2013... the year I will...
Nope, not doing that this year.
I'm not going to ring in the new year by declaring that this will be the year I lose ten pounds. I've done that more than once over the past several years, and doggone it if those pounds don't just seem to love me. No matter how hard I have tried to ditch them, even when a few of them seem gone they always find their way home. It's like they have GPS.
I'm not going to ring in the new year by vowing to keep up with the laundry. I could keep up with the laundry. I know that. I realize it's not unfathomable to think that it could be done with some proper planning. But that's the thing. The best laid plans.... it's just too easy to fail. The laundry will get done at some point. Trust me.
I'm not going to ring in the new year by proclaiming that this is the year I will exercise for half an hour every day, five days a week, for 52 weeks straight. Even thought I actually would really love to do that. And I likely will try to do that. But I'm not going to set myself up for letting myself down by making January 1st the arbitrary beginning point to something that, rather than going smoothly for five days a week for 52 straight weeks, rather might have ebbs and tides based on life's currents. I want to feel successful when I exercise. Not guilty when I miss a day.
I'm not going to ring in the new year by vowing that this is the year I'm going to eat healthy! There's not a lot of things I know for sure, but I do know there's Jack in the Box milkshakes in my future. I absolutely, positively know this to be true. And I will enjoy them. I know this as well. I also know that I will have what has been deemed in our household "milkshake regret" every single time I drink one. It's just the way it is. Love the shake. Hate the post-shake "uuuggghhh" feeling. I will try to eat healthy in between the times I am not eating healthy. That's a resolution I can live up to.
I'm not going to ring in the new year by swearing that this is the year I will stay organized. I will GET organized, yes. I LOVE organizing. I will clean my drawers. I will empty out the fridge. I will go through my closets. Everything will be in its place. For about two weeks. And then entropy will take over. This is proven science, people. Things go from order to chaos. There's no stopping it.
Which brings me to "My New Year's Resolution For 2013": adjust accordingly.
2013 is going to be a year of change. There's no denying it. There's no stopping it. There's not really even any controlling it (WHAT??!!). What there IS, what there CAN be, is adjusting accordingly to it.
This I will try to do.
2013 will be the year of ... 2013. And whatever it happens to bring along for the ride.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
My Dad
Have you met my dad?
If you haven't, it's too bad (for you). If you have, you understand why it's too bad for the people who haven't met him.
My dad is the nicest guy on the face of the earth. I am not exaggerating. Someone has to be the nicest person on the planet, and I speak without hesitation when I say that my dad is that someone. If you know my dad, you are in complete agreement with me, right? If you don't know him, let me fill you in.
His nickname is St. Donald. We joke that he sometimes has a halo. He will drive you to the airport at ungodly hours of the morning and not talk about you behind your back afterwards. He will always, always try to pay for any meal you eat out together (I have resorted to excusing myself and pretending that I need to use the restroom in order to covertly give my credit card to the waitress before my dad can get his hands on the bill). He will rearrange his schedule to do you a tiny favor. I don't think the word "resentment" is in his vocabulary. He truly enjoys doing things for people in a way in which I have never seen anyone else even come close.
My dad is the guy you're talking about when you say things like, "He'd give you the shirt off of his back." He literally would give someone he doesn't know the shirt off of his back if he thought the person needed it. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I am not exaggerating. There are people who say they would do such things, and there are people who do such things. He's a doer, not a sayer.
When I was in high school, my dad sold his car (and while it may have had grass growing from small patches on the roof, it was in working condition, I assure you) to a man for $1 because the man desperately needed a car and couldn't afford one. I don't think my dad ever told anyone outside of our family about it. He's not the kind of guy who needs to trumpet his goodness to others. Because he doesn't do it for any reason other than it's the right thing to do.
My dad did his student teaching in Harlem. At a junior high school. By his own request. In the 1960's. Successfully. He tells a great story about teaching a science lesson on sound to a rambunctious group of middle-schoolers. The next day one of his students brought in an actual pay phone, ripped from its former home, to see if my dad could do the same lesson with real-life equipment. The point of the story not being that the kid ripped out a pay phone, but rather that he was interested enough in the lesson to bring it in to class and ask my dad to demonstrate the lesson again. A lot of teachers would automatically focus on the (possible) crime scenario of the situation. My dad, at least the way I hear him tell the story over fifty years later, saw a kid who had his curiosity piqued.
