaten, and afterwards the four of us examined our souvenirs as we waited for the train to take us back to our car.
The infant twins looked adorable with tiny mouse ears perched on their heads, held in place by stretchy straps of elastic under their chins. My three-year-old sister, Kelly, had picked out a light-up snow globe on a stick from a traveling salesman at the train stop and was flinging it precariously close to other passengers’ heads as she tried to make it illuminate. I was sitting at my father’s feet, leafing carefully through the shiny program that he had finally bought for me after a lot of begging and pleading on my part. A budding figure skater myself, I was content to look at the pictures and dream of one day performing in the show. Content, that is, until I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and decided to investigate.
Luckily, one of the twins woke up from his nap and started crying at that exact moment, so no one noticed as I tiptoed closer to the platform’s edge to see what was down there. I watched for a few seconds, patiently waiting for whatever it was to move again. I had often come to this station with my parents and grandparents when I lived in the city, and knew that in the dank depths below, there was a tiny creature who liked to scurry across the tracks. In my naivete, I didn’t realize that the little guy was actually one of many rodents in the station, and I held my breath until I saw something run out from under a rock.
There he was! The Park Street mouse!
Of course, as the platform started trembling at that instant, I looked to the end of the track to confirm my suspicion as to the cause. A pinprick of white light had appeared in the blackness of the tunnel, and the red caution light had switched on. The train barreled towards the station, and in my five-year-old brain I realized that if I didn’t do something, my furry little friend was going to be run over.
The warning my mother had given me as soon as I was old enough to understand it rang through my ears: never, ever step on or over the yellow line at a T stop; the train conductor probably won’t see you and, if he does, he won’t be able to stop in time. “Oh well, I’ll be really quick,” I thought and, never taking my eyes off the mouse, took a step off the platform.
I realize now how lucky it was that my dad noticed I had left his feet. He caught me just in time, grabbing me by the arm and yelling at me to get the hell away from the edge just as the train roared into the station. I cried as he and my mom yelled at me for being stupid and not listening to their instructions not because I was embarrassed, but because I thought the mouse was dead. It was a really traumatic event for a child, to first be scared half to death by her father nearly dislocating her shoulder and then to realize that her furry ally had been squished into oblivion by a 30-ton train. Even though my parents later explained to me that the mouse was fine, and that he was used to the trains coming through his house and knew to get off the tracks when the vibrations started, I don’t think I ever fully recovered from what has become known in the family as “The Park Street Mouse Incident.”
The telltale vibration of the floor beneath my feet brings the station back into focus. I am abruptly shaken from my reverie, becoming aware of the other travelers in the station as the sound of my mother’s words sinks back into the walls once more. I look first toward the tunnel, and see the white light of the Red Line train hurtling towards the station. I then look down at my feet, and a slight smile plays across my lips as I observe the entire foot-and-a-half of space that I have placed between myself and the yellow line. A movement on the track catches the corner of my eye, and I imagine that the small mouse scurrying off of the track looks up and remembers me and my misguided attempt to save his life.
The train rolls in to the station, a long blur that stops with a screech in front of me. Laughing silently, I cross the yellow line and step into the car.
******************************************************
Fun fact: I still look for a mouse on the tracks every time I go to Park Street.
1) There is a direct correlation between the decline in the quality of my writing and the advent of my 21st birthday,
and
2) I really like writing about mice.
Odd, considering that when my first apartment had a vermin problem, I called every one of my scientist friends and offered them a free under-the-table supply of specimens if they could get the damn things out of my house. Sadly, there were no takers.
In addition to the Tale of the Chuck, I found two more stories prominently featuring animals of the rodent variety. Here's one of them.
***********************************************
“Whatever you do, never stand on or over the yellow line. I mean it. Don’t do it, ever!"
As I stand on the platform at the Park Street T stop, waiting for the Red Line to come whisk me away to my aunt and uncle’s house, the words my mother uttered over 20 years ago echo around me as if they are embedded in the walls. There are hundreds of people milling around the underground terminal, but as those words echo in my head, it’s as if I am completely oblivious to their presence. This is, after all, where I first heard that singular golden rule of public transportation in Boston; it’s also where I first chose to ignore it.
I must have been around six years old when it happened, because I remember how happy I was to be back in the city after moving to New Hampshire a few month before. Due to the fact that we had been “such good helpers” during the move, Mom and Dad had surprised my brothers, sister and me by getting tickets to see Disney on Ice at the Boston Garden. We had enjoyed the parade of ice skating characters, shrieking and giggling each time the villain was beaten, and afterwards the four of us examined our souvenirs as we waited for the train to take us back to our car.
