The Thanksgiving Chaos
There are few things that strike fear in our family – Max beating up the security guard at school, Su’s travel curse, Delaney asking for a bra, job security, etc. But probably the biggest concern that strikes our family about as frequently as a hurricane passing through Chicago – hosting Thanksgiving with the Bermingham’s and Oliveira’s.
As the story goes from long ago, the Pilgrims and the Indians gathered for the first Thanksgiving, each eyeing each other with caution putting their weapons of choice on the Thanksgiving table and then sharing their food traditions. From the Indians, we now have creamed corn that graces the Thanksgiving table. From the Pilgrims – well, we’re fairly certain the Pilgrims introduced alcohol to the Indians, after all, why wouldn’t you want to share that?
This Thanksgiving we opted to reenact the first Thanksgiving, with the Oliveira’s playing the part of the Pilgrims, while the Bermingham’s played the part of the Indians. Some highlights from our Thanksgiving:
“What water do I use to brush my teeth with?” Kim, asking whoever would listen upon learning that we use well water in Michigan. “Kim, we don’t import the water from Mexico, you’ll be fine.”
“Lee, where are the recyclable water jugs?” Dave, asking my mom when he couldn’t find the lids to any of the water jugs, of which we do actually drink the fine waters taken from a spring somewhere high in a mountain and gathered for us at the local grocery store. “Honey, I threw them away. You can just buy more.” Ugh, what’s the point of recycling if they are simply going to be tossed?
“Mom, I need a bowl to get some bottled water for Paige to brush her teeth.” Delaney, searching in vain for a bowl to use ‘good water’ to help brush Paige’s teeth. “Delaney, we don’t import the water from Mexico, tell Paige she’ll be fine.”
“Actually, I’m really drunk right now.” Kim’s answer to Dave’s mom (part of the Pilgrim group that introduced alcohol to the Indians) when asked how she was doing. To Kim’s shock and horror, Su clarified that while Kathy is a Pilgrim, she was the last Pilgrim to partake of the fermented juice.
“I brought a ‘thankful tree’ for all of us to decorate and tell what we’re thankful for.” Bob’s explanation for bringing the most hideous looking red LED Christmas tree to the house. “I’m thankful that we’ll be having a tree raffle after dinner”, Su’s ‘thanksgiving declaration’ when hanging her ornament on the ‘thankful tree’.
“Larry, I think we have celebrated all of the major holidays.” Dave, to Larry, after viewing post-Thanksgiving fireworks courtesy of Uncle Bob and opening Christmas gifts while the kids ate their full size candy bars from Halloween.
“Why are all the Oliveira’s sitting on one side of the table and the Bermingham’s the other?” Su said to Dave, which was replied, “I think that’s how they did it at the first Thanksgiving, clearly the Pilgrims and the Indians didn’t talk.”
“Hey Sis, I did good this year, I didn’t read nearly as many magazines as I usually do.” Kim’s Facebook entry when criticized for always lounging around and being a slug during any family holiday gathering.
“*&%^#! – the house keys!” Su’s sudden recognition that while using the industrial sized vacuum at the car wash to clean out her brother’s car that it suddenly sucked up the only set of keys to their rented cottage.
There is much to be thankful for this time of year, family, friends, and most importantly the introduction of alcohol from the Pilgrims to the Indians. It makes family gatherings that much more fun.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The College Fund
Much to the future horror of my kids, I have decided to write one story about each one that has happened recently, if only for my enjoyment years from now.
The College Fund
When it comes to the kids’ education, there are few letters that we’ve received in the mail that elicit any sort of excitement. Living in the city has its education challenges, trying to get your children into a good kindergarten is not only literally winning the lottery (seriously, it’s done by lottery), but likely harder than getting your kid in to an Ivy League school for college. It takes an immense amount of networking, volunteering and crossing your fingers. Jack has the distinction of being our child with the most rejection letters before the age of five. Delaney started the rejection process early at two years old with a handful of rejection letters. Jack – well, we applied to eight schools for kindergarten…and received seven rejection letters. All framed in the “Wall of Shame” for future reference when he feels like school is too hard. “Hey buddy, where else are you going to go – no one else offered you a spot!”
Since we now have both kindergarten and first grade under our belt with Jack, it’s naturally time to think of college. And no, we do not think Jack will skip high school, I personally have opted to no longer think about the dreaded high school applications and selection process for fear of moving to the suburbs. I digress, on to college.
This is the literal, non edited conversation. “Jack, great news! We just got a letter from your college fund, we have fulfilled our contract, you can now go to college!” “What? NOW? Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo……” “Where will I sleep?” Try that twin bed that’s been around for the past 20 years. “I don’t want to go NOW!” Okay, maybe you should at least finish first grade, shame to send you in the middle of the school year. “I don’t have my bags packed.” That’s okay, I think I’ve had your bag packed since we got home from the hospital. “I will miss you too much.” Probably to start with, but after you meet all the girls, I doubt it. “Please don’t make me go to college!” Okay, maybe we should rethink this. “Who will take care of me?” Don’t they have dorm moms?
Oops, in our excitement, we failed to mention that college would not happen until he was at least 18, and hopefully no later than 19 as we have not budgeted to fund any kids for any “year of fun” post high-school. After this was explained to a teary-eyed Jack who thought that he literally had to pack his bags and be shipped off to college before bedtime - you could literally sense the burden that was lifted off of his shoulders when he realized that he could spend the next 12 years sleeping under our roof.
Dave recently talked to Jack about what he wanted to do with his life after he graduated from college. I know, fairly heavy stuff for a six year old, but hey, keep the college momentum going when their young. They are not living off of the family nipple and we see this as retirement security in our old age – not having to financially support the kids anymore. Back to the question at hand – personally, I would prefer jobs that personally benefit me for the kids:
- Doctor -every family needs one, I personally seem to employ a small army of specialists
- Lawyer - I’m sure one of the kids will need one later in life
- Chef - makes holidays easier for me
- Interior decorator - wouldn’t that be nice
- Orthodontist – having just paid Delaney’s bill for braces, I see this might be a lucrative career choice
Jack’s response to the age old questions, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “Well Daddy, I’m thinking taxi driver.” Umm…last time we checked, that college education that we have painstakingly saved for will likely not come in handy. “Jack, seriously? Umm, any reason why?” “No, I just like riding in cabs. That would fun to do all the time.”
So, it looks like all that money for college will likely now fund either Delaney or Max in their post college studies. Jack – at least we know he won’t be directionally challenged and always have a set of wheels to see the family during the holidays.
The College Fund
When it comes to the kids’ education, there are few letters that we’ve received in the mail that elicit any sort of excitement. Living in the city has its education challenges, trying to get your children into a good kindergarten is not only literally winning the lottery (seriously, it’s done by lottery), but likely harder than getting your kid in to an Ivy League school for college. It takes an immense amount of networking, volunteering and crossing your fingers. Jack has the distinction of being our child with the most rejection letters before the age of five. Delaney started the rejection process early at two years old with a handful of rejection letters. Jack – well, we applied to eight schools for kindergarten…and received seven rejection letters. All framed in the “Wall of Shame” for future reference when he feels like school is too hard. “Hey buddy, where else are you going to go – no one else offered you a spot!”
Since we now have both kindergarten and first grade under our belt with Jack, it’s naturally time to think of college. And no, we do not think Jack will skip high school, I personally have opted to no longer think about the dreaded high school applications and selection process for fear of moving to the suburbs. I digress, on to college.
This is the literal, non edited conversation. “Jack, great news! We just got a letter from your college fund, we have fulfilled our contract, you can now go to college!” “What? NOW? Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo……” “Where will I sleep?” Try that twin bed that’s been around for the past 20 years. “I don’t want to go NOW!” Okay, maybe you should at least finish first grade, shame to send you in the middle of the school year. “I don’t have my bags packed.” That’s okay, I think I’ve had your bag packed since we got home from the hospital. “I will miss you too much.” Probably to start with, but after you meet all the girls, I doubt it. “Please don’t make me go to college!” Okay, maybe we should rethink this. “Who will take care of me?” Don’t they have dorm moms?
Oops, in our excitement, we failed to mention that college would not happen until he was at least 18, and hopefully no later than 19 as we have not budgeted to fund any kids for any “year of fun” post high-school. After this was explained to a teary-eyed Jack who thought that he literally had to pack his bags and be shipped off to college before bedtime - you could literally sense the burden that was lifted off of his shoulders when he realized that he could spend the next 12 years sleeping under our roof.
Dave recently talked to Jack about what he wanted to do with his life after he graduated from college. I know, fairly heavy stuff for a six year old, but hey, keep the college momentum going when their young. They are not living off of the family nipple and we see this as retirement security in our old age – not having to financially support the kids anymore. Back to the question at hand – personally, I would prefer jobs that personally benefit me for the kids:
- Doctor -every family needs one, I personally seem to employ a small army of specialists
- Lawyer - I’m sure one of the kids will need one later in life
- Chef - makes holidays easier for me
- Interior decorator - wouldn’t that be nice
- Orthodontist – having just paid Delaney’s bill for braces, I see this might be a lucrative career choice
Jack’s response to the age old questions, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “Well Daddy, I’m thinking taxi driver.” Umm…last time we checked, that college education that we have painstakingly saved for will likely not come in handy. “Jack, seriously? Umm, any reason why?” “No, I just like riding in cabs. That would fun to do all the time.”
So, it looks like all that money for college will likely now fund either Delaney or Max in their post college studies. Jack – at least we know he won’t be directionally challenged and always have a set of wheels to see the family during the holidays.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Defensive Driving Course
The Defensive Driving Course
On a summer night not long ago, Dave played “Super Dad” and took both Jack and Delaney to the Field Museum to sleep with the Dinosaurs. As the largest Dinosaur is named “Sue”, I found it oddly appropriate that they could sleep under my namesake, and I could wish them sweet dreams from afar. Bliss – one kid for one night, how rough is my life?
In keeping Max entertained with all things train-related, I planned a special excursion to the suburbs to have dinner at none other than the “Choo Choo Restaurant.” Yes, you heard right, a restaurant dedicated to train enthusiasts everywhere. They actually send your food to you, from the kitchen, on a specially modified Lionel Train that magically stops where you are sitting so you too, can have some ‘train food.’ Max was in pure heaven, a four-year old’s fantasy come true.
After dinner, I looked forward to a leisurely ride home back to the city (if I could actually navigate my car home), a little R&R with Max before the tornado of the others came barreling through the home. “Max, let’s go down Dempster home, I think the Kennedy is going to be a little heavy with traffic.” “Okay, mommy, whatever, can we back to the Choo Choo restaurant?” “No, we were just there, and you know that the suburbs give mommy the hives.” “Mommy, what’s the noise behind us?” “I have no idea what you are talking about, what noise?” “You know, the siren mommy, with the lights on?” S***, you’ve got to be kidding me, I’m getting pulled over? For what?
“Miss, do you know why you’re getting pulled over.” “No clue officer, seriously, is my headlight out?” “No, you were going 53 in a 30.” “What, that four-lane road also known as Dempster, is only freaking 30 miles and hour.” “Umm, I live in Chicago, I have no idea where I am. I’m sure I wasn’t going that fast.” “No, you were. Can I see your license and insurance card?” “Sure…here’s my license, and…umm…let me look for my insurance card.” Crap, I have not one, not two, but three expired cards in the car. Where is the real one I need? “Miss, did you find your insurance card?” “Umm, how about a couple of expired ones? Will that work?” “No Miss, you must have a current card.” “I know it’s updated, it’s my husband’s fault. You know how men are.” “Excuse me?” “Oh, you know, Dave probably took the car and forgot to put the insurance card back in. My husband, if only you knew him.” “I’ll be right back.”
And so the agony of not having an insurance card on hand, speeding in a 30 mile an hour zone, and having Max in the car with me suddenly was giving a very large headache. “Miss, I have a few more questions to ask you.” Shoot – let’s just get this over with. “Do you realize that your license plate tags are also expired?” Crap. I cannot believe this. “I told you about my husband, right? Seriously, this is his car. You should be ticketing him, not me. All of this is his fault, even driving too fast, I’m sure of it.” “Your husband drives a mini-van as his primary vehicle?” “Why of course, my usual kid-transport car is the Mini Cooper, Dave is definitely the mini-van driver.” Ugh, this is going downhill fast. Let’s review the bidding here: 1. Excessive Speeding, 2. No Insurance card, 3. Expired License Plates.
Max is idly watching the drama unfold and suddenly asks, “Mommy, you’re in big trouble, aren’t you.” Yes, Max, I am. “Are you going to JAIL?” Yes, Max, probably. “But who will take care of me?” I think they let minors accompany their mothers in jail, I’m fairly certain of that. “Miss, you realize that I write you up for a lot of violations today.” “Yes sir, but you look all kind and nice, maybe just the speeding ticket today?” And so, with a little charm, humility, and a four-year old in the car, I was written up only for a speeding ticket. With few conditions – online-driving course if I don’t want the ticket on my record, and I have to go back to the station to retrieve my license with $75 in exact change in hand. Perfect, this day is not completely lost, I will get back downtown before 9:00 p.m. Little did I know that picking up my license would require a three-hour wait. I was like Gilligan on a tour going no where, with the endless questions at the police station by Max, “Which one is your cell mommy? Where do we sleep tonight?”
The reason I bring this story up now? Ah, that on-line defensive driving course. Four-hours of online instruction done ‘at your leisure’ in the confines of your home computer. I mean really, how bad could this be? Of course, if you are a procrastinator like me, four-leisurely hours turns into an all night cram session with a 10/31 deadline looming over me like an ill-fitting Power Ranger costume. The course starts with a pre-test to see how good of a defensive driver you actually are. “40% score. You suck, step it up a notch sister, otherwise you’ll be repeating this course.” 40%, can you believe it? Crap, now I really do have to pay attention for the final test. I need a 76% to not have to repeat the course.
After hours of endless defensive driving skills being soaked into me like a hailstorm on a rainy day, I was ready to take my final test in the hopes of passing it. I’m sure it didn’t help that I actually took the test with a glass of wine in hand (probably akin to drunk driving, but hey, they didn’t say in the rule book that I couldn’t drink while taking the test), but I was ready for day of reckoning. And the final score, a whopping 92%. Yep, I passed. Whew, because having to retake the exam would likely be as much fun as poking my eyeballs with toothpicks.
Moral of the story – have Dave do all of the driving. After all, it was his fault, right? Might as well be behind the driver’s wheel if you’re going to get blamed.
,
On a summer night not long ago, Dave played “Super Dad” and took both Jack and Delaney to the Field Museum to sleep with the Dinosaurs. As the largest Dinosaur is named “Sue”, I found it oddly appropriate that they could sleep under my namesake, and I could wish them sweet dreams from afar. Bliss – one kid for one night, how rough is my life?
In keeping Max entertained with all things train-related, I planned a special excursion to the suburbs to have dinner at none other than the “Choo Choo Restaurant.” Yes, you heard right, a restaurant dedicated to train enthusiasts everywhere. They actually send your food to you, from the kitchen, on a specially modified Lionel Train that magically stops where you are sitting so you too, can have some ‘train food.’ Max was in pure heaven, a four-year old’s fantasy come true.
After dinner, I looked forward to a leisurely ride home back to the city (if I could actually navigate my car home), a little R&R with Max before the tornado of the others came barreling through the home. “Max, let’s go down Dempster home, I think the Kennedy is going to be a little heavy with traffic.” “Okay, mommy, whatever, can we back to the Choo Choo restaurant?” “No, we were just there, and you know that the suburbs give mommy the hives.” “Mommy, what’s the noise behind us?” “I have no idea what you are talking about, what noise?” “You know, the siren mommy, with the lights on?” S***, you’ve got to be kidding me, I’m getting pulled over? For what?
“Miss, do you know why you’re getting pulled over.” “No clue officer, seriously, is my headlight out?” “No, you were going 53 in a 30.” “What, that four-lane road also known as Dempster, is only freaking 30 miles and hour.” “Umm, I live in Chicago, I have no idea where I am. I’m sure I wasn’t going that fast.” “No, you were. Can I see your license and insurance card?” “Sure…here’s my license, and…umm…let me look for my insurance card.” Crap, I have not one, not two, but three expired cards in the car. Where is the real one I need? “Miss, did you find your insurance card?” “Umm, how about a couple of expired ones? Will that work?” “No Miss, you must have a current card.” “I know it’s updated, it’s my husband’s fault. You know how men are.” “Excuse me?” “Oh, you know, Dave probably took the car and forgot to put the insurance card back in. My husband, if only you knew him.” “I’ll be right back.”
And so the agony of not having an insurance card on hand, speeding in a 30 mile an hour zone, and having Max in the car with me suddenly was giving a very large headache. “Miss, I have a few more questions to ask you.” Shoot – let’s just get this over with. “Do you realize that your license plate tags are also expired?” Crap. I cannot believe this. “I told you about my husband, right? Seriously, this is his car. You should be ticketing him, not me. All of this is his fault, even driving too fast, I’m sure of it.” “Your husband drives a mini-van as his primary vehicle?” “Why of course, my usual kid-transport car is the Mini Cooper, Dave is definitely the mini-van driver.” Ugh, this is going downhill fast. Let’s review the bidding here: 1. Excessive Speeding, 2. No Insurance card, 3. Expired License Plates.