He's a "don't dwell on adversity--try to do something to overcome it" kind of guy. When things are not ideal, he's not a complainer. Never has been as long as I can remember. If something's not right, he tries to find a solution. If there's no solution to be found, he'll simply make the best of it until the situation changes. Case in point (and this story is now the stuff of legend and lore in our family):
We were traveling on the east coast during the summer. All five of us: my parents, my older brother and myself (both old enough to be snarky), and my younger brother (young enough to be adorably innocent). We were on our way, as I recall, to my grandmother's house on the Jersey shore. We were driving there from somewhere... I can't remember where. I do remember, however, that our journey involved getting our car onto the Cape May Ferry to get across what I'm guessing was maybe the Chesapeake Bay (I could be wrong about that geographical detail, but it doesn't really matter in terms of where this story is going). So there we are, mid-July, hanging out in Cape May, New Jersey, waiting for the ferry boat. It was hot. Really hot. New Jersey-in-the-summer hot. And humid. Really humid. Us kids were not exactly the model of patience or fortitude. We were uncomfortable and we were not trying to hide it. We were absolutely dwelling on adversity and not trying to do anything to overcome it. And we most certainly were not making the best of it in absence of any impending changes to the situation.
My dad, on the other hand, was trying his hardest to make the best of the situation, which in this case meant trying for mind over matter. So he has us close our eyes. And he tells us to imagine it's very cold, like in the Arctic. There's wind blowing. Polar bears are nearby. We are chilly it's so cold. I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.
I mean, he's trying so hard. He's really giving it an honest-to-god go of it. And while it was not working in the least on my older brother and myself (or my mom, but she's trying to play along), my little brother is picturing everything my dad is saying, creating this winter wonderland in his mind, and my little brother pipes in with, "And an eagle, CAW, CAW," and he probably was flapping his arms like wings (maybe not, but that's kind of how I remember it).
While the heat did not go away that afternoon, my dad managed to make it disappear, momentarily, for at least one like-minded believer who was willing to suspend a little over-heated reality for a few minutes of Arctic bliss, given the chance.
The End
Of that story. But there are so many more great stories about my dad. Honestly, every single story I can think of exemplifies my dad's patience (with perhaps one exception, but my older brother and I really drove my dad to the brink of sanity in that one exception, so I really can't say I blame him for losing it that one time) and/or his belief that given the chance, you always try to do the right thing, no matter how hard that might be.
And maybe one of the things that sets my dad apart is that he is more willing than most to not just recognize the chance, but happily go looking for it.
He's a guy who lives his core values quietly, humbly, and with conviction.
I'm so proud of all of the multitude of things my dad has accomplished in his life--is still accomplishing to this day--that positively impact so many people, from our family to the families of children he and my mom sponsored for decades. I think the thing that would make my dad the most proud (and he's probably the least prideful person I know) is that the examples that he and my mom set throughout their lives are being continued by their children and passed down to their grandchildren. My brothers and I and our spouses decided a few years ago that, being more than fortunate, rather than give each other Christmas gifts each year we would donate the money we would have used to buy gifts to a charity. After passing a homeless young man on a corner, my daughter asked if we could please go back and give him something to help him and his family. My nephew couldn't think of anything he wanted for Christmas (he's a high school freshman), so he asked for a donation to be made to a charity.
That's a legacy worthy of mention, even if my dad would never mention it himself.
If you haven't, it's too bad (for you). If you have, you understand why it's too bad for the people who haven't met him.
My dad is the nicest guy on the face of the earth. I am not exaggerating. Someone has to be the nicest person on the planet, and I speak without hesitation when I say that my dad is that someone. If you know my dad, you are in complete agreement with me, right? If you don't know him, let me fill you in.
His nickname is St. Donald. We joke that he sometimes has a halo. He will drive you to the airport at ungodly hours of the morning and not talk about you behind your back afterwards. He will always, always try to pay for any meal you eat out together (I have resorted to excusing myself and pretending that I need to use the restroom in order to covertly give my credit card to the waitress before my dad can get his hands on the bill). He will rearrange his schedule to do you a tiny favor. I don't think the word "resentment" is in his vocabulary. He truly enjoys doing things for people in a way in which I have never seen anyone else even come close.