The infant twins looked adorable with tiny mouse ears perched on their heads, held in place by stretchy straps of elastic under their chins. My three-year-old sister, Kelly, had picked out a light-up snow globe on a stick from a traveling salesman at the train stop and was flinging it precariously close to other passengers’ heads as she tried to make it illuminate. I was sitting at my father’s feet, leafing carefully through the shiny program that he had finally bought for me after a lot of begging and pleading on my part. A budding figure skater myself, I was content to look at the pictures and dream of one day performing in the show. Content, that is, until I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and decided to investigate.
Luckily, one of the twins woke up from his nap and started crying at that exact moment, so no one noticed as I tiptoed closer to the platform’s edge to see what was down there. I watched for a few seconds, patiently waiting for whatever it was to move again. I had often come to this station with my parents and grandparents when I lived in the city, and knew that in the dank depths below, there was a tiny creature who liked to scurry across the tracks. In my naivete, I didn’t realize that the little guy was actually one of many rodents in the station, and I held my breath until I saw something run out from under a rock.
There he was! The Park Street mouse!
Of course, as the platform started trembling at that instant, I looked to the end of the track to confirm my suspicion as to the cause. A pinprick of white light had appeared in the blackness of the tunnel, and the red caution light had switched on. The train barreled towards the station, and in my five-year-old brain I realized that if I didn’t do something, my furry little friend was going to be run over.
The warning my mother had given me as soon as I was old enough to understand it rang through my ears: never, ever step on or over the yellow line at a T stop; the train conductor probably won’t see you and, if he does, he won’t be able to stop in time. “Oh well, I’ll be really quick,” I thought and, never taking my eyes off the mouse, took a step off the platform.
I realize now how lucky it was that my dad noticed I had left his feet. He caught me just in time, grabbing me by the arm and yelling at me to get the hell away from the edge just as the train roared into the station. I cried as he and my mom yelled at me for being stupid and not listening to their instructions not because I was embarrassed, but because I thought the mouse was dead. It was a really traumatic event for a child, to first be scared half to death by her father nearly dislocating her shoulder and then to realize that her furry ally had been squished into oblivion by a 30-ton train. Even though my parents later explained to me that the mouse was fine, and that he was used to the trains coming through his house and knew to get off the tracks when the vibrations started, I don’t think I ever fully recovered from what has become known in the family as “The Park Street Mouse Incident.”
The telltale vibration of the floor beneath my feet brings the station back into focus. I am abruptly shaken from my reverie, becoming aware of the other travelers in the station as the sound of my mother’s words sinks back into the walls once more. I look first toward the tunnel, and see the white light of the Red Line train hurtling towards the station. I then look down at my feet, and a slight smile plays across my lips as I observe the entire foot-and-a-half of space that I have placed between myself and the yellow line. A movement on the track catches the corner of my eye, and I imagine that the small mouse scurrying off of the track looks up and remembers me and my misguided attempt to save his life.
The train rolls in to the station, a long blur that stops with a screech in front of me. Laughing silently, I cross the yellow line and step into the car.
******************************************************
Fun fact: I still look for a mouse on the tracks every time I go to Park Street.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Truly, Madly, Deeply Dooo
Have you ever gone YEARS without hearing a song, only to have it pop up out of nowhere one day and then proceed to follow you around, its little earworm hooks creeping and crawling into you brain and bringing up all kinds of long-forgotten associations?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Savage Garden's Truly, Madly, Deeply. It's stalking me.
Remember when, sometime around the time that scrunchies were on their way out, this song seemed like the absolute most romantic thing you had ever heard? I mean, come on -- "I want to stand with you on a mountain. I want to bathe with you in the sea?" That is poetic, lyrical GENIUS, people! Elton John himself couldn't write that shiz. I will forever associate it's bass-y, lilting chorus with wide-leg jeans, passing notes in the hallways and dancing awkwardly with the kid from the next homeroom over, at 3 in the afternoon, on a dirty gymnasium floor.
And my friend Sara's Bat Mitzvah, at which I realized that I was not living in a John Hughes movie and, if I were, I would be less like Molly Ringwald and more like Ally Sheedy.
First of all, I was kind of an awkward middle schooler. One day, if you're lucky, I will post my 7th grade photo. Though I have destroyed all copies of it, my best friends are bound to have one, as my yearbook that year was filled with comments about how they would save it until I became famous and then leak it to the National Enquirer. And yes, it IS that bad... Four words: Velour. Scrunchie. Side Pony. My mother also forced me to wear skinny ankle jeans which, though tres cool now, were about as hip as garbage at the time, prompting the secret object of my affection to ask me one day in math class why I "wore such ridiculous pants." Good question, D, good question.