Max is idly watching the drama unfold and suddenly asks, “Mommy, you’re in big trouble, aren’t you.” Yes, Max, I am. “Are you going to JAIL?” Yes, Max, probably. “But who will take care of me?” I think they let minors accompany their mothers in jail, I’m fairly certain of that. “Miss, you realize that I write you up for a lot of violations today.” “Yes sir, but you look all kind and nice, maybe just the speeding ticket today?” And so, with a little charm, humility, and a four-year old in the car, I was written up only for a speeding ticket. With few conditions – online-driving course if I don’t want the ticket on my record, and I have to go back to the station to retrieve my license with $75 in exact change in hand. Perfect, this day is not completely lost, I will get back downtown before 9:00 p.m. Little did I know that picking up my license would require a three-hour wait. I was like Gilligan on a tour going no where, with the endless questions at the police station by Max, “Which one is your cell mommy? Where do we sleep tonight?”
The reason I bring this story up now? Ah, that on-line defensive driving course. Four-hours of online instruction done ‘at your leisure’ in the confines of your home computer. I mean really, how bad could this be? Of course, if you are a procrastinator like me, four-leisurely hours turns into an all night cram session with a 10/31 deadline looming over me like an ill-fitting Power Ranger costume. The course starts with a pre-test to see how good of a defensive driver you actually are. “40% score. You suck, step it up a notch sister, otherwise you’ll be repeating this course.” 40%, can you believe it? Crap, now I really do have to pay attention for the final test. I need a 76% to not have to repeat the course.
After hours of endless defensive driving skills being soaked into me like a hailstorm on a rainy day, I was ready to take my final test in the hopes of passing it. I’m sure it didn’t help that I actually took the test with a glass of wine in hand (probably akin to drunk driving, but hey, they didn’t say in the rule book that I couldn’t drink while taking the test), but I was ready for day of reckoning. And the final score, a whopping 92%. Yep, I passed. Whew, because having to retake the exam would likely be as much fun as poking my eyeballs with toothpicks.
Moral of the story – have Dave do all of the driving. After all, it was his fault, right? Might as well be behind the driver’s wheel if you’re going to get blamed.
,
The Halloween Costume
The Halloween Costume
Nothing brings more fear into a parent than the dreaded, “What are going to be for Halloween?” Long gone are the days of the cute costumes, from the Energizer Bunny to the tame Lion. In the early days, (or as Delaney says, “The Old Days”) I tried to Martha-Stewart a costume for the kids. Imagine trying to build an Eiffel tower out of toothpicks or creating a pumpkin costume using real, not stuffed pumpkins. The Internet, and the many choices of costumes, has saved me from confines of pipe cleaners, felt and a glue gun. The choices are endless, yet virtually all the same for our family.
Two years ago, both Jack and Max started down their singular path of costume greatness. Max, and his unbelievable fascination for all things train related, had to be none other than Thomas the Train. Jack, and his love for all things Power Rangers, had decided to make his way through all of the assorted Power Ranger colors – “Mommy, this year I want to be the Red Ranger. Next year the Black Ranger. The following year, the Green Ranger.” Thankfully, there are enough Power Rangers to last Jack through his college years and beyond without fear of repeating.
As any good parent does after Halloween, I quickly burn the costume, along with the excess amounts of candy left over. I call it my Halloween Séance Ritual. No sooner had I disposed of Jack’s Power Ranger Costume and Max’s Thomas the Train costume than Halloween 2007 came calling. And what do my boys want to be for Halloween this year? Yep, Thomas the Train and a Power Ranger. “What – but I just got rid of your costumes from last year? Ugh…isn’t there an eternal Power Ranger costume that I can buy that grows with you?” And so, in an effort to quickly reprise their roles in 2006, I bought new and improved costumes that looked remarkably like the ones I had just given away. Jack’s costume was identical in every way as his costume in 2006. And this my friends, was a problem.
“Su – what is up with Jack’s Power Ranger costume?”, Dave exclaimed. “I have no idea what you are talking about Dave, it’s just like last years.” “Yes, and that’s the problem. He’s grown since last year – I think you got him the same size as last year.” And Jack being completely oblivious to the most obvious problem, did not realize that his manhood was significantly compromised and as Dave said, “Geez, were you trying to ‘Power Ranger Camel Crotch’ this year? No way I can take him out trick or treating – he may never bear children again.” Crap, the costume is a little…I mean…way too small, especially in a certain region that may impact Jack’s fertility in later years. “Thank you Mommy, I love my Power Ranger costume.” “It’s not, umm, a wee bit tight for you?” “Oh no, it’s fine” Jack said in a higher than usual falsetto voice. And so, 2007 will go down as the year of the too-snug, too-tight, almost R rated, Power Ranger Jack.
This year, as usual, Jack asked to once again be a Power Ranger. “What, remember last year when you couldn’t cross your legs for 3 months because of your Power Ranger costume?” And so, I began a search for the perfect Power Ranger costume. “Look Jack, this one glows in the dark, how cool is that?” Perfect, a Glow In the Dark Power Ranger costume, just a click away from Halloween Happiness. Crap, it’s $39.99, a bit over budget for Halloween Happiness, but that’s okay, it’s only September, I’ll just wait until Disney online runs one of its daily sales and save at least $10-$20.
Well, as luck (or more specifically, my brand of luck) would have it, the costume went on sale. Now down to $19.99, I’m ready to pull the trigger and order away. “Jack, good news, your costume went on sale, it will be here within a week, isn’t that awesome?” And as I get ready to select the costume, credit card in hand, I went to select the size. What? Only XXS and XS, better known as “Eunich” and “One Nut Jack”. Crap, Dave will kill me if I once again screw this one up. I got it – I will call every Disney store in the Midwest in search for the infamous glow-in-the-dark Power Ranger costume. “I’m sorry Miss, that costume is only available on-line. There are no more Medium’s left, just XXS and XS.” S***, I screwed this one up, didn’t I?
“Jack, so sorry, but they no longer have any Glow In Dark Power Ranger costumes in your size.” “That’s okay mommy, you can get me a smaller size.” “Umm, no, that’s not going to happen.” What about a different Power Ranger? “No, thank you, I really wanted to glow in the dark.” And so my search began, with less than week before Halloween for the perfect Glow In The Dark Halloween Happiness costume for Jack, who has suffered through too many ill-fitting costumes. After going to at least a half dozen costume stores, with no luck, I found myself scouring the dark corners of the Internet hoping for some costume that would satisfy Jack’s need to be nearly invisible. And as luck would have, I found the perfect Spider Man Glow in the dark Costume. And in his size! Of course, with only few days left before Halloween, I hit the “Overnight” charges button. Yep – you guessed it, my original hunt to save a few dollars has now cost me more than the original full-price Glow in The Dark Power Ranger costume.
The lesson learned, “Jack’s ‘boys’ are worth at least a bit more than the $10 I was trying to save.”
Nothing brings more fear into a parent than the dreaded, “What are going to be for Halloween?” Long gone are the days of the cute costumes, from the Energizer Bunny to the tame Lion. In the early days, (or as Delaney says, “The Old Days”) I tried to Martha-Stewart a costume for the kids. Imagine trying to build an Eiffel tower out of toothpicks or creating a pumpkin costume using real, not stuffed pumpkins. The Internet, and the many choices of costumes, has saved me from confines of pipe cleaners, felt and a glue gun. The choices are endless, yet virtually all the same for our family.
Two years ago, both Jack and Max started down their singular path of costume greatness. Max, and his unbelievable fascination for all things train related, had to be none other than Thomas the Train. Jack, and his love for all things Power Rangers, had decided to make his way through all of the assorted Power Ranger colors – “Mommy, this year I want to be the Red Ranger. Next year the Black Ranger. The following year, the Green Ranger.” Thankfully, there are enough Power Rangers to last Jack through his college years and beyond without fear of repeating.
As any good parent does after Halloween, I quickly burn the costume, along with the excess amounts of candy left over. I call it my Halloween Séance Ritual. No sooner had I disposed of Jack’s Power Ranger Costume and Max’s Thomas the Train costume than Halloween 2007 came calling. And what do my boys want to be for Halloween this year? Yep, Thomas the Train and a Power Ranger. “What – but I just got rid of your costumes from last year? Ugh…isn’t there an eternal Power Ranger costume that I can buy that grows with you?” And so, in an effort to quickly reprise their roles in 2006, I bought new and improved costumes that looked remarkably like the ones I had just given away. Jack’s costume was identical in every way as his costume in 2006. And this my friends, was a problem.
“Su – what is up with Jack’s Power Ranger costume?”, Dave exclaimed. “I have no idea what you are talking about Dave, it’s just like last years.” “Yes, and that’s the problem. He’s grown since last year – I think you got him the same size as last year.” And Jack being completely oblivious to the most obvious problem, did not realize that his manhood was significantly compromised and as Dave said, “Geez, were you trying to ‘Power Ranger Camel Crotch’ this year? No way I can take him out trick or treating – he may never bear children again.” Crap, the costume is a little…I mean…way too small, especially in a certain region that may impact Jack’s fertility in later years. “Thank you Mommy, I love my Power Ranger costume.” “It’s not, umm, a wee bit tight for you?” “Oh no, it’s fine” Jack said in a higher than usual falsetto voice. And so, 2007 will go down as the year of the too-snug, too-tight, almost R rated, Power Ranger Jack.
This year, as usual, Jack asked to once again be a Power Ranger. “What, remember last year when you couldn’t cross your legs for 3 months because of your Power Ranger costume?” And so, I began a search for the perfect Power Ranger costume. “Look Jack, this one glows in the dark, how cool is that?” Perfect, a Glow In the Dark Power Ranger costume, just a click away from Halloween Happiness. Crap, it’s $39.99, a bit over budget for Halloween Happiness, but that’s okay, it’s only September, I’ll just wait until Disney online runs one of its daily sales and save at least $10-$20.
Well, as luck (or more specifically, my brand of luck) would have it, the costume went on sale. Now down to $19.99, I’m ready to pull the trigger and order away. “Jack, good news, your costume went on sale, it will be here within a week, isn’t that awesome?” And as I get ready to select the costume, credit card in hand, I went to select the size. What? Only XXS and XS, better known as “Eunich” and “One Nut Jack”. Crap, Dave will kill me if I once again screw this one up. I got it – I will call every Disney store in the Midwest in search for the infamous glow-in-the-dark Power Ranger costume. “I’m sorry Miss, that costume is only available on-line. There are no more Medium’s left, just XXS and XS.” S***, I screwed this one up, didn’t I?
“Jack, so sorry, but they no longer have any Glow In Dark Power Ranger costumes in your size.” “That’s okay mommy, you can get me a smaller size.” “Umm, no, that’s not going to happen.” What about a different Power Ranger? “No, thank you, I really wanted to glow in the dark.” And so my search began, with less than week before Halloween for the perfect Glow In The Dark Halloween Happiness costume for Jack, who has suffered through too many ill-fitting costumes. After going to at least a half dozen costume stores, with no luck, I found myself scouring the dark corners of the Internet hoping for some costume that would satisfy Jack’s need to be nearly invisible. And as luck would have, I found the perfect Spider Man Glow in the dark Costume. And in his size! Of course, with only few days left before Halloween, I hit the “Overnight” charges button. Yep – you guessed it, my original hunt to save a few dollars has now cost me more than the original full-price Glow in The Dark Power Ranger costume.
The lesson learned, “Jack’s ‘boys’ are worth at least a bit more than the $10 I was trying to save.”
The Season of Su
Alright, it's been pathetically long since I've posted. I'd like to blame technical difficulties, which are true, but the reality is it shouldn't take me four weeks to figure out that while I can see my blog, I can't post to it. After all, Dave is cruising down the Internet Highway with Yahoo - I blame it on the fact that the log-in screen changed to Google and I'm fairly certain that is taboo in our house. Or the simple truth - this time of year is affectionately referred to as "The Season of Su." For those that are unaware, from Halloween until January 1st, I kick it into high gear, summon my inner Martha Stewart, and become the hostess with the mostess.
Case in point - follow my upcoming weekends with me:
Thanksgiving:
Known to some as the day we celebrate the founding of our country and gorge ourselves with the turkey and the trimmings. Simply known in my household of "How many different ways can you cook a turkey." Yes, this year, I believe we are trying roasting, frying and smoking an assortment of birds for the carnivores. Our experiments will be tried by none other, than 31 family members congregating at our house. This is enough to send most people into epileptic shock - I on the other hand just consider this the appetizer to upcoming parties.
Lakeview Pantry Toy Drive - 12/5 (also known as 'one week later'):
For the past ten years, we have graciously hosted the Lakeview Pantry Toy Drive. What started as a small dinner party in our house, has turned into the party of the season. 31 people? Nah, that's chump change. Try 500 people at Murphy's Bleachers for the party of the year, with none other than me and a couple of girlfriends leading the charge.
Santa Party and Train Ride - 12/12 (also known as 'one week later'):
Five years ago (because I was clearly party-unstable), we opted to host a Breakfast with Santa open house. 75 people showed up that first year to see Santa, who knew that Santa was such a draw for the young kids. This year, in an effort to outdo and 'keep things fresh', we've opted for Dinner with Santa and chartering our own L train. Yep, you heard that right, we are hijacking the CTA for our own brand of fun. And unlike years past, this is no longer a free party - you pay to play. Who knew that 286 people would want to fork over their hard earned bucks for a chance to pretend like they are an early evening commuter.
Throw in there a couple of business trips (Philly and Boca Raton), a wedding, two holiday parties for work, and an anniversary - you have the making of "The Season of Su".
In other words, I promise to try to find time to post, but the postings may be few and far between 'The Season of Su'. As an added bonus, I'm actually posting two other postings that have been languishing in my 'need to post' folder!
Cheers!
Case in point - follow my upcoming weekends with me:
Thanksgiving:
Known to some as the day we celebrate the founding of our country and gorge ourselves with the turkey and the trimmings. Simply known in my household of "How many different ways can you cook a turkey." Yes, this year, I believe we are trying roasting, frying and smoking an assortment of birds for the carnivores. Our experiments will be tried by none other, than 31 family members congregating at our house. This is enough to send most people into epileptic shock - I on the other hand just consider this the appetizer to upcoming parties.
Lakeview Pantry Toy Drive - 12/5 (also known as 'one week later'):
For the past ten years, we have graciously hosted the Lakeview Pantry Toy Drive. What started as a small dinner party in our house, has turned into the party of the season. 31 people? Nah, that's chump change. Try 500 people at Murphy's Bleachers for the party of the year, with none other than me and a couple of girlfriends leading the charge.
Santa Party and Train Ride - 12/12 (also known as 'one week later'):
Five years ago (because I was clearly party-unstable), we opted to host a Breakfast with Santa open house. 75 people showed up that first year to see Santa, who knew that Santa was such a draw for the young kids. This year, in an effort to outdo and 'keep things fresh', we've opted for Dinner with Santa and chartering our own L train. Yep, you heard that right, we are hijacking the CTA for our own brand of fun. And unlike years past, this is no longer a free party - you pay to play. Who knew that 286 people would want to fork over their hard earned bucks for a chance to pretend like they are an early evening commuter.
Throw in there a couple of business trips (Philly and Boca Raton), a wedding, two holiday parties for work, and an anniversary - you have the making of "The Season of Su".
In other words, I promise to try to find time to post, but the postings may be few and far between 'The Season of Su'. As an added bonus, I'm actually posting two other postings that have been languishing in my 'need to post' folder!
Cheers!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Apple Cider Century
The Apple Cider Century
This weekend was our first weekend back to Michigan since ‘The Great Race’, of which my training consisted of one 20 minute stationary bike ride, all of 5 miles, in which I did not pass out as once feared. In other words, bring on the bikes and the kids, I’m ready to go.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Rescue Pet
Yikes...sorry it's been 10 days since I posted last, a bit crazy at work/home but voila, enjoy!
The Rescue Pet
Most phone calls received at work from home fall under the ‘hmm…wonder if I should answer this one or not.’ Rarely do I receive the phone call with, “Mommy – I just wanted to call you and say how much I love you and miss you.” Instead, it’s usually “Mommy, (insert child's name) (insert bad behavior)me!” (i.e. Mommy, Max hit me!; Mommy, Jack took my cookie away from me!; Mommy, Delaney teased me!” Which usually has me saying, “Call you dad, I’m busy.” To which it’s almost always said, “But we only know your number, not his.” I believe I am going to get tattoo’s of Dave’s number inked on each of the kids, that way I can actually get 10 minutes of work done…in a row.
Imagine my surprise last week when I received a phone call without any of the above complaints or need to referee from afar. Instead, I received a phone call with the most ‘exciting’ news, “Mommywerescuedananimalfromthealley.” What? What exactly did he/she say? (When they talk that fast and that high pitched, they all sound the same). Which kid is this? “Mommy, it’s Delaney, weren’t you listening to me?” Umm…not really. OK, let’s try this again. “Delaney, what exactly did you say, and say it slower please.” “Mommy, we rescued an animal from the alley. We have a new pet, can we keep it?”