My dad is the guy you're talking about when you say things like, "He'd give you the shirt off of his back." He literally would give someone he doesn't know the shirt off of his back if he thought the person needed it. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I am not exaggerating. There are people who say they would do such things, and there are people who do such things. He's a doer, not a sayer.
When I was in high school, my dad sold his car (and while it may have had grass growing from small patches on the roof, it was in working condition, I assure you) to a man for $1 because the man desperately needed a car and couldn't afford one. I don't think my dad ever told anyone outside of our family about it. He's not the kind of guy who needs to trumpet his goodness to others. Because he doesn't do it for any reason other than it's the right thing to do.
My dad did his student teaching in Harlem. At a junior high school. By his own request. In the 1960's. Successfully. He tells a great story about teaching a science lesson on sound to a rambunctious group of middle-schoolers. The next day one of his students brought in an actual pay phone, ripped from its former home, to see if my dad could do the same lesson with real-life equipment. The point of the story not being that the kid ripped out a pay phone, but rather that he was interested enough in the lesson to bring it in to class and ask my dad to demonstrate the lesson again. A lot of teachers would automatically focus on the (possible) crime scenario of the situation. My dad, at least the way I hear him tell the story over fifty years later, saw a kid who had his curiosity piqued.
He's a "don't dwell on adversity--try to do something to overcome it" kind of guy. When things are not ideal, he's not a complainer. Never has been as long as I can remember. If something's not right, he tries to find a solution. If there's no solution to be found, he'll simply make the best of it until the situation changes. Case in point (and this story is now the stuff of legend and lore in our family):
We were traveling on the east coast during the summer. All five of us: my parents, my older brother and myself (both old enough to be snarky), and my younger brother (young enough to be adorably innocent). We were on our way, as I recall, to my grandmother's house on the Jersey shore. We were driving there from somewhere... I can't remember where. I do remember, however, that our journey involved getting our car onto the Cape May Ferry to get across what I'm guessing was maybe the Chesapeake Bay (I could be wrong about that geographical detail, but it doesn't really matter in terms of where this story is going). So there we are, mid-July, hanging out in Cape May, New Jersey, waiting for the ferry boat. It was hot. Really hot. New Jersey-in-the-summer hot. And humid. Really humid. Us kids were not exactly the model of patience or fortitude. We were uncomfortable and we were not trying to hide it. We were absolutely dwelling on adversity and not trying to do anything to overcome it. And we most certainly were not making the best of it in absence of any impending changes to the situation.
My dad, on the other hand, was trying his hardest to make the best of the situation, which in this case meant trying for mind over matter. So he has us close our eyes. And he tells us to imagine it's very cold, like in the Arctic. There's wind blowing. Polar bears are nearby. We are chilly it's so cold. I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.
I mean, he's trying so hard. He's really giving it an honest-to-god go of it. And while it was not working in the least on my older brother and myself (or my mom, but she's trying to play along), my little brother is picturing everything my dad is saying, creating this winter wonderland in his mind, and my little brother pipes in with, "And an eagle, CAW, CAW," and he probably was flapping his arms like wings (maybe not, but that's kind of how I remember it).
While the heat did not go away that afternoon, my dad managed to make it disappear, momentarily, for at least one like-minded believer who was willing to suspend a little over-heated reality for a few minutes of Arctic bliss, given the chance.
The End
Of that story. But there are so many more great stories about my dad. Honestly, every single story I can think of exemplifies my dad's patience (with perhaps one exception, but my older brother and I really drove my dad to the brink of sanity in that one exception, so I really can't say I blame him for losing it that one time) and/or his belief that given the chance, you always try to do the right thing, no matter how hard that might be.
And maybe one of the things that sets my dad apart is that he is more willing than most to not just recognize the chance, but happily go looking for it.
He's a guy who lives his core values quietly, humbly, and with conviction.