Despite my closet full of wardrobe malfunctions, I wasn't particularly popular or unpopular; I kind of like to think I ran in the middle of the clique pack. I had a solid group of friends, and we paraded around the hallways like we owned them, arms linked in a miniature display of solidarity with our other socially-stunted brethren. So, when my friend Sara invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I was super pumped and assumed everyone else in my little group would be in attendance, too. Um, no.
Now, being raised Catholic, I had no idea what to expect. My understanding of Jewish tradition extended to my Uncle wearing that funny hat during his wedding, the lesson on the Maccabees that my 5th grade teacher gave during the obligatory "Multi-Cultural Holiday Celebration" phase and the fact that while my friend Nicole got 8 crazy nights of Tiffanys, I got three hours of Church and a second-hand bicycle. So, I wasn't prepared for the fact that no, my entire social circle wasn't invited. Or that, in absence of said friends, it was not polite to invite along my best friend and assume that there would be a pot luck buffet like my family had at our First Communions. I was 13, for heaven's sake; how was I supposed to know the magnitude of the cost of a single un-RSVP'ed plated dinner?! So, as I entered the Temple in my black velour Liz Claiborne dress (apparently, velour is the new black. Or was, back when the Fresh Prince ruled the fashion scene), Things Remembered jewelry box engraved with "Mazel Tov!" andgate crasher best friend in tow, you can imagine what I was thinking as I saw all of the girls up front in their pastel semi-formal dresses, giggling at one another and making intricate hand gestures to the boys they knew from Hebrew School on the other side of the room, the basket of yarmulkes for the men and Sara, looking like a movie star sitting solemnly with her parents.
Oh. Shit.
The ceremony itself was very interesting. I love learning about other cultures and religions (and have the $180 text book to prove it), so I thought it was so cool to discover that they do their readings backwards. And that Sarah could speak another language. And that after all the traditional, ceremonial stuff was over, we got to go to a bitchin' party complete with glow-in-the-dark masks, a dance troupe and more shiny beads than Mardi Gras. Sure, I didn't know anyone except for a small handful of school chums and mygate crasher best friend, but that didn't stop me from tearin' up the dance floor during the Hava Nagila or taking second place in the "Chubby Bunny" contest.
And then, with a single resonating beat of bass, Savage Garden and their ode to everlasting teen angst ruined my night.
Normally, I had a group of guy friends who would have asked me to dance -- whether out of true desure or the fact that they couldn't find anyone else who would tolerate their clumsy big feet, I'll never know -- but this was uncharted territory. I didn't know ANY of these guys, save for the very few I knew from school. Most of these guys went to the junior high across the river, and they had no interest in doing the hands-on-shoulders sidestep with someone they'd never met.
So, while literally every other girl there was out on the dance floor, swaying in sync with the magical tempo of T,M,D and imagining the arms of whichever hunk they were dancing to helping to bathe them in the sea (which, by the way, I always pictured as more of a waterfall), I sat at my table, staring wistfully and waiting for the picture-perfect Andrew McCarthy or, at the very least, Jon Cryer lookalike, to come sweep me from my solitude and twirl me around the dance floor, declaring his undying love for me and that we would, of course, be together forever.
My Pretty in Pink moment never happened, but a hot guy from the other school DID trip over his own two feet and spill the red punch that smelled vaguely of vodka all over my precious velour ensemble. And that is why I will forever wrinkle my nose and try not to let the chubby, forlorn teenager inside of me tear up whenever I hear Truly, Madly, Deeply in an elevator or blaring softly from the soda cart downstairs.
Damn you, Savage Garden, for building me up and then tearing me down. Millions of little girls had their hopes and dreams of romance dashed because of the high bar that you set. For the briefest of moments, we believed that perhaps we were the Chosen Ones, and that one day, a dreamy Australian man with spiky hair and highlights would find us and sweep us off to our destinies.
And then Titanic came along, and Leo and Kate and Celine made us forget allll about those crazy Aussies.
Swoon.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Savage Garden's Truly, Madly, Deeply. It's stalking me.
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Remember when, sometime around the time that scrunchies were on their way out, this song seemed like the absolute most romantic thing you had ever heard? I mean, come on -- "I want to stand with you on a mountain. I want to bathe with you in the sea?" That is poetic, lyrical GENIUS, people! Elton John himself couldn't write that shiz. I will forever associate it's bass-y, lilting chorus with wide-leg jeans, passing notes in the hallways and dancing awkwardly with the kid from the next homeroom over, at 3 in the afternoon, on a dirty gymnasium floor.