Of course, my first response, as any responsible city parent would say, “Delaney, PUT THE RAT BACK IN THE ALLEY!” In my world, there are really only a couple of animals that meander in the alley, looking all sad and “Please help rescue me.” 1. Rat; 2. Squirrel; or 3. Alley Cat. While all of the above are furry and range in order of cuteness from “Yikes” to “Hmm…maybe”, there is absolutely no way any of those animals are to find their way in to my house. Side story here…
…five years ago, when we were rehabbing our house we moved next door during the construction. In the middle of the night, while Dave was traveling, I heard the scurry of itty-bitty feet on the tile floor of the kitchen. With no one to yell or scream to, I did as any Kenmore neighbor would do at 3:00 a.m. I called our neighbor Adam. “Adam, umm, can you help me? There’s a RAT in the kitchen, and I’m home alone with the kids.” And in typical Adam fashion, he came storming through the door, made a lot of ruckus, grabbed a trashcan and went outside to the dumpster. He banged it around a couple of time for good measure, and came back in saying, “Your place is safe now, you can go back to bed.” Which at 3:00 a.m., was exactly what I wanted to hear.
The next morning at work, after I was clearly awake, caffeinated and reflecting upon the events of the evening, I called Adam saying, “Adam – you know, I recall hearing you throw away the rat in the dumpster with a lot of commotion, but I’m not sure if I actually recall seeing the rat that you threw away. Any chance you were just tired and going through the motions so you could get back to bed?” “Yep – gotta go!” And that is how we moved from Kenmore to the Hyatt while our house was being rehabbed.
I digress – when Delaney called with her rescue animal story, I immediately jumped to conclusions assuming that the rat from 5 years ago has come back to haunt me and now Adam moved so there was no where for me to go.
“Mommy – it’s not a rat!” Umm…okay. “Put whatever furry animal that looks all helpless and wounded back in the alley to die Delaney, after all, the alleys are like the island of misfit, hopeless animals. Stay inside.” “Mommy, it’s not furry.” Geez, what kind of animal did the kids rescue? “Mommy, we rescued a goldfish!” A what? A goldfish? Who goes dumpster diving in the alley for a goldfish? Ah, yes, my city kids. They also prefer to play on concrete as opposed to grass.
And so it turns out that someone at the end the alley decided to throw away their aquarium filled with nasty green water. For all I know, it could have been a science experiment gone awry. And lo and behold, there was according to the kids, “A little goldfish that needed a new home”. On my way home from work, I stopped at Target and bought the perfect, small, city-like aquarium for the fish that my children have affectionately called, “Fishy-Fish” because clearly, they are all captain of the obvious here.
When Dave and I returned home from work and moved “Fishy-Fish” to his new home, we looked at the fish swimming around in tight circles and eyed each other saying, “Umm…that’s not a goldfish, is it?” Nope, not a goldfish. More like a really large goldfish or a baby koi. Yep, that poor goldfish/koi traded in Shreks Swamp for the cleaner waters of the equivalent of a puddle. The fish will be like veal – tied to a small environment so it can never get really big.
And that my friends is the story of the Rescue Pet. You just can’t make this stuff up sometimes. Really.
The Rescue Pet
Most phone calls received at work from home fall under the ‘hmm…wonder if I should answer this one or not.’ Rarely do I receive the phone call with, “Mommy – I just wanted to call you and say how much I love you and miss you.” Instead, it’s usually “Mommy, (insert child's name) (insert bad behavior)
Imagine my surprise last week when I received a phone call without any of the above complaints or need to referee from afar. Instead, I received a phone call with the most ‘exciting’ news, “Mommywerescuedananimalfromthealley.” What? What exactly did he/she say? (When they talk that fast and that high pitched, they all sound the same). Which kid is this? “Mommy, it’s Delaney, weren’t you listening to me?” Umm…not really. OK, let’s try this again. “Delaney, what exactly did you say, and say it slower please.” “Mommy, we rescued an animal from the alley. We have a new pet, can we keep it?”
Of course, my first response, as any responsible city parent would say, “Delaney, PUT THE RAT BACK IN THE ALLEY!” In my world, there are really only a couple of animals that meander in the alley, looking all sad and “Please help rescue me.” 1. Rat; 2. Squirrel; or 3. Alley Cat. While all of the above are furry and range in order of cuteness from “Yikes” to “Hmm…maybe”, there is absolutely no way any of those animals are to find their way in to my house. Side story here…
…five years ago, when we were rehabbing our house we moved next door during the construction. In the middle of the night, while Dave was traveling, I heard the scurry of itty-bitty feet on the tile floor of the kitchen. With no one to yell or scream to, I did as any Kenmore neighbor would do at 3:00 a.m. I called our neighbor Adam. “Adam, umm, can you help me? There’s a RAT in the kitchen, and I’m home alone with the kids.” And in typical Adam fashion, he came storming through the door, made a lot of ruckus, grabbed a trashcan and went outside to the dumpster. He banged it around a couple of time for good measure, and came back in saying, “Your place is safe now, you can go back to bed.” Which at 3:00 a.m., was exactly what I wanted to hear.
The next morning at work, after I was clearly awake, caffeinated and reflecting upon the events of the evening, I called Adam saying, “Adam – you know, I recall hearing you throw away the rat in the dumpster with a lot of commotion, but I’m not sure if I actually recall seeing the rat that you threw away. Any chance you were just tired and going through the motions so you could get back to bed?” “Yep – gotta go!” And that is how we moved from Kenmore to the Hyatt while our house was being rehabbed.
I digress – when Delaney called with her rescue animal story, I immediately jumped to conclusions assuming that the rat from 5 years ago has come back to haunt me and now Adam moved so there was no where for me to go.
“Mommy – it’s not a rat!” Umm…okay. “Put whatever furry animal that looks all helpless and wounded back in the alley to die Delaney, after all, the alleys are like the island of misfit, hopeless animals. Stay inside.” “Mommy, it’s not furry.” Geez, what kind of animal did the kids rescue? “Mommy, we rescued a goldfish!” A what? A goldfish? Who goes dumpster diving in the alley for a goldfish? Ah, yes, my city kids. They also prefer to play on concrete as opposed to grass.
And so it turns out that someone at the end the alley decided to throw away their aquarium filled with nasty green water. For all I know, it could have been a science experiment gone awry. And lo and behold, there was according to the kids, “A little goldfish that needed a new home”. On my way home from work, I stopped at Target and bought the perfect, small, city-like aquarium for the fish that my children have affectionately called, “Fishy-Fish” because clearly, they are all captain of the obvious here.
When Dave and I returned home from work and moved “Fishy-Fish” to his new home, we looked at the fish swimming around in tight circles and eyed each other saying, “Umm…that’s not a goldfish, is it?” Nope, not a goldfish. More like a really large goldfish or a baby koi. Yep, that poor goldfish/koi traded in Shreks Swamp for the cleaner waters of the equivalent of a puddle. The fish will be like veal – tied to a small environment so it can never get really big.
And that my friends is the story of the Rescue Pet. You just can’t make this stuff up sometimes. Really.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Sneaky One
The Sneaky One
There were three wishes that we had for the first week of school:
1. The kids would actually be able to find their classrooms and subsequently be able to tell us which classroom they were in (it’s been a long summer….)
2. The kids would wake up before the first bell rings at school and at least have one eye propped up ready for learning
3. We would avoid at all costs any trips to the principal’s office, calls from the school counselor, calls from any of their teachers – in other words, good reports for all of the kids!
I suppose two out three isn’t so bad, is it?
It’s true, our last wish did not come true, perhaps we did not wish hard enough, or a more likely scenario we did not emphasize that seeing the principal so early in the school year is not necessarily a good thing.
There are many descriptions we’ve used for Max – if he was our first, he’d be our only; he’s ‘high-spirited’, he’s Dave’s son and not mine (really….), etc. And now we add one more moniker to him, The Escape Artist. By virtue of his new name, you can surmise the flurry of activity that lead to the dreaded phone call:
“Hi, this is Max’s teacher. We had an incident today.” Crap…we’re only on day four of school, couldn’t he at least get through the first week? “Well, as we were going to breakfast, we realized that we were missing Max. We immediately called the office and started a search for Max.” Great, now the principal knows that she has to keep an eye out for the sneaky one…I was hoping, as usual, to skate by the year flying under the radar, not above it. Thanks Max. “It turns out he left via the fire escape door and was found outside in the playground. A parent found him and brought him to the office.” Well, you have to give the kid some credit for knowing the playground is at least more fun than cafeteria food.
And that, my friends completed our first week of school. Dave and I quickly arm wrestled for who was going to get the ‘opportunity’ to pick up Max and steer him in the right direction of life, and at least directionally back to the inside of school, not outside. So Dave did as any good father would do – talked about life lessons of staying in school, the streets are a mean ugly place for a four-year old all over a hearty breakfast in the Loop. After all, he was outside freaking out the teachers while the rest of the kids ate their cereal, he was hungry. I know what you’re thinking, because frankly I’m thinking the same thing, ‘you rewarded his actions with breakfast?’ This small piece of information was not discovered until days later, apparently in the ‘don’t tell mommy’ category. Why is this important – well, if you acted up and your parents came and fed you breakfast, you just might think that was a good thing, not a bad thing. Parenting 101 – don’t encourage bad behavior by rewarding with a nice treat like breakfast.
Fast forward to yesterday, also known as “Day 5” of school:
“Hi, this is Max’s teacher, we had another incident today.” Why, oh why can’t my incidents be the ‘he wet his pants and had an accident and we don’t have a change of underwear at school? “We sat down to journal” umm…he’s four, what is he going to journal about…”and Max did not want to journal. He apparently didn’t want anyone else to journal either as he began to take their journals away and became very disruptive.” Apparently, so disruptive that the security guard and school counselor was called…on a four-year old.
And so we have learned the hard way that Dave’s son, also known as Max, is not just sneaky, he’s sneaky smart. I have also learned from my mother-in-law that Dave was the exact same way at this age, so I am genetically not responsible for his behavior….unless he’s sweet, loving, cute and funny. Then I take full credit! We are crossing our fingers that we end this week on a high note and I can stop my walk of shame to his classroom as other moms point their fingers mumbling under their breath, “Oh, there’s Max’s mom.” I’m thinking of putting in our application for ‘Super Nanny’ and see if she can herd cats or tame the wild child named Max. Our precious, beautiful, wonderful son Max who is never-hardly-some-of-time-ok-a-lot-of-the-time-Dave’s-son a little mischievous, a little naughty, but awfully cute and lovable.
There were three wishes that we had for the first week of school:
1. The kids would actually be able to find their classrooms and subsequently be able to tell us which classroom they were in (it’s been a long summer….)
2. The kids would wake up before the first bell rings at school and at least have one eye propped up ready for learning
3. We would avoid at all costs any trips to the principal’s office, calls from the school counselor, calls from any of their teachers – in other words, good reports for all of the kids!
I suppose two out three isn’t so bad, is it?
It’s true, our last wish did not come true, perhaps we did not wish hard enough, or a more likely scenario we did not emphasize that seeing the principal so early in the school year is not necessarily a good thing.
There are many descriptions we’ve used for Max – if he was our first, he’d be our only; he’s ‘high-spirited’, he’s Dave’s son and not mine (really….), etc. And now we add one more moniker to him, The Escape Artist. By virtue of his new name, you can surmise the flurry of activity that lead to the dreaded phone call:
“Hi, this is Max’s teacher. We had an incident today.” Crap…we’re only on day four of school, couldn’t he at least get through the first week? “Well, as we were going to breakfast, we realized that we were missing Max. We immediately called the office and started a search for Max.” Great, now the principal knows that she has to keep an eye out for the sneaky one…I was hoping, as usual, to skate by the year flying under the radar, not above it. Thanks Max. “It turns out he left via the fire escape door and was found outside in the playground. A parent found him and brought him to the office.” Well, you have to give the kid some credit for knowing the playground is at least more fun than cafeteria food.
And that, my friends completed our first week of school. Dave and I quickly arm wrestled for who was going to get the ‘opportunity’ to pick up Max and steer him in the right direction of life, and at least directionally back to the inside of school, not outside. So Dave did as any good father would do – talked about life lessons of staying in school, the streets are a mean ugly place for a four-year old all over a hearty breakfast in the Loop. After all, he was outside freaking out the teachers while the rest of the kids ate their cereal, he was hungry. I know what you’re thinking, because frankly I’m thinking the same thing, ‘you rewarded his actions with breakfast?’ This small piece of information was not discovered until days later, apparently in the ‘don’t tell mommy’ category. Why is this important – well, if you acted up and your parents came and fed you breakfast, you just might think that was a good thing, not a bad thing. Parenting 101 – don’t encourage bad behavior by rewarding with a nice treat like breakfast.
Fast forward to yesterday, also known as “Day 5” of school:
“Hi, this is Max’s teacher, we had another incident today.” Why, oh why can’t my incidents be the ‘he wet his pants and had an accident and we don’t have a change of underwear at school? “We sat down to journal” umm…he’s four, what is he going to journal about…”and Max did not want to journal. He apparently didn’t want anyone else to journal either as he began to take their journals away and became very disruptive.” Apparently, so disruptive that the security guard and school counselor was called…on a four-year old.
And so we have learned the hard way that Dave’s son, also known as Max, is not just sneaky, he’s sneaky smart. I have also learned from my mother-in-law that Dave was the exact same way at this age, so I am genetically not responsible for his behavior….unless he’s sweet, loving, cute and funny. Then I take full credit! We are crossing our fingers that we end this week on a high note and I can stop my walk of shame to his classroom as other moms point their fingers mumbling under their breath, “Oh, there’s Max’s mom.” I’m thinking of putting in our application for ‘Super Nanny’ and see if she can herd cats or tame the wild child named Max. Our precious, beautiful, wonderful son Max who is never-hardly-some-of-time-ok-a-lot-of-the-time-Dave’s-son a little mischievous, a little naughty, but awfully cute and lovable.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The First Day of School
The First Day of School
Nothing says summer is over than my traditional last minute run to Target to scrape the bottom of the sales barrels trying to scrounge up a pink eraser that is not half chewed, pencils that actually have lead in them and paper that has lines on it…in a straight line. And every year I say, “Next year, I swear I’ll get my act together and shop earlier.”
Running in the hall or building - Come on, seriously, we need a parent teacher conference for this? All of my kids have violated this rule.
Fighting – two people, no injuries – O.K., Max is guilty of at least trying to slam his teachers fingers in a drawer, but it ended fairly when at the conclusion of the day, Max jumped on his lego tower puncturing his groin, a trip to the ER and just missing his testicle sidestepping the dreaded nickname, “One Nut Max”.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Bomb Bag
The Bomb Bag
The travel curse comes in small, medium and large sizes. And on some occasions, super-sized. I’m never quite sure when I travel, which travel happy meal I’ve ordered, and it’s not typically until I’m at home and can finally reflect on my trips, that I can classify what falls where.
Only super-duper, “you’ve got to be kidding me” curses fall under the Super Sized category. Like when I actually, truthfully, got on the wrong airplane and flew to Madison, WI instead of Houston, TX. Imagine my surprise when we landed only 45 minutes after take-off! Or how about the time when I got stuck on a runway for four hours, to turn around, go back to gate and subsequently find out they gave another passenger my first class seat…on the same flight apparently to no where. And when I complained, “Missy – one more word out of you and I’m calling security!” Or finding out on my way to Florida that we were being denied boarding because Delaney was on the no-fly list.
Which brings me to a recent trip to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, or more importantly one of two cursed hubs that I fly between. It all started out relatively calm. Well, I suppose I should know better. My flight landed on time, my first set of meetings went without a hitch, which only meant the travel gods had a good one in store for me.
After leaving the confines of the Sofitel and catching a cab in Philly to the train station, it appears that I had picked up the cab driver who either was sidelining as a suicide driver, or was gunning for the world record of how long he could stay awake. I should have gotten out of the cab when he almost, literally, hit a pedestrian crossing the street. Both the man he almost hit, and myself managed to lock eyes with a look of, “Help!” But no, it was too early, I was too tired and the train station was only 5 blocks from the hotel.
As we’re pulling up to the train station, I reach down into my purse (also known as the black hole of every scrap of paper less than 3” square) to find the small fortune it costs to go a mere few blocks. And after the squeal of screeching tires, foreign language cursing and shattered glass, I found myself in a small heap in the seat well of the taxi. It’s true, my taxi driver had chosen apparently to maximize every last mile on the trip and step on the gas, instead of slowing down and stopping at the train station. I made quite the entry, and unfortunately, there were no red carpets, lights or camera for my grand entrance. I believe I literally said as I hobbled out of the car to find a policeman, “And I’m not paying for that ride!” Ah, such clarity of thought, huh?
Well, in normal circumstances, a taxi ride accident would only qualify as a large-sized travel curse. The combination of the taxi ride, and my subsequent return flight home, more than qualifies as “super-size” material, and definitely ranks as one of the top five travel curses of all time.