I'm so proud of all of the multitude of things my dad has accomplished in his life--is still accomplishing to this day--that positively impact so many people, from our family to the families of children he and my mom sponsored for decades. I think the thing that would make my dad the most proud (and he's probably the least prideful person I know) is that the examples that he and my mom set throughout their lives are being continued by their children and passed down to their grandchildren. My brothers and I and our spouses decided a few years ago that, being more than fortunate, rather than give each other Christmas gifts each year we would donate the money we would have used to buy gifts to a charity. After passing a homeless young man on a corner, my daughter asked if we could please go back and give him something to help him and his family. My nephew couldn't think of anything he wanted for Christmas (he's a high school freshman), so he asked for a donation to be made to a charity.
That's a legacy worthy of mention, even if my dad would never mention it himself.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Enough
I opened my computer to look at the news on CNN.com. Because I cannot bring myself to watch the news on TV right now. I can't do it. It's too heartbreaking. It's too draining. It makes me cry. It brings overwhelming sadness.
And when I opened up the CNN website, I couldn't even click into anything other than the "entertainment" section. I have no desire to know about Linsey Lohan's latest rehab, or the Kardashian's exploits, or which movies are getting awards. But it's easier to read about those mindless, unimportant events than it is to read about the victims of the shooting in Connecticut.
Enough.
Enough already.
Can we please, as a nation, acknowledge that we have a problem with guns? Yes, we do have a problem with the people who shoot the guns. But the people who shoot the guns HAVE the guns. And that's a big part of the problem.
We need to address how easy it is to get a gun. We need to make it less easy. We might need to consider that we need to make getting some types of guns illegal.
No one but a trained military soldier should have access to an automatic weapon. No one. Let me say that again. No one.
You want to hunt? Feel free. With a rifle. That you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.
You want to unwind with target practice? Feel free. With a gun that you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.
Does that cramp your style? Does that infringe upon your perceived second amendment rights? You're alive to have your style cramped. You're alive to be infringed upon. Count yourself lucky. There are twenty innocent kindergartners and six brave adults whose lives are lost too soon because we, as a nation, couldn't get it together to prevent this.
Enough already.
And when I opened up the CNN website, I couldn't even click into anything other than the "entertainment" section. I have no desire to know about Linsey Lohan's latest rehab, or the Kardashian's exploits, or which movies are getting awards. But it's easier to read about those mindless, unimportant events than it is to read about the victims of the shooting in Connecticut.
Enough.
Enough already.
Can we please, as a nation, acknowledge that we have a problem with guns? Yes, we do have a problem with the people who shoot the guns. But the people who shoot the guns HAVE the guns. And that's a big part of the problem.
We need to address how easy it is to get a gun. We need to make it less easy. We might need to consider that we need to make getting some types of guns illegal.
No one but a trained military soldier should have access to an automatic weapon. No one. Let me say that again. No one.
You want to hunt? Feel free. With a rifle. That you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.
You want to unwind with target practice? Feel free. With a gun that you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.
Does that cramp your style? Does that infringe upon your perceived second amendment rights? You're alive to have your style cramped. You're alive to be infringed upon. Count yourself lucky. There are twenty innocent kindergartners and six brave adults whose lives are lost too soon because we, as a nation, couldn't get it together to prevent this.
Enough already.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
I Need Longer Arms
I need longer arms.
And they aren’t likely to get longer, so yeah, that’s gonna be a problem. Because my dilemma is that words are getting smaller. Not length smaller. Not syllable-smaller. Size smaller. As in height. Font size.
The written word is shrinking. I used to be able to read an ibuprofen bottle. It was so simple. Just hold the bottle up in front of my face and read it. It was that way for everything--the newspaper, mail, my computer screen, my iPhone screen. All of it clear as a bell, right there in front of my eyes. I would look, and words would reveal themselves.
And then... one day the words just started getting smaller. I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland. It was all shrinking right before me, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. Except start holding things farther and farther away from me. My arms are only so long.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. It’s the words. It’s not me. Or my eyes.
Because if it was me and my eyes, then that would be a sign that I am getting older. And while, yes, duh, I know I’m getting older, I don’t want to encounter any actual physical signs of my aging. Like having to hold my iPhone so far away from me to read a text that I had to activate the “large text accessibility” function. I may or may not have had to do that recently. It may or may not have really helped a lot.