And my friend Sara's Bat Mitzvah, at which I realized that I was not living in a John Hughes movie and, if I were, I would be less like Molly Ringwald and more like Ally Sheedy.
First of all, I was kind of an awkward middle schooler. One day, if you're lucky, I will post my 7th grade photo. Though I have destroyed all copies of it, my best friends are bound to have one, as my yearbook that year was filled with comments about how they would save it until I became famous and then leak it to the National Enquirer. And yes, it IS that bad... Four words: Velour. Scrunchie. Side Pony. My mother also forced me to wear skinny ankle jeans which, though tres cool now, were about as hip as garbage at the time, prompting the secret object of my affection to ask me one day in math class why I "wore such ridiculous pants." Good question, D, good question.
Despite my closet full of wardrobe malfunctions, I wasn't particularly popular or unpopular; I kind of like to think I ran in the middle of the clique pack. I had a solid group of friends, and we paraded around the hallways like we owned them, arms linked in a miniature display of solidarity with our other socially-stunted brethren. So, when my friend Sara invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I was super pumped and assumed everyone else in my little group would be in attendance, too. Um, no.
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![[Source]](http://www.movietobo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/fondue_meangirls_wideweb__470x3490.jpg){kind=link}
Now, being raised Catholic, I had no idea what to expect. My understanding of Jewish tradition extended to my Uncle wearing that funny hat during his wedding, the lesson on the Maccabees that my 5th grade teacher gave during the obligatory "Multi-Cultural Holiday Celebration" phase and the fact that while my friend Nicole got 8 crazy nights of Tiffanys, I got three hours of Church and a second-hand bicycle. So, I wasn't prepared for the fact that no, my entire social circle wasn't invited. Or that, in absence of said friends, it was not polite to invite along my best friend and assume that there would be a pot luck buffet like my family had at our First Communions. I was 13, for heaven's sake; how was I supposed to know the magnitude of the cost of a single un-RSVP'ed plated dinner?! So, as I entered the Temple in my black velour Liz Claiborne dress (apparently, velour is the new black. Or was, back when the Fresh Prince ruled the fashion scene), Things Remembered jewelry box engraved with "Mazel Tov!" and
Oh. Shit.
The ceremony itself was very interesting. I love learning about other cultures and religions (and have the $180 text book to prove it), so I thought it was so cool to discover that they do their readings backwards. And that Sarah could speak another language. And that after all the traditional, ceremonial stuff was over, we got to go to a bitchin' party complete with glow-in-the-dark masks, a dance troupe and more shiny beads than Mardi Gras. Sure, I didn't know anyone except for a small handful of school chums and my
And then, with a single resonating beat of bass, Savage Garden and their ode to everlasting teen angst ruined my night.
Normally, I had a group of guy friends who would have asked me to dance -- whether out of true desure or the fact that they couldn't find anyone else who would tolerate their clumsy big feet, I'll never know -- but this was uncharted territory. I didn't know ANY of these guys, save for the very few I knew from school. Most of these guys went to the junior high across the river, and they had no interest in doing the hands-on-shoulders sidestep with someone they'd never met.
So, while literally every other girl there was out on the dance floor, swaying in sync with the magical tempo of T,M,D and imagining the arms of whichever hunk they were dancing to helping to bathe them in the sea (which, by the way, I always pictured as more of a waterfall), I sat at my table, staring wistfully and waiting for the picture-perfect Andrew McCarthy or, at the very least, Jon Cryer lookalike, to come sweep me from my solitude and twirl me around the dance floor, declaring his undying love for me and that we would, of course, be together forever.
 |
| [Source] |
My Pretty in Pink moment never happened, but a hot guy from the other school DID trip over his own two feet and spill the red punch that smelled vaguely of vodka all over my precious velour ensemble. And that is why I will forever wrinkle my nose and try not to let the chubby, forlorn teenager inside of me tear up whenever I hear Truly, Madly, Deeply in an elevator or blaring softly from the soda cart downstairs.
Damn you, Savage Garden, for building me up and then tearing me down. Millions of little girls had their hopes and dreams of romance dashed because of the high bar that you set. For the briefest of moments, we believed that perhaps we were the Chosen Ones, and that one day, a dreamy Australian man with spiky hair and highlights would find us and sweep us off to our destinies.
And then Titanic came along, and Leo and Kate and Celine made us forget allll about those crazy Aussies.
 |
| [Source] |
Swoon.
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