I have to do a side story here for a minute. My husband Dave and I are both independent, stubborn, and occasionally share things. For example, we both have the same eye prescription and share contacts and glasses. We share a glass of wine when the kids are in bed. We share the same work title, the same birthday month, the same kids. We used to even share the same car when we were a one car family. And the one oddity that we share – yes, we share one rollerbag. It’s strange, it’s weird, I don’t even understand it. The theory, being of course, is that we should never both be out of town at the same time, why get two rollerbags? And so it goes, that while we both travel extensively for our jobs, we rotate the one black rollerbag between us.
Back to our regularly scheduled program, and on with my story. After limping along after my taxi ride from hell, getting to Harrisburg, PA in one piece, returning back to Philly to catch a flight home, I landed the equivalent of the TSA lottery – the dreaded SSSS, which stands for “Secondary Security Screening Selection.” In other words, bend over, strip down, let the magic wand, paper wipes and TSA agent feel you, your bag, and other belongings in front of dozens of other happy travelers.
Myself and another gentleman were having our bags scanned. Have you ever had them wipe the inside of your bag with the “baby wipe held with tongs” to be processed on an itty-bitty machine? I often wondered if that machine actually picked up something, or if it was really a teleprompter for the TSA agents, “Don’t touch your bag.” “Hands up, palms down.” “I’m going to pat your front, is that okay?” (Umm…do I actually have a choice?”) You get my drift. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the poor guy next to me clearly had all the bells and whistles go off. The blinking red lights, the silent alarm, the knowing glance of the agents, “Oh, one of those.” And as I was looking the poor soul up and down, in the corner of my eye, I see multiple agents gathered around my bag inspecting every last item in there. Why are they holding up my underwear and scanning it? Those TSA’s are perverts, I knew it! Crap – it wasn’t the old guy’s bag next to me, it was my bag!
No sooner did my internal panic button go off, than I noticed some very official looking men headed my direction with clipboard, pen and stern faces. Ugh, I’m screwed. I had vague recollections of Dave using the roller briefcase (yes, one more thing we share), and filling it with the contents of his desk including a box cutter, glue stick and string. That was an experience in Florida at the security line. Or how about when the TSA agent literally ran after me in the Philly corridor because they failed to fill out the proper paperwork for me? (I forgot my license at home).
“M’am, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” Great – they’re calling me M’am, just like the 16-year old bag boy at Jewel. I feel older than 39, but like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “Can you tell me the last place you’ve used this bag?” Crap…where did Dave go, where did he go? Crap – I don’t remember. Ah, let me just tell them the truth. “Well, it’s not really my bag.” S***. Wrong answer. Lesson #1 – Never tell a TSA agent that it’s not your bag, when it has all of your stuff in it. That will get you nowhere. “Excuse me, it’s not your bag? Did you know that this bag has not passed the bomb inspection?” Clearly now, they have moved over the “If they answer B, go to questions C through Z” which meant another 45 minutes of questioning. Lesson #2 – Sometimes, it’s okay to have the small white lie and not air your dirty laundry about sharing a rollerbag with your husband. “Let me get this straight, you and your husband share the same suitcase? Do you happen to know where your husband traveled last?” “Umm, not really, I think maybe he went to California last week…or was it Detroit. I don’t really know.” Lesson #3 – back to that white lie thing, just make something up. Now it looks like Dave and I don’t talk – which is true some of the time, but the reality is, neither of us rarely remembers where the other flew to. Hard to believe, but true. “I’m thinking California because there’s a Pebble Beach golf hat in the front pocket.” Hah – I’m on a roll now! “Do you think he went golfing?” “Duh, didn’t I say he left his golf hat in the front pocket of the suitcase?” And so it was, the TSA believed that not only did Dave leave his golf hat in the front pocket, but also a piece of Pebble Beach with him in the bag. To the best of our knowledge, Dave wore his golf shoes, picked up some fertilizer with his shoes, packed the shoes in the bag, took the shoes out, but managed to leave the fertilizer in the bag, thus creating, “The Bomb Bag.”
So it goes that I’m now on the hunt for the most girly looking travel bag that Dave would be horrified to use, ending the decade long sharing theory behind the single travel bag. And this my friends, would indeed be classified as a Super-Sized, I can’t believe it, travel curse.
The travel curse comes in small, medium and large sizes. And on some occasions, super-sized. I’m never quite sure when I travel, which travel happy meal I’ve ordered, and it’s not typically until I’m at home and can finally reflect on my trips, that I can classify what falls where.
Only super-duper, “you’ve got to be kidding me” curses fall under the Super Sized category. Like when I actually, truthfully, got on the wrong airplane and flew to Madison, WI instead of Houston, TX. Imagine my surprise when we landed only 45 minutes after take-off! Or how about the time when I got stuck on a runway for four hours, to turn around, go back to gate and subsequently find out they gave another passenger my first class seat…on the same flight apparently to no where. And when I complained, “Missy – one more word out of you and I’m calling security!” Or finding out on my way to Florida that we were being denied boarding because Delaney was on the no-fly list.
Which brings me to a recent trip to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, or more importantly one of two cursed hubs that I fly between. It all started out relatively calm. Well, I suppose I should know better. My flight landed on time, my first set of meetings went without a hitch, which only meant the travel gods had a good one in store for me.
After leaving the confines of the Sofitel and catching a cab in Philly to the train station, it appears that I had picked up the cab driver who either was sidelining as a suicide driver, or was gunning for the world record of how long he could stay awake. I should have gotten out of the cab when he almost, literally, hit a pedestrian crossing the street. Both the man he almost hit, and myself managed to lock eyes with a look of, “Help!” But no, it was too early, I was too tired and the train station was only 5 blocks from the hotel.
As we’re pulling up to the train station, I reach down into my purse (also known as the black hole of every scrap of paper less than 3” square) to find the small fortune it costs to go a mere few blocks. And after the squeal of screeching tires, foreign language cursing and shattered glass, I found myself in a small heap in the seat well of the taxi. It’s true, my taxi driver had chosen apparently to maximize every last mile on the trip and step on the gas, instead of slowing down and stopping at the train station. I made quite the entry, and unfortunately, there were no red carpets, lights or camera for my grand entrance. I believe I literally said as I hobbled out of the car to find a policeman, “And I’m not paying for that ride!” Ah, such clarity of thought, huh?
Well, in normal circumstances, a taxi ride accident would only qualify as a large-sized travel curse. The combination of the taxi ride, and my subsequent return flight home, more than qualifies as “super-size” material, and definitely ranks as one of the top five travel curses of all time.
I have to do a side story here for a minute. My husband Dave and I are both independent, stubborn, and occasionally share things. For example, we both have the same eye prescription and share contacts and glasses. We share a glass of wine when the kids are in bed. We share the same work title, the same birthday month, the same kids. We used to even share the same car when we were a one car family. And the one oddity that we share – yes, we share one rollerbag. It’s strange, it’s weird, I don’t even understand it. The theory, being of course, is that we should never both be out of town at the same time, why get two rollerbags? And so it goes, that while we both travel extensively for our jobs, we rotate the one black rollerbag between us.
Back to our regularly scheduled program, and on with my story. After limping along after my taxi ride from hell, getting to Harrisburg, PA in one piece, returning back to Philly to catch a flight home, I landed the equivalent of the TSA lottery – the dreaded SSSS, which stands for “Secondary Security Screening Selection.” In other words, bend over, strip down, let the magic wand, paper wipes and TSA agent feel you, your bag, and other belongings in front of dozens of other happy travelers.
Myself and another gentleman were having our bags scanned. Have you ever had them wipe the inside of your bag with the “baby wipe held with tongs” to be processed on an itty-bitty machine? I often wondered if that machine actually picked up something, or if it was really a teleprompter for the TSA agents, “Don’t touch your bag.” “Hands up, palms down.” “I’m going to pat your front, is that okay?” (Umm…do I actually have a choice?”) You get my drift. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the poor guy next to me clearly had all the bells and whistles go off. The blinking red lights, the silent alarm, the knowing glance of the agents, “Oh, one of those.” And as I was looking the poor soul up and down, in the corner of my eye, I see multiple agents gathered around my bag inspecting every last item in there. Why are they holding up my underwear and scanning it? Those TSA’s are perverts, I knew it! Crap – it wasn’t the old guy’s bag next to me, it was my bag!
No sooner did my internal panic button go off, than I noticed some very official looking men headed my direction with clipboard, pen and stern faces. Ugh, I’m screwed. I had vague recollections of Dave using the roller briefcase (yes, one more thing we share), and filling it with the contents of his desk including a box cutter, glue stick and string. That was an experience in Florida at the security line. Or how about when the TSA agent literally ran after me in the Philly corridor because they failed to fill out the proper paperwork for me? (I forgot my license at home).
“M’am, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” Great – they’re calling me M’am, just like the 16-year old bag boy at Jewel. I feel older than 39, but like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “Can you tell me the last place you’ve used this bag?” Crap…where did Dave go, where did he go? Crap – I don’t remember. Ah, let me just tell them the truth. “Well, it’s not really my bag.” S***. Wrong answer. Lesson #1 – Never tell a TSA agent that it’s not your bag, when it has all of your stuff in it. That will get you nowhere. “Excuse me, it’s not your bag? Did you know that this bag has not passed the bomb inspection?” Clearly now, they have moved over the “If they answer B, go to questions C through Z” which meant another 45 minutes of questioning. Lesson #2 – Sometimes, it’s okay to have the small white lie and not air your dirty laundry about sharing a rollerbag with your husband. “Let me get this straight, you and your husband share the same suitcase? Do you happen to know where your husband traveled last?” “Umm, not really, I think maybe he went to California last week…or was it Detroit. I don’t really know.” Lesson #3 – back to that white lie thing, just make something up. Now it looks like Dave and I don’t talk – which is true some of the time, but the reality is, neither of us rarely remembers where the other flew to. Hard to believe, but true. “I’m thinking California because there’s a Pebble Beach golf hat in the front pocket.” Hah – I’m on a roll now! “Do you think he went golfing?” “Duh, didn’t I say he left his golf hat in the front pocket of the suitcase?” And so it was, the TSA believed that not only did Dave leave his golf hat in the front pocket, but also a piece of Pebble Beach with him in the bag. To the best of our knowledge, Dave wore his golf shoes, picked up some fertilizer with his shoes, packed the shoes in the bag, took the shoes out, but managed to leave the fertilizer in the bag, thus creating, “The Bomb Bag.”
So it goes that I’m now on the hunt for the most girly looking travel bag that Dave would be horrified to use, ending the decade long sharing theory behind the single travel bag. And this my friends, would indeed be classified as a Super-Sized, I can’t believe it, travel curse.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Travel Curse - Her name is Fay
The Travel Curse – Her Name is Fay
I amazingly had an uneventful trip to Philly last week – so smooth it was actually proclaimed by co-workers in my office that perhaps I had kicked the Travel Curse. Of course, I knew that it only meant the calm before the ‘storm’ and a smooth trip only means the curse accidentally fell asleep and once the travel gods are woken up, beware!
The case in point, please note my e-mail string to my client in Florida below:
07/24/2008 12:53 PM
Subject: Boca meeting
Su;
Can you give me some specific dates w/o 8/11, 8/18 or 8/25 that work for you.
Bill
Here’s my response to Bill:
07/24/2008 02:06 PM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
Alright, here's my availability:
8/12 p.m. - 8/14 a.m.8/19 p.m. - 8/21 a.m.
I am not available the following week.
As hurricane season is upon us, I highly suggest making sure you have appropriate flood and "act of God" insurance on hand, as it's highly likely any travel by me during this period will make the travel gods restless.
Su
And so with the above e-mail, we scheduled that ever important planning meeting for August 20th and 21st and by so doing, tempted the travel gods to whip up a storm, after all, I ‘kicked’ the travel curse according to my boss! Read today’s e-mail:
08/18/2008 11:50 AM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
As predicted on my e-mail dated 7/24, making plans during Hurricane season to come visit the fine folks at your company has made the travel gods restless, and in turn, they have churned up a nice little storm named Fay. Terri reminded me this morning, as other people in the office that knew I was traveling, that Fay only exists due to my impending travel to Boca. In addition, United is now on my case with notes of "Reschedule without Penalty", "Waivers available", "Avoid Florida at all costs between 8/18 - 8/21". In order to save the citizens of Florida, and more specifically my friends at your company, I believe it's in my best interest to reschedule our meetings for Thursday. As luck would have it, I could probably get there and then be stranded, or end up in the black hole of the travel curse never to be seen again. By rescheduling our meeting, I believe I am giving you the best opportunity to have Fay die at sea before it hits land, in which case, you can personally thank me in September.
Thanks,Su
P.S. If there was a Travel Curse Olympics, I would definitely medal, if not win gold.
So there you have, proof to some that even the thought of flying sends the travel gods in a tizzy. I highly suspect that by simply averting the potential curse and canceling my trip, the travel gods will have a ‘special’ trip planned for me next time.
On a side note – Dave and I were discussing the merits of Michael Phelps, the Olympics, and who is truly the greatest athlete ever. While arguably Michael Phelps can not only swim, he can also breathe like a bull frog, eat like a champion chicken wing eater and likely run laps around me while I sit on the couch training for my 2-person Luge Olympic moment. I believe the best way to determine who the best athlete is to create the “Olympic Shuffle”. While you are entitled to enter the Olympics in your chosen field, you are also subject to compete in unrelated events to find out who is truly the best athlete by luck of the draw. Just think, the Equestrian rider jumping hurdles on land instead of on a horse. The swimmer trying their hand at Table Tennis. The volleyball player holding a sword fencing instead of a volleyball spiking. Let’s get one of those Jamaican sprinters to use their speed and run towards a gymnastics vaulting event. How about the “barely 14” gymnasts trying their hand at the high flying stakes of basketball. More like Bitty Basketball. The list goes on and on. I truly believe that if each athlete performed in a series of events they never trained for, it might actually be an interesting Olympiad. Either that, or let’s include animals in the Olympics. For example, how about giving the Pigeon a medal for surviving a round of Pigeon Shooting. I suppose there is good reason I publish cookbooks and not the Olympics.
I amazingly had an uneventful trip to Philly last week – so smooth it was actually proclaimed by co-workers in my office that perhaps I had kicked the Travel Curse. Of course, I knew that it only meant the calm before the ‘storm’ and a smooth trip only means the curse accidentally fell asleep and once the travel gods are woken up, beware!
The case in point, please note my e-mail string to my client in Florida below:
07/24/2008 12:53 PM
Subject: Boca meeting
Su;
Can you give me some specific dates w/o 8/11, 8/18 or 8/25 that work for you.
Bill
Here’s my response to Bill:
07/24/2008 02:06 PM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
Alright, here's my availability:
8/12 p.m. - 8/14 a.m.8/19 p.m. - 8/21 a.m.
I am not available the following week.
As hurricane season is upon us, I highly suggest making sure you have appropriate flood and "act of God" insurance on hand, as it's highly likely any travel by me during this period will make the travel gods restless.
Su
And so with the above e-mail, we scheduled that ever important planning meeting for August 20th and 21st and by so doing, tempted the travel gods to whip up a storm, after all, I ‘kicked’ the travel curse according to my boss! Read today’s e-mail:
08/18/2008 11:50 AM
Subject Re: Boca meeting
Bill,
As predicted on my e-mail dated 7/24, making plans during Hurricane season to come visit the fine folks at your company has made the travel gods restless, and in turn, they have churned up a nice little storm named Fay. Terri reminded me this morning, as other people in the office that knew I was traveling, that Fay only exists due to my impending travel to Boca. In addition, United is now on my case with notes of "Reschedule without Penalty", "Waivers available", "Avoid Florida at all costs between 8/18 - 8/21". In order to save the citizens of Florida, and more specifically my friends at your company, I believe it's in my best interest to reschedule our meetings for Thursday. As luck would have it, I could probably get there and then be stranded, or end up in the black hole of the travel curse never to be seen again. By rescheduling our meeting, I believe I am giving you the best opportunity to have Fay die at sea before it hits land, in which case, you can personally thank me in September.
Thanks,Su
P.S. If there was a Travel Curse Olympics, I would definitely medal, if not win gold.
So there you have, proof to some that even the thought of flying sends the travel gods in a tizzy. I highly suspect that by simply averting the potential curse and canceling my trip, the travel gods will have a ‘special’ trip planned for me next time.