Unfortunately, at some point my arms (which, by the way are in direct proportion to my height, which is 5'4", which is a bit on the short side) are not going to be able to outstretch far enough for me to read the correct dosage on the ibuprofen bottle. Hey, ibuprofen manufacturers, you know that the majority of the people taking your product are doing so because they have a headache, right? They already aren't feeling top notch. Possibly they have one of those nasty behind-the-eyeballs aches. Why not throw people a bone and make your packaging readable? If you eliminate all the crap you can make the instructions a normal, readable size. Perhaps you can eliminate the entire section that reads:
Stop and consult a doctor if:
- you experience any of the following signs of stomach bleeding:
- feel faint
- vomit blood
- have bloody or black stools
- have stomach pain that does not get better
- pain gets worse or lasts more than 10 days
- fever gets worse or lasts more than 3 days
- redness or swelling is present in the painful area
- any new symptoms appear
I mean, really, you have to actually put that on the package? Isn't that all kind of common sense? I mean, who would think to themselves, "Hey, I've been taking this medication for three days and it not only doesn't seem to bring my fever down, but my fever is getting worse. Think I'll keep taking it and hope it starts to work at some point..."? I say get rid of that section and use the extra room on the bottle to bring the dosage information to a size that does not require ape-like arm length, a magnifying glass, or your kid to read.
Several people have suggested that, if in fact I cannot get my arms to stretch out to a suitable length, I try “cheaters” reading glasses. Um, why attack me? Why do I have to suffer when it’s the words that are the problem?
And while we're on the subject, grey hair is a sign of increasing intelligence, right?
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
All Over the (electoral) Map
Today's post has no theme. You'd think from the title that it's going to be about politics. It might be . For a little bit. But my thoughts are literally scattered today.
I ordered Steven's cap and gown this morning. That was a little dose of hard reality. His cap and gown. For graduation. So he can graduate. And go to college. And leave home. Yeah, today's going to be a long day.
And incidentally, to order a cap and gown, you have to put the graduate's height and weight down for the sizing. Today I also found out that my 6'3" son weighs the same as his 5'4" mother. Yeah, yeah, different builds. Whatever. That's an eleven inch height difference with a zero pound weight difference. So yeah, that really helped make my day better. I'll be spending the next hour or so at the gym. Possibly trying to stretch myself on a rack.
It's also election day. Nervous. Very nervous. Pennsylvania, do NOT go red on me now! I want to turn the TV on, but I've decided not to until at least 4pm, when polls start closing on the east coast and the news channels can post actual results as opposed to hypothetical speculation (yes, I know speculation is hypothetical--did you not get the part about me having a hard day? Leave it alone, ok?).
I cannot fathom the possibility of a President Romney. My whole body just shuddered.
Talked about the election excitement this morning with the kids as we ate breakfast. After discussing our fervent hope that Obama prevails, I asked the kids what they'd like for election night dinner. Sloppy Joes was the resounding answer from both of them. Then we decided maybe they should be called Sloppy Mitts. Or Sloppy Romneys. Which in theory was fun, but actually sounds kind of gross to eat. We decided just plain old sloppy joes would be fine.
A quiz for you, to see if you've been reading this blog entry with your full concentration:
Kim should go to the gym today to:
(a) run off nervous election-day tension
(b) try to make her mother/son weight/height ratio more acceptable
(c) get out of the house so she doesn't turn on the TV before 4pm
(d) run hard enough on a treadmill so her tears at the thought of her kids leaving home look like sweat
Yeah, today's going to be a long day.
Go Obama!
(Don't go, Steven!)
I ordered Steven's cap and gown this morning. That was a little dose of hard reality. His cap and gown. For graduation. So he can graduate. And go to college. And leave home. Yeah, today's going to be a long day.
And incidentally, to order a cap and gown, you have to put the graduate's height and weight down for the sizing. Today I also found out that my 6'3" son weighs the same as his 5'4" mother. Yeah, yeah, different builds. Whatever. That's an eleven inch height difference with a zero pound weight difference. So yeah, that really helped make my day better. I'll be spending the next hour or so at the gym. Possibly trying to stretch myself on a rack.