On a side note – Dave and I were discussing the merits of Michael Phelps, the Olympics, and who is truly the greatest athlete ever. While arguably Michael Phelps can not only swim, he can also breathe like a bull frog, eat like a champion chicken wing eater and likely run laps around me while I sit on the couch training for my 2-person Luge Olympic moment. I believe the best way to determine who the best athlete is to create the “Olympic Shuffle”. While you are entitled to enter the Olympics in your chosen field, you are also subject to compete in unrelated events to find out who is truly the best athlete by luck of the draw. Just think, the Equestrian rider jumping hurdles on land instead of on a horse. The swimmer trying their hand at Table Tennis. The volleyball player holding a sword fencing instead of a volleyball spiking. Let’s get one of those Jamaican sprinters to use their speed and run towards a gymnastics vaulting event. How about the “barely 14” gymnasts trying their hand at the high flying stakes of basketball. More like Bitty Basketball. The list goes on and on. I truly believe that if each athlete performed in a series of events they never trained for, it might actually be an interesting Olympiad. Either that, or let’s include animals in the Olympics. For example, how about giving the Pigeon a medal for surviving a round of Pigeon Shooting. I suppose there is good reason I publish cookbooks and not the Olympics.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
E-Mail Updates
** Hey, check it out. I am motoring down the Blogger Superhighway in my White Ford Bronco - yes, I learned how to add the e-mail subscription widget. Now you don't have to hunt for the URL, stay up late at night wondering when I'll post - just subscribe and let the power of the Internet come to you! **
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Olympics
** I try to write 2-3 times a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. This week would have qualified for the 'less', but no need to fear, the Travel Curse is near! I travel on Wednesday, so I'm fairly certain that I will have an up-to-the-date minute blog posting on my travel curse, and if not, I still have 4-5 blog postings in my archive to post. Enjoy! **
The Olympics
I write this evening’s post while watching the Olympics, which is an every-four-year kick in the butt to remind myself that at heart, I’m a truly lazy person. I mean, really – Dana Tores, 41 years old. Some German gymnast who is competing at 33. And me, I’m in the Travel Curse Olympics at best, with barely the energy or stamina to even make it through the four hours of Olympic coverage each evening. Yes, it’s true, I couldn’t even medal in the Couch Potato Olympics.
I’ve always wondered what Olympic sport I could still potentially train for and possibly be an “Olympic Hopeful”. It’s a goal worth hitting before the big 4-0, but the reality is, there are few sports in which lazy, working moms with no energy and no time could possibly excel in, let alone medal in. I’ve investigated relatively obscure sports that I might have a genetic advantage. Take Table Tennis – mostly excelled by Asians. Being half Asian, that at least gives me a 50% advantage over my pasty, American counterpart, right? What about the under appreciated, and now defunct Pigeon Shooting Olympic sport? Surely living in Chicago, with our overpopulation of rats and pigeons would give me a leg up than my neighbors in Wisconsin that would only hope for a Cheese Curd Olympic sport.
I realized that I have found my possible Olympic calling while watching the gymnast twist their bodies into pretzel shapes (which, clearly, my 39 year way-too-old-body will not do) – it’s a winter sport, which gives me two years to investigate and figure it out…drum roll please – I want to be part of the two-person luge. Primarily, the person on the bottom. Let’s think about this for a minute, what exactly does the person on the bottom do, except provide a cushion for the person on the top? If I recall, the person on the top does the steering, which once again leads us to the question of what does the person on the bottom do? A little flapping of the arms upon take-off (hey, I can just imagine my three kids running after me, and you can better believe that I’ll be the faster arm-flapper luger around) and then providing a cushion of support during the race. I’ve had three kids – my mid-section is very squishy and definitely not your “abs of steel” that would make a very nice, pillow-top like mattress feel for the luge-person actually on top trying to steer the sled. I think I have found my calling…except, who knew, I already had my Olympic moment.
It’s true, I have participated in an Olympic sport when I was 16. While my counterparts were admiring the strength, agility and super-watt smile of Mary Lou Retton, I was preparing for my own Olympic calling. My parents saw my talent early on and insured that I honed my skill in my ‘sport’ by doing such extracurricular activities as playing the piano, drawing, and playing the clarinet. A little reading also helped. I know you’re wondering, what Olympic sport could these possible skills entail outside of the Asian-geek Olympics? (Which by the way, I would have won in my youth)
Just remember, some Olympic sports carry on into your life in ways that you wouldn’t suspect. I’m sure those Olympic gymnasts are still flexible when they’re 40 – that’s cool. Or the Table Tennis Olympian can crush you during your after dinner party. But my Olympic sport allows me to write this blog in no time flat, create presentations in minutes, and write memos with ease. Yes, it’s true, I was part of the TYPING OLYMPICS when I was 16.
I’m sure you are shaking your head, ‘you were what?’ First of all, I am completely dating myself to even say that my life at one point involved typing on a typewriter instead of a computer. But early on, I was a fast typer. It was all those years of piano lessons that made me type faster than Ollie North’s secretary and your local court reporter. More than 100 words per minute, who knew that the geeky half-Vietnamese school girl was an Olympic hopeful in the making? Unfortunately, just prior to the Typing Olympics, I suffered a set-back. All of that piano playing and dexterity I showed with my 10 fingers caused a stress injury that set me back under 100 words a minute. And as such, while I competed, I did not medal and only received a certificate of recognition for my efforts to keep alive a dinosaur…the typewriter. And for those that think I’m joking – I’m really not. I believe Brother was the sponsor of the Olympics, I’m sure a brand-spanking new typewriter was likely one of the medal prizes, but alas, I went on to own an Apple instead and my life as a late blooming blogger was born on the keyboard of a computer, not a typewriter. I recall being recognized in my typing class for “representing the school and the state of Illinois in the Typing Olympics” but alas, it would take great effort to find my award and any photos from my day of being an Olympic Hopeful.
I am optimistic that one day the official Olympics can incorporate mundane office assignments into the roster of the Olympics. What could be better than “Memo Taking”, “ Copy This!” and “Boss Suck Up” to know that you too, can be an Olympic athlete. I believe it takes more endurance, patience, and training to succeed in any Office Olympic sport, and as such, I propose a petition to include some of these sports to be added into the next summer or winter Olympics.
The Olympics
I write this evening’s post while watching the Olympics, which is an every-four-year kick in the butt to remind myself that at heart, I’m a truly lazy person. I mean, really – Dana Tores, 41 years old. Some German gymnast who is competing at 33. And me, I’m in the Travel Curse Olympics at best, with barely the energy or stamina to even make it through the four hours of Olympic coverage each evening. Yes, it’s true, I couldn’t even medal in the Couch Potato Olympics.
I’ve always wondered what Olympic sport I could still potentially train for and possibly be an “Olympic Hopeful”. It’s a goal worth hitting before the big 4-0, but the reality is, there are few sports in which lazy, working moms with no energy and no time could possibly excel in, let alone medal in. I’ve investigated relatively obscure sports that I might have a genetic advantage. Take Table Tennis – mostly excelled by Asians. Being half Asian, that at least gives me a 50% advantage over my pasty, American counterpart, right? What about the under appreciated, and now defunct Pigeon Shooting Olympic sport? Surely living in Chicago, with our overpopulation of rats and pigeons would give me a leg up than my neighbors in Wisconsin that would only hope for a Cheese Curd Olympic sport.
I realized that I have found my possible Olympic calling while watching the gymnast twist their bodies into pretzel shapes (which, clearly, my 39 year way-too-old-body will not do) – it’s a winter sport, which gives me two years to investigate and figure it out…drum roll please – I want to be part of the two-person luge. Primarily, the person on the bottom. Let’s think about this for a minute, what exactly does the person on the bottom do, except provide a cushion for the person on the top? If I recall, the person on the top does the steering, which once again leads us to the question of what does the person on the bottom do? A little flapping of the arms upon take-off (hey, I can just imagine my three kids running after me, and you can better believe that I’ll be the faster arm-flapper luger around) and then providing a cushion of support during the race. I’ve had three kids – my mid-section is very squishy and definitely not your “abs of steel” that would make a very nice, pillow-top like mattress feel for the luge-person actually on top trying to steer the sled. I think I have found my calling…except, who knew, I already had my Olympic moment.
It’s true, I have participated in an Olympic sport when I was 16. While my counterparts were admiring the strength, agility and super-watt smile of Mary Lou Retton, I was preparing for my own Olympic calling. My parents saw my talent early on and insured that I honed my skill in my ‘sport’ by doing such extracurricular activities as playing the piano, drawing, and playing the clarinet. A little reading also helped. I know you’re wondering, what Olympic sport could these possible skills entail outside of the Asian-geek Olympics? (Which by the way, I would have won in my youth)
Just remember, some Olympic sports carry on into your life in ways that you wouldn’t suspect. I’m sure those Olympic gymnasts are still flexible when they’re 40 – that’s cool. Or the Table Tennis Olympian can crush you during your after dinner party. But my Olympic sport allows me to write this blog in no time flat, create presentations in minutes, and write memos with ease. Yes, it’s true, I was part of the TYPING OLYMPICS when I was 16.
I’m sure you are shaking your head, ‘you were what?’ First of all, I am completely dating myself to even say that my life at one point involved typing on a typewriter instead of a computer. But early on, I was a fast typer. It was all those years of piano lessons that made me type faster than Ollie North’s secretary and your local court reporter. More than 100 words per minute, who knew that the geeky half-Vietnamese school girl was an Olympic hopeful in the making? Unfortunately, just prior to the Typing Olympics, I suffered a set-back. All of that piano playing and dexterity I showed with my 10 fingers caused a stress injury that set me back under 100 words a minute. And as such, while I competed, I did not medal and only received a certificate of recognition for my efforts to keep alive a dinosaur…the typewriter. And for those that think I’m joking – I’m really not. I believe Brother was the sponsor of the Olympics, I’m sure a brand-spanking new typewriter was likely one of the medal prizes, but alas, I went on to own an Apple instead and my life as a late blooming blogger was born on the keyboard of a computer, not a typewriter. I recall being recognized in my typing class for “representing the school and the state of Illinois in the Typing Olympics” but alas, it would take great effort to find my award and any photos from my day of being an Olympic Hopeful.
I am optimistic that one day the official Olympics can incorporate mundane office assignments into the roster of the Olympics. What could be better than “Memo Taking”, “ Copy This!” and “Boss Suck Up” to know that you too, can be an Olympic athlete. I believe it takes more endurance, patience, and training to succeed in any Office Olympic sport, and as such, I propose a petition to include some of these sports to be added into the next summer or winter Olympics.
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Tornado Watch
** My blog is a bit like a newsstand tabloid - when newsbreaking stories hit, you backburner those previous blog postings you wanted to post. And yes, I'm 4-5 posts behind - a few more glasses of wine, peaceful evenings where I can write and you too can read about The Bomb Bag, The Travel Curse Taxi Style, The Travel Curse Again, etc. Tonight, that would be newsbreaking story - not as cool as Angelina having twins, but chaotic none the less. Enjoy! **
The Tornado Watch
Most people embrace each day with a smile and hope for the best that life will bring them. While I share in this optimistic view of life, the truth is instead of embracing each day, I usually brace for my day steeling my nerves and readying myself for the inevitable chaos that will ensue. Today was no exception.
This evening, as a family fun outing, we planned a Cubs game to see our beloved Cubbies play hard towards the hope of a World Series title. The game started at 6:08 p.m., thanks to ESPN, and of course, I was running late home from work…with the tickets. Once I arrived home, Dave and the kids were packed up and ready to go, complete with mitts (in case of a foul ball), healthy snacks (to counter the cotton candy they would be eating) and tickets to awesome seats where we could yell out to the players and they could actually hear us.
The benefits of living one block from Wrigley Field are numerous. We can hear the ballgame from inside our house, with the windows closed. We can set up a lemonade stand for the kids and make $50 (although Delaney last week asked if she could sell beer instead, she thought she could make more money – unfortunately all of her profits would have gone towards her bail). We can sell parking spots and let the kids earn extra money. The list goes on and on. The biggest benefit of living close to the Field, however, is when we are at a game. The typical plan is we take the kids to the game, and once one or more of the kids start to freak out, I take them home leaving Dave, his beer, and the Cubs to enjoy the rest of the game.
This evening, during the top of the 5th inning, Max started rumbling of wanting to go home. OK, he actually had to go to the bathroom, but none the less, “I want to go home!” was heard around the ballpark. Looking for an excuse to leave the chaos of the game and go home to some peace and quiet, I quickly volunteered to find the next pedi-cab to take me the one block home (alright, truth is, I’m lazy – or, I think having a guy ride me home on a bike is pretty cool, one of the two). Just as we were pulling in to our home, the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I’m sure airplane passengers everywhere were wondering if I was flying and thus the reason for the storms. What can I say, not today.
After 15 minutes behind me, Dave, Delaney and Jack come racing home soaking wet, leaving my brother in law Mike, and his fiancé Lindsay, at the game. As Dave said, “We don’t do rain delays – we wait those out at home.” And so we began to settle in for a early evening, a bottle of wine, and most importantly, my just delivered People magazine with Brangelina and the twins on the cover. Yippee! I had settled in to reading my 19-page spread of the Lady who lived in a Shoe, aka, Angelina, when we heard the most peculiar sound.
“Su – do you hear what I hear?” “I think I do – it’s either the party siren or we have a tornado barreling down on us.” “Get the kids, go to the basement.” “Right-o, I’ll run upstairs and see if I can snatch them away from the entertainment of SpongeBob Squarepants.” “Kids – to the basement…I think. I can’t remember what I learned in 4th grade about tornados. But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be in the basement.” Let see, flooding – go to the top floor. Earthquake – stand between a door. Snowstorm – pile on the fleece and dress in layers. Tornado – bottom floor? Basement? Get away from the mobile homes? Crap – I don’t remember! “Delaney, quick – what did you learn in 3rd grade about tornados? Or is that 5th? Are you smarter than a 5th grader?” “Mommy, go to the basement, and wait 20 minutes after the tornado comes to make sure we’re safe.” “OK, RUN to the basement! Go to the bedroom down there, I’ll protect you…after I get a few things.”
So, after the kids make their way to the protection of a mattress in an interior room (heard that was important), I run to grab a few things while Dave either opens or closes the windows, I still don’t remember what you’re supposed to do with the windows and frankly, I wasn’t paying attention.
While the kids were huddled on the bed, and we were listening to the AM radio, it felt a bit like Y2K. Remember that? The earth was supposed to implode, but I was ready with my cans of baked beans, water bottles and duct tape. Frankly, I could have sold that duct tape to the airlines for the work they did on the broken nose gear. Anyway, as I’m listening to the radio, I hear them say, “Go to the basement and put your hands on your head.” I look over and what are my kids doing, yep, they have their hands on their head. “Mommy – PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” “But guys, if my hands are on my head, I can’t reach my glass of wine and I’m really thirsty!” Then I hear Delaney say, “I don’t feel so good.” Great, it’s a freaking tornado and Delaney has Tornadoitis. For all those medical types that are reading this, don’t pretend you don’t know what Tornadoitis is. It’s the immense fear of Tornados that makes you sick to your stomach. Yes, you guessed it – my precious, sweet daughter Delaney decided at that moment to throw up the contents of Wrigley Field concessions - the hot dog, malted chocolate ice cream, cotton candy, peanuts...and the carrots that Dave packed. UGH! Throw-up cleaning supplies were not on my list of Tornado-prepardeness!
I’m sure as you are reading this you are beginning to wonder where Dave is. I, too, was beginning to wonder where Dave was. “Dave, where are you? If we’re going to die, could you at least come down here and join us?” “I was thinking I would stay by the door and just in case Cubs fans needed a basement to run to, we could let them in.” O.K., in theory, nice. In reality, come on! This is not the Titantic, all I need is 35,000 screaming Cubs fans in my basement. I already have one puking kid, I don’t need more! “Dave, umm…, I think that’s a bad idea. Not a big fan of throwing a party right now. I only have one bottle of wine and it has my name on it.”
And I’m sure many of you are wondering what is in my Tornado-prepardness-kit. Frankly, I was working by the seat of my pants, so I only took the things that were important to me:
· Kids - Dave clearly was more concerned about helping his fellow baseball loving pal
· Bottle of wine - hey, I might get thirsty, and I had just opened it
· Jill’s Orzo Pasta Salad – yum, it’s really good, even better on the second day
· Computer – constant access to all things important like weather.com
· Cell Phone – my new iPhone did me no good as I got no reception in the basement
· New People Magazine – hey, if I’m going to die, I want to know what those twins look like!
That’s it. That’s what I took to sweat through the tears and fears of my first siren-blasting Tornado Warning in the city. Completely pathetic, but I know some of you girls out there are thinking I had the making of a nice night in. Mike and Lindsay took shelter at the stadium, in which they locked the gates. First time in 40 years. Dave held firm by the door and popped his head downstairs occasionally to make sure we were okay. And now? Well, the kids are asleep on the 2nd floor and we have started our flood preparations – moving everything off the floors, saving the Wii and all other important items in our basement. While many times I feel like Old Mother Hubbard who lived in a Shoe, days like today, I feel a bit more Noah’s wife while we wait out the storm.
The Tornado Watch
Most people embrace each day with a smile and hope for the best that life will bring them. While I share in this optimistic view of life, the truth is instead of embracing each day, I usually brace for my day steeling my nerves and readying myself for the inevitable chaos that will ensue. Today was no exception.
This evening, as a family fun outing, we planned a Cubs game to see our beloved Cubbies play hard towards the hope of a World Series title. The game started at 6:08 p.m., thanks to ESPN, and of course, I was running late home from work…with the tickets. Once I arrived home, Dave and the kids were packed up and ready to go, complete with mitts (in case of a foul ball), healthy snacks (to counter the cotton candy they would be eating) and tickets to awesome seats where we could yell out to the players and they could actually hear us.
The benefits of living one block from Wrigley Field are numerous. We can hear the ballgame from inside our house, with the windows closed. We can set up a lemonade stand for the kids and make $50 (although Delaney last week asked if she could sell beer instead, she thought she could make more money – unfortunately all of her profits would have gone towards her bail). We can sell parking spots and let the kids earn extra money. The list goes on and on. The biggest benefit of living close to the Field, however, is when we are at a game. The typical plan is we take the kids to the game, and once one or more of the kids start to freak out, I take them home leaving Dave, his beer, and the Cubs to enjoy the rest of the game.
This evening, during the top of the 5th inning, Max started rumbling of wanting to go home. OK, he actually had to go to the bathroom, but none the less, “I want to go home!” was heard around the ballpark. Looking for an excuse to leave the chaos of the game and go home to some peace and quiet, I quickly volunteered to find the next pedi-cab to take me the one block home (alright, truth is, I’m lazy – or, I think having a guy ride me home on a bike is pretty cool, one of the two). Just as we were pulling in to our home, the heavens opened and the rain poured down. I’m sure airplane passengers everywhere were wondering if I was flying and thus the reason for the storms. What can I say, not today.
After 15 minutes behind me, Dave, Delaney and Jack come racing home soaking wet, leaving my brother in law Mike, and his fiancé Lindsay, at the game. As Dave said, “We don’t do rain delays – we wait those out at home.” And so we began to settle in for a early evening, a bottle of wine, and most importantly, my just delivered People magazine with Brangelina and the twins on the cover. Yippee! I had settled in to reading my 19-page spread of the Lady who lived in a Shoe, aka, Angelina, when we heard the most peculiar sound.
“Su – do you hear what I hear?” “I think I do – it’s either the party siren or we have a tornado barreling down on us.” “Get the kids, go to the basement.” “Right-o, I’ll run upstairs and see if I can snatch them away from the entertainment of SpongeBob Squarepants.” “Kids – to the basement…I think. I can’t remember what I learned in 4th grade about tornados. But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be in the basement.” Let see, flooding – go to the top floor. Earthquake – stand between a door. Snowstorm – pile on the fleece and dress in layers. Tornado – bottom floor? Basement? Get away from the mobile homes? Crap – I don’t remember! “Delaney, quick – what did you learn in 3rd grade about tornados? Or is that 5th? Are you smarter than a 5th grader?” “Mommy, go to the basement, and wait 20 minutes after the tornado comes to make sure we’re safe.” “OK, RUN to the basement! Go to the bedroom down there, I’ll protect you…after I get a few things.”
So, after the kids make their way to the protection of a mattress in an interior room (heard that was important), I run to grab a few things while Dave either opens or closes the windows, I still don’t remember what you’re supposed to do with the windows and frankly, I wasn’t paying attention.
While the kids were huddled on the bed, and we were listening to the AM radio, it felt a bit like Y2K. Remember that? The earth was supposed to implode, but I was ready with my cans of baked beans, water bottles and duct tape. Frankly, I could have sold that duct tape to the airlines for the work they did on the broken nose gear. Anyway, as I’m listening to the radio, I hear them say, “Go to the basement and put your hands on your head.” I look over and what are my kids doing, yep, they have their hands on their head. “Mommy – PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” “But guys, if my hands are on my head, I can’t reach my glass of wine and I’m really thirsty!” Then I hear Delaney say, “I don’t feel so good.” Great, it’s a freaking tornado and Delaney has Tornadoitis. For all those medical types that are reading this, don’t pretend you don’t know what Tornadoitis is. It’s the immense fear of Tornados that makes you sick to your stomach. Yes, you guessed it – my precious, sweet daughter Delaney decided at that moment to throw up the contents of Wrigley Field concessions - the hot dog, malted chocolate ice cream, cotton candy, peanuts...and the carrots that Dave packed. UGH! Throw-up cleaning supplies were not on my list of Tornado-prepardeness!
I’m sure as you are reading this you are beginning to wonder where Dave is. I, too, was beginning to wonder where Dave was. “Dave, where are you? If we’re going to die, could you at least come down here and join us?” “I was thinking I would stay by the door and just in case Cubs fans needed a basement to run to, we could let them in.” O.K., in theory, nice. In reality, come on! This is not the Titantic, all I need is 35,000 screaming Cubs fans in my basement. I already have one puking kid, I don’t need more! “Dave, umm…, I think that’s a bad idea. Not a big fan of throwing a party right now. I only have one bottle of wine and it has my name on it.”
And I’m sure many of you are wondering what is in my Tornado-prepardness-kit. Frankly, I was working by the seat of my pants, so I only took the things that were important to me:
· Kids - Dave clearly was more concerned about helping his fellow baseball loving pal
· Bottle of wine - hey, I might get thirsty, and I had just opened it
· Jill’s Orzo Pasta Salad – yum, it’s really good, even better on the second day
· Computer – constant access to all things important like weather.com
· Cell Phone – my new iPhone did me no good as I got no reception in the basement
· New People Magazine – hey, if I’m going to die, I want to know what those twins look like!
That’s it. That’s what I took to sweat through the tears and fears of my first siren-blasting Tornado Warning in the city. Completely pathetic, but I know some of you girls out there are thinking I had the making of a nice night in. Mike and Lindsay took shelter at the stadium, in which they locked the gates. First time in 40 years. Dave held firm by the door and popped his head downstairs occasionally to make sure we were okay. And now? Well, the kids are asleep on the 2nd floor and we have started our flood preparations – moving everything off the floors, saving the Wii and all other important items in our basement. While many times I feel like Old Mother Hubbard who lived in a Shoe, days like today, I feel a bit more Noah’s wife while we wait out the storm.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Poisoned Client
** I momentarily interrupt June to bring you July...while sitting CURSED at the Harrisburg Airport, waiting patiently to find out if our 3 hour delay will turn into a cancellation...and you thought I was kidding about the curse....**
The Poisoned Client
While my travel curse is known from coast to coast, continent to continent, my ‘poisoned client’ curse is only now picking up steam.
In my line of work, I do a good amount of travel and a fair amount of client entertaining. As we’re in the food business, we tend to skip the “Let me impress you with a McDonald’s Happy Meal dinner” and at least go to somewhat nice restaurants that likely have passed any recent health inspections.
Last year my client Cathy brought her new hire Kate to the photo shoot. Kate was 7 months pregnant, one month on the job, and in the process of transferring to Camden from Chicago. Needless to say, a nice dinner out to toast the success of our photo shoot was embraced by all, especially Kate. We decided nothing said, “Open your wallet, you’re on expenses” quite like Crofton on Wells. Crofton on Wells is at least 10 steps above McDonald’s, and just slightly below serious fine dining in Chicago – regardless, a well known restaurant with a well know chef.
Anyone that knows me, has dined with me, or even thinks about dining with me knows what a pain in the a** dining companion I can be. I admit it, I’m a high maintenance food substitution snob. A recent true lunch order at Ruby Tuesdays, “Can I have the mini burgers please, no meat though, sub with sautéed mushrooms instead, no ketchup, no mustard, and if you put a pickle on the plate, I will freak out.” I’m fairly certain our waitress rolled her eyes at this point and muttered under her breath, “Great, one of those….” So at Crofton on Wells, imagine my co-workers surprise when I order a meal without substitutions and sit back to hear Kate order the following, “I’d like the scallops but no mussel reduction sauce. I’m allergic to shellfish, so can you sub the sauce with a different sauce.” Ah, a girl after my own heart!
Dining with a bunch of foodies has its challenges. Not knowing what a morel is in front of your dining companions can be embarrassing, or how about ordering your steak well done instead of medium rare, salting your food before tasting it, etc. But frankly, ordering the scallops while subbing the reduction sauce due to a shellfish allergy is a major faux pas – scallops are shellfish so this simple, yet complicated order either infers that 1. Kate is a liar, she’s not allergic or 2. Kate is not a foodie, she doesn’t know what classifies as shellfish.
The next morning Cathy walks in to the shoot…but where is Kate? Apparently at 3:00 a.m., Kate is rushed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital with, you guessed it, food poisoning. My co-workers and I are all in shock, and one by one they all start pointing fingers at me, “It’s you, Su! You are the curse…you tried poisoning your client! How could you?” So unfair – she ordered shellfish, and said she was allergic to shellfish, what do you expect? And unfortunately for Cathy, dinner at Crofton on Wells was the last time she ever saw Kate again. Kate never transferred to Camden, had her baby in Chicago, and promptly resigned which only cemented my reputation of “Su – the Client Poisoner”.
I have managed to skate by poison-free for the past year, until last night. You see, I’m in Philly and yes, I took my client Liz out to dinner last night. Liz is not only a great client, but a ton of fun to hang out with as well. We had a great dinner at El Vez, great conversation, but apparently bad chicken. Liz was beginning to look at little flush by the end of our dinner, her stomach in knots (she swears it wasn’t because we negotiating contracts) and the sweat beads started to form by the time the bill came.
This morning I received a phone call from Liz, “Su – hey, I just wanted to check up on you and see how you were feeling.” Huh? Oh, crap…. “Liz, you didn’t by chance get FOOD POISONING last night, did you?” “Yes, I was praying to the porcelain gods, flu-like symptoms, fevers, night sweats, worst night of my life.” “Umm…do you feel better today, maybe going into the office? “ “Yes, much better this morning, just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Well, as luck would have it for me, I did not get food poisoning. Although God has found humor to torture me in other ways with food, which is a story for another day.
While Liz is not planning on resigning (or at least, I’m unaware of it), she is moving off of her business and into a new position. Food poisoning + last day of current position = “You must have had dinner with Su.
The Poisoned Client
While my travel curse is known from coast to coast, continent to continent, my ‘poisoned client’ curse is only now picking up steam.
In my line of work, I do a good amount of travel and a fair amount of client entertaining. As we’re in the food business, we tend to skip the “Let me impress you with a McDonald’s Happy Meal dinner” and at least go to somewhat nice restaurants that likely have passed any recent health inspections.
Last year my client Cathy brought her new hire Kate to the photo shoot. Kate was 7 months pregnant, one month on the job, and in the process of transferring to Camden from Chicago. Needless to say, a nice dinner out to toast the success of our photo shoot was embraced by all, especially Kate. We decided nothing said, “Open your wallet, you’re on expenses” quite like Crofton on Wells. Crofton on Wells is at least 10 steps above McDonald’s, and just slightly below serious fine dining in Chicago – regardless, a well known restaurant with a well know chef.
Anyone that knows me, has dined with me, or even thinks about dining with me knows what a pain in the a** dining companion I can be. I admit it, I’m a high maintenance food substitution snob. A recent true lunch order at Ruby Tuesdays, “Can I have the mini burgers please, no meat though, sub with sautéed mushrooms instead, no ketchup, no mustard, and if you put a pickle on the plate, I will freak out.” I’m fairly certain our waitress rolled her eyes at this point and muttered under her breath, “Great, one of those….” So at Crofton on Wells, imagine my co-workers surprise when I order a meal without substitutions and sit back to hear Kate order the following, “I’d like the scallops but no mussel reduction sauce. I’m allergic to shellfish, so can you sub the sauce with a different sauce.” Ah, a girl after my own heart!
Dining with a bunch of foodies has its challenges. Not knowing what a morel is in front of your dining companions can be embarrassing, or how about ordering your steak well done instead of medium rare, salting your food before tasting it, etc. But frankly, ordering the scallops while subbing the reduction sauce due to a shellfish allergy is a major faux pas – scallops are shellfish so this simple, yet complicated order either infers that 1. Kate is a liar, she’s not allergic or 2. Kate is not a foodie, she doesn’t know what classifies as shellfish.
The next morning Cathy walks in to the shoot…but where is Kate? Apparently at 3:00 a.m., Kate is rushed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital with, you guessed it, food poisoning. My co-workers and I are all in shock, and one by one they all start pointing fingers at me, “It’s you, Su! You are the curse…you tried poisoning your client! How could you?” So unfair – she ordered shellfish, and said she was allergic to shellfish, what do you expect? And unfortunately for Cathy, dinner at Crofton on Wells was the last time she ever saw Kate again. Kate never transferred to Camden, had her baby in Chicago, and promptly resigned which only cemented my reputation of “Su – the Client Poisoner”.
I have managed to skate by poison-free for the past year, until last night. You see, I’m in Philly and yes, I took my client Liz out to dinner last night. Liz is not only a great client, but a ton of fun to hang out with as well. We had a great dinner at El Vez, great conversation, but apparently bad chicken. Liz was beginning to look at little flush by the end of our dinner, her stomach in knots (she swears it wasn’t because we negotiating contracts) and the sweat beads started to form by the time the bill came.
This morning I received a phone call from Liz, “Su – hey, I just wanted to check up on you and see how you were feeling.” Huh? Oh, crap…. “Liz, you didn’t by chance get FOOD POISONING last night, did you?” “Yes, I was praying to the porcelain gods, flu-like symptoms, fevers, night sweats, worst night of my life.” “Umm…do you feel better today, maybe going into the office? “ “Yes, much better this morning, just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Well, as luck would have it for me, I did not get food poisoning. Although God has found humor to torture me in other ways with food, which is a story for another day.
While Liz is not planning on resigning (or at least, I’m unaware of it), she is moving off of her business and into a new position. Food poisoning + last day of current position = “You must have had dinner with Su.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Stairs
The Stairs
June 14th
After living in our current home for 11 years, you would think that I would notice that our brick façade on our front stairs did not match the brick on our home. Clearly, I’ve spent way too much time on the front porch drinking with neighbors, in which our stairs become slightly fuzzy and everything looks like it matches, instead of pondering what life would be like with stairs that matched. Dave, on the other hand, has apparently spent years letting our unmatched stairs fester in him like a splinter you can’t get out without undergoing expensive surgery.
So, in an effort to appease little Dave whispering in big Dave’s ear “The stairs suck – do something about it” – we did just that, we contracted with an Southside Irish concrete and masonry company and tore out the old mismatched stores for the new and improved version.
After a week of demolition, we were now ready to pour the concrete to finish Dave’s legacy. The kids placed mementos into the concrete to forever let any future archeologist know that Thomas the Train, Transformers, and a picture of a flower were left behind by pioneering Wrigleyville children. And so it was, that the new stairs were poured, life was good, and we went on our merry way to take the kids to soccer.
At this point, I have to interject a side story about our wonderful neighbor Jill. First of all, we love Jill and her family – they have made living on our block really terrific and they are wonderful friends. Jill – you know I love you, so calling you out on this blog is really just affirmation of how I feel about you. I digress. Many years ago an animal crawled into Jill’s backyard, clearly suffering and on it’s last legs. Jill’s kids lovingly cared for this animal, even taking Mike’s expensive Italian gloves to place the animal inside of the cat carrier. After feeding, petting, and talking the animal to “keep fighting the good fight”, Jill found out our other neighbor Julie was going to the animal shelter. Would Julie be willing to take the new-found sickly pet to the animal shelter? Of course! Imagine Jill’s surprise (and all of us who know the story) when Julie called to say, “Jill – remember that sickly pet you sent with me to the shelter? Well, they told what type of animal it is. That would be your common-everyday-I-live-in-Chicago CITY RAT! The rat clearly ate the poison that our city put in the alley, to you know, KILL the rats.” This back story is important how? Read on.
While returning home from the soccer game, we received a phone call from Jill. “Su, I hate to tell you this, but someone carved a picture and wrote something in the concrete while it was drying.” “What – well, what did they write?” “I can’t really tell, but it looks like a tree and two clouds, and it says something underneath I can’t quite make out.” “OK, we’ll be right home.”
After returning home, and seeing Dave’s legacy destroyed in one act of vandalism, we immediately recognized what was drawn, and frankly what was said. “Umm…Jill. I know you have five kids, did you conceive all five in the dark? That’s a giant male anatomy on our second stair.” And what’s written underneath, of course, “Ha, Ha, F***ers.” So is it any surprise, that this act of “humor” cemented us putting the house on the market? Ah, and June isn’t even finished yet!
June 14th
After living in our current home for 11 years, you would think that I would notice that our brick façade on our front stairs did not match the brick on our home. Clearly, I’ve spent way too much time on the front porch drinking with neighbors, in which our stairs become slightly fuzzy and everything looks like it matches, instead of pondering what life would be like with stairs that matched. Dave, on the other hand, has apparently spent years letting our unmatched stairs fester in him like a splinter you can’t get out without undergoing expensive surgery.
So, in an effort to appease little Dave whispering in big Dave’s ear “The stairs suck – do something about it” – we did just that, we contracted with an Southside Irish concrete and masonry company and tore out the old mismatched stores for the new and improved version.
After a week of demolition, we were now ready to pour the concrete to finish Dave’s legacy. The kids placed mementos into the concrete to forever let any future archeologist know that Thomas the Train, Transformers, and a picture of a flower were left behind by pioneering Wrigleyville children. And so it was, that the new stairs were poured, life was good, and we went on our merry way to take the kids to soccer.
At this point, I have to interject a side story about our wonderful neighbor Jill. First of all, we love Jill and her family – they have made living on our block really terrific and they are wonderful friends. Jill – you know I love you, so calling you out on this blog is really just affirmation of how I feel about you. I digress. Many years ago an animal crawled into Jill’s backyard, clearly suffering and on it’s last legs. Jill’s kids lovingly cared for this animal, even taking Mike’s expensive Italian gloves to place the animal inside of the cat carrier. After feeding, petting, and talking the animal to “keep fighting the good fight”, Jill found out our other neighbor Julie was going to the animal shelter. Would Julie be willing to take the new-found sickly pet to the animal shelter? Of course! Imagine Jill’s surprise (and all of us who know the story) when Julie called to say, “Jill – remember that sickly pet you sent with me to the shelter? Well, they told what type of animal it is. That would be your common-everyday-I-live-in-Chicago CITY RAT! The rat clearly ate the poison that our city put in the alley, to you know, KILL the rats.” This back story is important how? Read on.
While returning home from the soccer game, we received a phone call from Jill. “Su, I hate to tell you this, but someone carved a picture and wrote something in the concrete while it was drying.” “What – well, what did they write?” “I can’t really tell, but it looks like a tree and two clouds, and it says something underneath I can’t quite make out.” “OK, we’ll be right home.”
After returning home, and seeing Dave’s legacy destroyed in one act of vandalism, we immediately recognized what was drawn, and frankly what was said. “Umm…Jill. I know you have five kids, did you conceive all five in the dark? That’s a giant male anatomy on our second stair.” And what’s written underneath, of course, “Ha, Ha, F***ers.” So is it any surprise, that this act of “humor” cemented us putting the house on the market? Ah, and June isn’t even finished yet!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Windy City
**Finally, I'm starting with June - June 13th to be specific....**
The Windy City
There are many urban, and true, legends of how Chicago got it’s nickname. The gusts of wind that come off of Lake Michigan and freezes the snot inside your nose in one theory. The other is attributed to the long winded speeches of local politicians – although I’m not sure if Mayor Daley can actually string together enough coherent sentences to be considered long winded (don’t worry, I really do love Mayor Daley!). The truth however behind the reason we are called the Windy City lies within the 2” root system of our trees.
It’s June 13th and nothing says summer and school’s out like a trip to DQ with the kids, when my phone rings. “Hey Su, it’s Tracy.” Tracy is our awesome neighbor who keeps an eagle eye for all things deemed important on our neighborhood and has come to our rescue more than once. “Hate to tell you this, but remember that tree in front of your house? Yeah, well, it’s on top of Jennifer’s car.” What? Grr…and thus is the story of living in the Windy City, where anyone can merely blow on a tree around our house and feel like David knocking out Goliath with a sling shot. Let me explain.
Many, many years ago, while our garage was being repaired, our neighbor allowed us to park our new car on their parking pad. While having dinner and looking out the back window, Dave notices that there is a slight breeze in the air. Well, that ‘breeze’ picked up a 50’ tree, with a 2” root system and promptly crushed our new car of two weeks in half, totaling it.
Last year, Jack lost his toe-nail. After putting his toe-nail under his pillow (eewww….) and waiting for the toe-nail fairy to arrive, we hear a loud thumb and crash in the front of the house in the early, wee hours of the morning. Yes, it appeared that the toe-nail fairy crashed into yet another 50’ tree with a 2” root system and toppled the tree over like a toothpick.
So there you have it – the real reason why Chicago is called The Windy City is merely a mirage; it’s all because the trees fall down (but apparently only at our house) just by looking at them the wrong way. And yes, we blame it on the wind…err, The Windy City.
The Windy City
There are many urban, and true, legends of how Chicago got it’s nickname. The gusts of wind that come off of Lake Michigan and freezes the snot inside your nose in one theory. The other is attributed to the long winded speeches of local politicians – although I’m not sure if Mayor Daley can actually string together enough coherent sentences to be considered long winded (don’t worry, I really do love Mayor Daley!). The truth however behind the reason we are called the Windy City lies within the 2” root system of our trees.
It’s June 13th and nothing says summer and school’s out like a trip to DQ with the kids, when my phone rings. “Hey Su, it’s Tracy.” Tracy is our awesome neighbor who keeps an eagle eye for all things deemed important on our neighborhood and has come to our rescue more than once. “Hate to tell you this, but remember that tree in front of your house? Yeah, well, it’s on top of Jennifer’s car.” What? Grr…and thus is the story of living in the Windy City, where anyone can merely blow on a tree around our house and feel like David knocking out Goliath with a sling shot. Let me explain.
Many, many years ago, while our garage was being repaired, our neighbor allowed us to park our new car on their parking pad. While having dinner and looking out the back window, Dave notices that there is a slight breeze in the air. Well, that ‘breeze’ picked up a 50’ tree, with a 2” root system and promptly crushed our new car of two weeks in half, totaling it.
Last year, Jack lost his toe-nail. After putting his toe-nail under his pillow (eewww….) and waiting for the toe-nail fairy to arrive, we hear a loud thumb and crash in the front of the house in the early, wee hours of the morning. Yes, it appeared that the toe-nail fairy crashed into yet another 50’ tree with a 2” root system and toppled the tree over like a toothpick.
So there you have it – the real reason why Chicago is called The Windy City is merely a mirage; it’s all because the trees fall down (but apparently only at our house) just by looking at them the wrong way. And yes, we blame it on the wind…err, The Windy City.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Ashes
** I know, I know, I'll get to June eventually...maybe before August is even here."
The Ashes
This evening, I took great effort to actually, surprisingly, make dinner as Dave and I were both home for the night. You would think after looking at recipes 8-10 hours, all day long, I would actually know what’s for dinner. I dunno – something is not sinking in because I never seem to know what I’m going to make at night.
I digress. After getting dinner in the oven, kids calmed down on the couch, Dave comes walking through the back door and leaves a gift bag on the kitchen table. “Hey honey, what’s in the bag? Did you bring me home something special.” “Well, yes, I did bring you home something special.” “Well, let me see – what is it?” “It’s K.C.” “It’s K.C.? Ohhhhhh…it’s K.C. Geez, do you think you have to leave her in the kitchen?” “Please Su, grow up.”
I have an aversion to ashes. It’s true – but there is a reason. Well, perhaps not a rational reason, but I prefer that the dead meet the earth intact, no need to burn remains, human or not, so we can carry vials of our dearly departed around our neck, in canisters that might be mistaken as ash trays, or decorative vases that you might accidentally water, and in that case, you don’t have ashes, you have mud. Cremated mud…ick.
About five years ago, I had my first experience with ashes. I’ve been fortunate in my life, that while our lives seem to be like Mercury constantly in retrograde, we’ve been blessed with few deaths among family, friends or even furry friends. But five years ago, I came face to face with “The Ashes” and it’s scared me from having K.C. rest comfortably on our kitchen table.
In 2003, after returning home from work, I came through the front door and picked up the mail, including a brown, paper-wrapped box from UPS. Hmm, I wonder what’s in the UPS box. I turn the box over, only to read the following, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” I highly suspect screaming and dropping the box on the floor does not qualify as “handling with care” but when you aren’t expecting a dead person to show up at your door step, you never know how you’ll react. “Dave – someone sent us a DEAD person’s ashes TO OUR HOUSE!” “Oh, Grandma came?” “Umm, what do you mean ‘Grandma came?’” And so it goes that Dave’s deceased Grandma of seven years was making the tour and came to our house. I asked Dave to kindly remove Grandma from the kitchen table (I’m sensing a pattern here) and Dave obliged putting Grandma in a safe and loving part of our house.
Many months later, after being told, that Grandma had been sent to her final, final resting place (our home was merely a pit stop on the way to eternal happiness) I found myself in my closet looking for a pair of shoes that I had not worn in some time. I moved a box to get to the shoes, got myself dressed and then looked at the box, which had the all too familiar markings, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” Geez, I thought Grandma left, now she’s one my shoes? Ugh. “Dave, what’s up – Grandma’s still here…on my shoes no less, Grandma has over-welcomed her stay, she needs to leave.” “Alright, alright, I’ll call my mom.” And arrangements were made to have Grandma transported to Indiana where she could have a proper final resting place.
Each year, we send one kid to hang out with Dave’s parents for a week. It’s a great chance for them to have one on one time, and gives us a momentary break from the chaos of three children. Such was the case in 2004 (notice this is one year later) when I drove Delaney to a half way point in Indiana and met at the local McDonald’s. I was never so happy to see a bathroom, and Dave’s mom was very happy to see her granddaughter. “You go, I’ll take care of getting Delaney in the car so we can leave.” When I returned home that evening, child-less, Dave said, “Did my mom get everything out of the car?” “I assume she did – I mean she did take Delaney, her car seat, and assorted gear for a week ‘o fun.” “Oh, O.K., I was actually wondering if she took Grandma.” “WHAT?” “Umm…yeah, I put Grandma under the driver’s seat and asked my mom to make sure she took Grandma out of the car.”
And now you know why, right or wrong, I have a problem with ashes. K.C.’s ashes were given to Kathy tonight, with Kathy saying, “You are welcome to borrow the ashes if you ever need to.” A time share dog is one thing, time share ashes? Not my thing. “That’s okay Kathy, I have issues with ashes. You go ahead and keep them.”
The Ashes
This evening, I took great effort to actually, surprisingly, make dinner as Dave and I were both home for the night. You would think after looking at recipes 8-10 hours, all day long, I would actually know what’s for dinner. I dunno – something is not sinking in because I never seem to know what I’m going to make at night.
I digress. After getting dinner in the oven, kids calmed down on the couch, Dave comes walking through the back door and leaves a gift bag on the kitchen table. “Hey honey, what’s in the bag? Did you bring me home something special.” “Well, yes, I did bring you home something special.” “Well, let me see – what is it?” “It’s K.C.” “It’s K.C.? Ohhhhhh…it’s K.C. Geez, do you think you have to leave her in the kitchen?” “Please Su, grow up.”
I have an aversion to ashes. It’s true – but there is a reason. Well, perhaps not a rational reason, but I prefer that the dead meet the earth intact, no need to burn remains, human or not, so we can carry vials of our dearly departed around our neck, in canisters that might be mistaken as ash trays, or decorative vases that you might accidentally water, and in that case, you don’t have ashes, you have mud. Cremated mud…ick.
About five years ago, I had my first experience with ashes. I’ve been fortunate in my life, that while our lives seem to be like Mercury constantly in retrograde, we’ve been blessed with few deaths among family, friends or even furry friends. But five years ago, I came face to face with “The Ashes” and it’s scared me from having K.C. rest comfortably on our kitchen table.
In 2003, after returning home from work, I came through the front door and picked up the mail, including a brown, paper-wrapped box from UPS. Hmm, I wonder what’s in the UPS box. I turn the box over, only to read the following, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” I highly suspect screaming and dropping the box on the floor does not qualify as “handling with care” but when you aren’t expecting a dead person to show up at your door step, you never know how you’ll react. “Dave – someone sent us a DEAD person’s ashes TO OUR HOUSE!” “Oh, Grandma came?” “Umm, what do you mean ‘Grandma came?’” And so it goes that Dave’s deceased Grandma of seven years was making the tour and came to our house. I asked Dave to kindly remove Grandma from the kitchen table (I’m sensing a pattern here) and Dave obliged putting Grandma in a safe and loving part of our house.
Many months later, after being told, that Grandma had been sent to her final, final resting place (our home was merely a pit stop on the way to eternal happiness) I found myself in my closet looking for a pair of shoes that I had not worn in some time. I moved a box to get to the shoes, got myself dressed and then looked at the box, which had the all too familiar markings, “Human Remains. Handle with Care.” Geez, I thought Grandma left, now she’s one my shoes? Ugh. “Dave, what’s up – Grandma’s still here…on my shoes no less, Grandma has over-welcomed her stay, she needs to leave.” “Alright, alright, I’ll call my mom.” And arrangements were made to have Grandma transported to Indiana where she could have a proper final resting place.
Each year, we send one kid to hang out with Dave’s parents for a week. It’s a great chance for them to have one on one time, and gives us a momentary break from the chaos of three children. Such was the case in 2004 (notice this is one year later) when I drove Delaney to a half way point in Indiana and met at the local McDonald’s. I was never so happy to see a bathroom, and Dave’s mom was very happy to see her granddaughter. “You go, I’ll take care of getting Delaney in the car so we can leave.” When I returned home that evening, child-less, Dave said, “Did my mom get everything out of the car?” “I assume she did – I mean she did take Delaney, her car seat, and assorted gear for a week ‘o fun.” “Oh, O.K., I was actually wondering if she took Grandma.” “WHAT?” “Umm…yeah, I put Grandma under the driver’s seat and asked my mom to make sure she took Grandma out of the car.”
And now you know why, right or wrong, I have a problem with ashes. K.C.’s ashes were given to Kathy tonight, with Kathy saying, “You are welcome to borrow the ashes if you ever need to.” A time share dog is one thing, time share ashes? Not my thing. “That’s okay Kathy, I have issues with ashes. You go ahead and keep them.”
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The Travel Curse
** Once again, I had hoped that July would be relatively calm so I could back track to June, but alas, nothing but chaos reigns in my life and June will have to wait until the eye of the storm is overhead, instead of the hurricane force winds that continually surround me. Read on – enjoy! **
The Travel Curse
I’m not sure when exactly my curse started and why the travel gods decided that I would be their travel virgin that they would sacrifice and bestow all sorts of travel calamity on. I believe I am the first Bermingham with the true curse, which likely coincided with my dad’s retirement as a United pilot. The curse is known far and wide, among family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers. I have been told, likely true, that there is the curse by association – merely being in the air at the same time that I am raises the probability of flight delays, cancellations, emergency landings, mechanical failures, etc. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the passengers on Lost’s Oceanic Flight 815 went down simply because I was somewhere in the air, or on the plane on that fateful, television day.
The curse generally, but not always, leaves me alone when traveling on pleasure. It rears its ugly head on business trips to the point where co-workers literally will not fly with me on the same plane. Seriously, you think I’m joking – I’m not. It also typically only strikes on one leg of a round trip – if I have a pleasant trip outbound, my inbound flight will be equivalent to travel hell and vice versa.
And such is the back story on my curse du jour. I am actually typing this while I am 35,000 feet in the air returning from Portland, OR. In other words, by simply typing about my curse, I doing the equivalent of thumbing my nose at the travel gods and saying, “Ha, Ha, I win!”
Yesterday, after work, I put packed away my business attire, threw on my “Sherpa Su” attire and headed to the airport to pick up Jack and Delaney from a short visit with my parents. Like any good Sherpa, I loaded my back with their “bag o fun”, schlepped backpacks, water bottles, Nintendo DS, iPods and assorted other necessary items to drag them up the 35,000 mountain of “You may now remove your seatbelts and pound your head against the seat in front of you” and dropped them off with Grandpa John and Grandma Lee – and promptly turned around and went back home so I would not miss one exciting moment in the office. And after yesterday’s travel curse, I’m fortunate to know that today I can travel in peace and make it back to Chicago in one piece.
Let’s get back to yesterday, back-to-the-future style. United has adopted the “We want to keep you informed – we’ll pound you with information so you can stop asking all of your whiny questions” mantra. In my opinion, sometimes less is more. There are many things in life I would prefer to be utterly naïve on – like how I was conceived, finding out someone in my office completely drops his pants to his ankles to take a leak, learning that Delaney likely has worms, etc. United should go back to the creeping delay, pissy gate agents, and leave all of us in the dark.
After boarding our flight on-time (after all, this was technically a pleasure flight, the gods generally leave me alone), and scooting back from the gate, we go and sit in the penalty box, also known as plane purgatory – you’re not sure how you got there, and you’re not sure if you are ever going to get out.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking – we have a small mechanical problem that we are addressing and we should get back to you in the next 20-30 minutes with our new departure time.” So, the obligatory 20-30 minutes goes by, and then the messages become increasing more detailed. I’m fairly certain the captain was playing a practical joke on the co-pilot and injected him with a high dose of truth serum just to freak all of us passengers out. “Hi folks, this is your first officer speaking. Well, it does look like we have a problem. You see, a rock hit the nose gear of the plane. And not just a small rock, a BIG rock, and now we’ve got fiberglass cracking all over the place and you don’t want to be in the air at 35,000 feet going 500 miles an hour with fiberglass falling off the airplane. That could be VERY dangerous. So, we’re going to move ourselves to a gate so we can have some more mechanics look at the problem and I’ll get back with y’all in the next 45-50 minutes.” I know, you think I’m joking, you thinking I’m making this stuff up for comedic value – umm…no. Seriously, that’s what he said. Read on.
“Hi everyone, this is your first officer again. Well, we got out the digital camera and took a picture of the nose gear and we’re sending that photo to San Francisco so the FAA can evaluate the condition of the plane. Then we’ll find out if we can slap on some duct tape and roll out of here or have to replace the nose gear. I’ll get back to you in another 45-50 minutes.” Did he really just say duct tape? Come on – I know duct tape has a million uses. Like hemming your pants when you’re too lazy to go to the cleaners, rolling it up into balls to hit each other with, taping your kids mouth shut when they’re a little too loud, (Noelle – I know you work for the DCFS, I was JOKING!)…you get the picture. But where on the packaging does the duct tape say, “And when in crisis, will fix commercial airplanes.” I sincerely hope the duct tape in question is not the same variety I buy at Home Depot – although if it is, I’m shocked we don’t have a line item on our airline tickets noting, “Duct Tape premium”, right next to “You’re traveling with luggage? That’ll be $100”.
“Hi y’all – this is your first officer again. Well, the FAA looked at the pictures and remember when I mentioned that fancy tape, well, we’re just going to patch this plane right up and get us out of here. Sorry for the 3-hour delay.” Fancy tape? Fancy tape in my world is double-sided tape, or white-out tape, not tape that can band-aid the front of an airplane traveling 4 hours to Portland. And oh yeah, you didn’t mention fancy tape, you mentioned household strength, gray duct tape. Yeah, duct tape that is going to hold this tin can together. By the way, that 3-hour delay now qualifies me as a cast member of Gilligan’s Island.
And just to make my 3-hour delay in my window seat (not ideal for a girl with a small bladder) plus my 4-hour plane ride that much more enjoyable – I get the joy of sitting next to the hippie couple. They look kinda like the crunchy Oregon tree-hugger hippies that crossed paths one too many times with the Unibomber. And Mr. Hippie, my middle-seat companion, is wearing a freaking skirt. A skirt! Geez, I hope he’s wearing underwear under there. And of course, they have managed to sleep through the 3-hour delay, the 4-hour flight to make me want to burst like a kid learning how to potty train.
And that my friends, is a typical story of one of many travel curses. I am looking for a remedy to the curse, I believe it involves finding a new travel virgin to sacrifice to the travel gods, while mixing used ticket stubs with small bottles of vodka in an airplane toilet while chanting, “Curse Be Gone!” 100 times while seated, with my seatbelt on.
For those of you that have experienced, or can confirm my curse first hand, feel free to post a message on this blog.Next up – “The Windy City” from mid-June, unless of course my current life is more exciting than my past tense version of events.
The Travel Curse
I’m not sure when exactly my curse started and why the travel gods decided that I would be their travel virgin that they would sacrifice and bestow all sorts of travel calamity on. I believe I am the first Bermingham with the true curse, which likely coincided with my dad’s retirement as a United pilot. The curse is known far and wide, among family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers. I have been told, likely true, that there is the curse by association – merely being in the air at the same time that I am raises the probability of flight delays, cancellations, emergency landings, mechanical failures, etc. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the passengers on Lost’s Oceanic Flight 815 went down simply because I was somewhere in the air, or on the plane on that fateful, television day.
The curse generally, but not always, leaves me alone when traveling on pleasure. It rears its ugly head on business trips to the point where co-workers literally will not fly with me on the same plane. Seriously, you think I’m joking – I’m not. It also typically only strikes on one leg of a round trip – if I have a pleasant trip outbound, my inbound flight will be equivalent to travel hell and vice versa.
And such is the back story on my curse du jour. I am actually typing this while I am 35,000 feet in the air returning from Portland, OR. In other words, by simply typing about my curse, I doing the equivalent of thumbing my nose at the travel gods and saying, “Ha, Ha, I win!”
Yesterday, after work, I put packed away my business attire, threw on my “Sherpa Su” attire and headed to the airport to pick up Jack and Delaney from a short visit with my parents. Like any good Sherpa, I loaded my back with their “bag o fun”, schlepped backpacks, water bottles, Nintendo DS, iPods and assorted other necessary items to drag them up the 35,000 mountain of “You may now remove your seatbelts and pound your head against the seat in front of you” and dropped them off with Grandpa John and Grandma Lee – and promptly turned around and went back home so I would not miss one exciting moment in the office. And after yesterday’s travel curse, I’m fortunate to know that today I can travel in peace and make it back to Chicago in one piece.
Let’s get back to yesterday, back-to-the-future style. United has adopted the “We want to keep you informed – we’ll pound you with information so you can stop asking all of your whiny questions” mantra. In my opinion, sometimes less is more. There are many things in life I would prefer to be utterly naïve on – like how I was conceived, finding out someone in my office completely drops his pants to his ankles to take a leak, learning that Delaney likely has worms, etc. United should go back to the creeping delay, pissy gate agents, and leave all of us in the dark.
After boarding our flight on-time (after all, this was technically a pleasure flight, the gods generally leave me alone), and scooting back from the gate, we go and sit in the penalty box, also known as plane purgatory – you’re not sure how you got there, and you’re not sure if you are ever going to get out.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking – we have a small mechanical problem that we are addressing and we should get back to you in the next 20-30 minutes with our new departure time.” So, the obligatory 20-30 minutes goes by, and then the messages become increasing more detailed. I’m fairly certain the captain was playing a practical joke on the co-pilot and injected him with a high dose of truth serum just to freak all of us passengers out. “Hi folks, this is your first officer speaking. Well, it does look like we have a problem. You see, a rock hit the nose gear of the plane. And not just a small rock, a BIG rock, and now we’ve got fiberglass cracking all over the place and you don’t want to be in the air at 35,000 feet going 500 miles an hour with fiberglass falling off the airplane. That could be VERY dangerous. So, we’re going to move ourselves to a gate so we can have some more mechanics look at the problem and I’ll get back with y’all in the next 45-50 minutes.” I know, you think I’m joking, you thinking I’m making this stuff up for comedic value – umm…no. Seriously, that’s what he said. Read on.
“Hi everyone, this is your first officer again. Well, we got out the digital camera and took a picture of the nose gear and we’re sending that photo to San Francisco so the FAA can evaluate the condition of the plane. Then we’ll find out if we can slap on some duct tape and roll out of here or have to replace the nose gear. I’ll get back to you in another 45-50 minutes.” Did he really just say duct tape? Come on – I know duct tape has a million uses. Like hemming your pants when you’re too lazy to go to the cleaners, rolling it up into balls to hit each other with, taping your kids mouth shut when they’re a little too loud, (Noelle – I know you work for the DCFS, I was JOKING!)…you get the picture. But where on the packaging does the duct tape say, “And when in crisis, will fix commercial airplanes.” I sincerely hope the duct tape in question is not the same variety I buy at Home Depot – although if it is, I’m shocked we don’t have a line item on our airline tickets noting, “Duct Tape premium”, right next to “You’re traveling with luggage? That’ll be $100”.
“Hi y’all – this is your first officer again. Well, the FAA looked at the pictures and remember when I mentioned that fancy tape, well, we’re just going to patch this plane right up and get us out of here. Sorry for the 3-hour delay.” Fancy tape? Fancy tape in my world is double-sided tape, or white-out tape, not tape that can band-aid the front of an airplane traveling 4 hours to Portland. And oh yeah, you didn’t mention fancy tape, you mentioned household strength, gray duct tape. Yeah, duct tape that is going to hold this tin can together. By the way, that 3-hour delay now qualifies me as a cast member of Gilligan’s Island.
And just to make my 3-hour delay in my window seat (not ideal for a girl with a small bladder) plus my 4-hour plane ride that much more enjoyable – I get the joy of sitting next to the hippie couple. They look kinda like the crunchy Oregon tree-hugger hippies that crossed paths one too many times with the Unibomber. And Mr. Hippie, my middle-seat companion, is wearing a freaking skirt. A skirt! Geez, I hope he’s wearing underwear under there. And of course, they have managed to sleep through the 3-hour delay, the 4-hour flight to make me want to burst like a kid learning how to potty train.
And that my friends, is a typical story of one of many travel curses. I am looking for a remedy to the curse, I believe it involves finding a new travel virgin to sacrifice to the travel gods, while mixing used ticket stubs with small bottles of vodka in an airplane toilet while chanting, “Curse Be Gone!” 100 times while seated, with my seatbelt on.
For those of you that have experienced, or can confirm my curse first hand, feel free to post a message on this blog.Next up – “The Windy City” from mid-June, unless of course my current life is more exciting than my past tense version of events.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Timeshare Dog - K.C.
** I had planned on starting in June and catching up to today, but alas, some events can't wait to be told, so I'm sure my posts will be out of chronological order...but you're all smart, educated people. Keep up - follow along. **
I vowed to my girlfriends tonight that I would not rush home and send a post and call them by name…umm, sorry Megan, Meg and Molly. But three drinks after dinner and voila, here I am typing my little heart out.
At dinner tonight, Molly regaled us with stories of her very sick Uncle in New York, with his very sick dog that needed to be put down and the wrangling to get her Uncle’s partner to do a power of attorney to put down the dog while her uncle was in ICU leaving Molly and her brother to share the news of the dog’s passing while running to catch a flight. As Megan said, “Why didn’t you just go to another vet and pretend it was your dog and not your Uncle’s?” Duh…. Regardless, I shared the following story with the girls – little did I know that the story was virtually unfolding while I was drinking.
15 years ago, I ventured past the suburban sprawl of a strip mall showing cute puppies to pet, and lo and behold, I decided that I needed a dog. Which dog did I pick? Why of course, a Shih Tzu, because affectionately, it could be referred to as a “Sh** Su” and seemed rather appropriate. I named her K.C., which was short for Killer Canine, because frankly, she was an enormous fur ball and anything but killer, and barely canine – she could have passed for a furry city rat at the time.
For many years, K.C. was my constant companion. She moved from one state to another with me, helped me through a divorce, was with me when I met Dave and transitioned from a Chicago suburban and Milwaukee dog to learning to pee and poop on city concrete. Ah, the life of a city living!
Dave and I were fortunate enough to rent in Chicago with awesome landlords, that not only let us have a dog (BTW, small dogs aren’t Dave’s thing, but he liked me enough to put up with it and learned to see K.C. as a big dog with his 3-D glasses on) but was willing to watch the dog when we were away.
Once we had kids, K.C. took second billing and suddenly we became the owners of a time-share dog. A what? Yes, a time share dog. In case you are unaware of what a time share dog is, let me tell you about it. Kathy, our former landlord, agreed to take K.C. in full time, while we agreed to pay for all vet bills and maintenance for K.C. Whenever Kathy would leave town, we would get K.C. for a visit, and the kids actually, legitimately, thought we owned a dog. The 4-week a year dog would end up in the family Christmas letter, in the kids pictures, and most importantly, the day to day task of caring for the dog fell to Kathy who embraced this idea whole heartedly. I suppose it’s like having joint custody without the fall-out of a divorce – who knew that the time share scenario would work so well…unless of course, it was an $400 vet bill, an $800 tumor removal, etc… I’m sure if we added the annual costs for K.C. vs. the time we had her, she was an expensive 4-week a year dog!
We had K.C. this past week at our house while Kathy was away on vacation. Mind you, K.C. is OLD – no longer running up and down the stairs, preferring to be held up to and off of the bed. As Dave and I were sleeping the other night, we heard a thud in the middle of the night. Yes, K.C. fell off of the bed (shh…don’t tell anyone…). I turned to Dave and asked (at 2:00 a.m.) – “You didn’t just kick the dog off of the bed, did you?” “Listen, I turned over, and the dog is on the floor. They are not mutually exclusive.” “Dave, you cannot use big words with me at 2:00 a.m., I actually have to think about what you said.” “Listen – I just picked up K.C., she seems fine – in fact, I think K.C. is half cat. Yes, she has nine lives, and it appears that she landed on her feet.” And so it was, K.C. seemed A-OK…and Dave promptly did the same thing the next night, with the exact same results.
After Kathy picked up K.C. last night – and K.C. could not have been more thrilled – I commented to Kathy that I thought perhaps K.C. was depressed being at our house. Chaos, commotion, Dave kicking her off the bed, etc. She seemed so excited to be escaping the prison of our home, it was palatable.
This evening, when I returned home, Dave met me at the door with the following news, “I just got home from Kathy’s, K.C. passed away this evening.” “What – you mean she didn’t have nine lives – you killed her didn’t you?” “No, I did not, she passed away peacefully at Kathy’s.” “You’re lying, I see a smile lurking behind those sad eyes…and I’ve been drinking which is so unfair, because I don’t know if you’re being truthful or lying.” “I’m not lying – in fact, I brought K.C. home. She’s on the kitchen table.” “Geez! On the table? OMG!”
And while I sincerely thought I would minimally see my 40th with K.C. celebrating alongside, and possibly even hitting menopause with K.C. curled up in the corner, her nine cat-like small-dog lives expired tonight. At literally the same time I was talking about K.C. “The Time Share Dog” with my girlfriends. Who knew….
So – may K.C. rest in peace. She was a wonderful dog, a great companion, and lived a happy life among multiple households, many homes, etc. And may Dave feel just a tad bit guilty for kicking her off the bed in the final week of her life.
I vowed to my girlfriends tonight that I would not rush home and send a post and call them by name…umm, sorry Megan, Meg and Molly. But three drinks after dinner and voila, here I am typing my little heart out.
At dinner tonight, Molly regaled us with stories of her very sick Uncle in New York, with his very sick dog that needed to be put down and the wrangling to get her Uncle’s partner to do a power of attorney to put down the dog while her uncle was in ICU leaving Molly and her brother to share the news of the dog’s passing while running to catch a flight. As Megan said, “Why didn’t you just go to another vet and pretend it was your dog and not your Uncle’s?” Duh…. Regardless, I shared the following story with the girls – little did I know that the story was virtually unfolding while I was drinking.
15 years ago, I ventured past the suburban sprawl of a strip mall showing cute puppies to pet, and lo and behold, I decided that I needed a dog. Which dog did I pick? Why of course, a Shih Tzu, because affectionately, it could be referred to as a “Sh** Su” and seemed rather appropriate. I named her K.C., which was short for Killer Canine, because frankly, she was an enormous fur ball and anything but killer, and barely canine – she could have passed for a furry city rat at the time.
For many years, K.C. was my constant companion. She moved from one state to another with me, helped me through a divorce, was with me when I met Dave and transitioned from a Chicago suburban and Milwaukee dog to learning to pee and poop on city concrete. Ah, the life of a city living!
Dave and I were fortunate enough to rent in Chicago with awesome landlords, that not only let us have a dog (BTW, small dogs aren’t Dave’s thing, but he liked me enough to put up with it and learned to see K.C. as a big dog with his 3-D glasses on) but was willing to watch the dog when we were away.
Once we had kids, K.C. took second billing and suddenly we became the owners of a time-share dog. A what? Yes, a time share dog. In case you are unaware of what a time share dog is, let me tell you about it. Kathy, our former landlord, agreed to take K.C. in full time, while we agreed to pay for all vet bills and maintenance for K.C. Whenever Kathy would leave town, we would get K.C. for a visit, and the kids actually, legitimately, thought we owned a dog. The 4-week a year dog would end up in the family Christmas letter, in the kids pictures, and most importantly, the day to day task of caring for the dog fell to Kathy who embraced this idea whole heartedly. I suppose it’s like having joint custody without the fall-out of a divorce – who knew that the time share scenario would work so well…unless of course, it was an $400 vet bill, an $800 tumor removal, etc… I’m sure if we added the annual costs for K.C. vs. the time we had her, she was an expensive 4-week a year dog!
We had K.C. this past week at our house while Kathy was away on vacation. Mind you, K.C. is OLD – no longer running up and down the stairs, preferring to be held up to and off of the bed. As Dave and I were sleeping the other night, we heard a thud in the middle of the night. Yes, K.C. fell off of the bed (shh…don’t tell anyone…). I turned to Dave and asked (at 2:00 a.m.) – “You didn’t just kick the dog off of the bed, did you?” “Listen, I turned over, and the dog is on the floor. They are not mutually exclusive.” “Dave, you cannot use big words with me at 2:00 a.m., I actually have to think about what you said.” “Listen – I just picked up K.C., she seems fine – in fact, I think K.C. is half cat. Yes, she has nine lives, and it appears that she landed on her feet.” And so it was, K.C. seemed A-OK…and Dave promptly did the same thing the next night, with the exact same results.
After Kathy picked up K.C. last night – and K.C. could not have been more thrilled – I commented to Kathy that I thought perhaps K.C. was depressed being at our house. Chaos, commotion, Dave kicking her off the bed, etc. She seemed so excited to be escaping the prison of our home, it was palatable.
This evening, when I returned home, Dave met me at the door with the following news, “I just got home from Kathy’s, K.C. passed away this evening.” “What – you mean she didn’t have nine lives – you killed her didn’t you?” “No, I did not, she passed away peacefully at Kathy’s.” “You’re lying, I see a smile lurking behind those sad eyes…and I’ve been drinking which is so unfair, because I don’t know if you’re being truthful or lying.” “I’m not lying – in fact, I brought K.C. home. She’s on the kitchen table.” “Geez! On the table? OMG!”
And while I sincerely thought I would minimally see my 40th with K.C. celebrating alongside, and possibly even hitting menopause with K.C. curled up in the corner, her nine cat-like small-dog lives expired tonight. At literally the same time I was talking about K.C. “The Time Share Dog” with my girlfriends. Who knew….
So – may K.C. rest in peace. She was a wonderful dog, a great companion, and lived a happy life among multiple households, many homes, etc. And may Dave feel just a tad bit guilty for kicking her off the bed in the final week of her life.
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