It's also election day. Nervous. Very nervous. Pennsylvania, do NOT go red on me now! I want to turn the TV on, but I've decided not to until at least 4pm, when polls start closing on the east coast and the news channels can post actual results as opposed to hypothetical speculation (yes, I know speculation is hypothetical--did you not get the part about me having a hard day? Leave it alone, ok?).
I cannot fathom the possibility of a President Romney. My whole body just shuddered.
Talked about the election excitement this morning with the kids as we ate breakfast. After discussing our fervent hope that Obama prevails, I asked the kids what they'd like for election night dinner. Sloppy Joes was the resounding answer from both of them. Then we decided maybe they should be called Sloppy Mitts. Or Sloppy Romneys. Which in theory was fun, but actually sounds kind of gross to eat. We decided just plain old sloppy joes would be fine.
A quiz for you, to see if you've been reading this blog entry with your full concentration:
Kim should go to the gym today to:
(a) run off nervous election-day tension
(b) try to make her mother/son weight/height ratio more acceptable
(c) get out of the house so she doesn't turn on the TV before 4pm
(d) run hard enough on a treadmill so her tears at the thought of her kids leaving home look like sweat
Yeah, today's going to be a long day.
Go Obama!
(Don't go, Steven!)
Sunday, September 30, 2012
WOW!
Why are everyone's pants so tight?
Can you put your phone down for just a few minutes?
Girls' shorts are just too short these days. It leaves nothing to the imagination.
Those boys are going to have hip problems wearing those pants so low and trying to keep them on.
That's not a homecoming dress. That's a cocktail dress. You're too young for cocktails.
Too many piercings.
Too many tattoos.
Why on god's green earth would anyone want a gauge in their ear? It just looks gross.
We rode our bikes everywhere, or we walked--you kids drive or are driven everywhere.
I know it's only nine o'clock. I'm still going to bed.
I don't have much commentary to add to this. It's just a list of things I've caught myself saying the the last couple of months.
Somewhere along the way I turned into a cranky old lady.
I'm going to work on it. I can change. I can be positive. Here goes:
Wow, I could never pull off pants that tight. You're lucky you have such a great figure.
Wow, that phone is so small it's as if you can use it and not even realize you're using it.
Wow, those shorts really make you look like you have long legs.
Wow, it's gravity defying how low his pants are, yet he can keep them from falling all the way down.
Wow. You look very mature in that dress.
Wow, how did you find someone who would pierce that?
Wow, your psychiatrist must love you.
Wow, do you love the way it looks, or were you just trying to piss off your parents? (sorry, I couldn't find anything positive to say about the whole gauge thing)
Wow, you kids are lazy. (again, I tried but failed to find a positive spin on that one)
Wow, I've been up for sixteen straight hours! I'm going to bed.
Not bad. I can do this. It's just going to require a lot of sentences beginning with Wow!
Can you put your phone down for just a few minutes?
Girls' shorts are just too short these days. It leaves nothing to the imagination.
Those boys are going to have hip problems wearing those pants so low and trying to keep them on.
That's not a homecoming dress. That's a cocktail dress. You're too young for cocktails.
Too many piercings.
Too many tattoos.
Why on god's green earth would anyone want a gauge in their ear? It just looks gross.
We rode our bikes everywhere, or we walked--you kids drive or are driven everywhere.
I know it's only nine o'clock. I'm still going to bed.
I don't have much commentary to add to this. It's just a list of things I've caught myself saying the the last couple of months.
Somewhere along the way I turned into a cranky old lady.
I'm going to work on it. I can change. I can be positive. Here goes:
Wow, I could never pull off pants that tight. You're lucky you have such a great figure.
Wow, that phone is so small it's as if you can use it and not even realize you're using it.
Wow, those shorts really make you look like you have long legs.
Wow, it's gravity defying how low his pants are, yet he can keep them from falling all the way down.
Wow. You look very mature in that dress.
Wow, how did you find someone who would pierce that?
Wow, your psychiatrist must love you.
Wow, do you love the way it looks, or were you just trying to piss off your parents? (sorry, I couldn't find anything positive to say about the whole gauge thing)
Wow, you kids are lazy. (again, I tried but failed to find a positive spin on that one)
Wow, I've been up for sixteen straight hours! I'm going to bed.
Not bad. I can do this. It's just going to require a lot of sentences beginning with Wow!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
So This Is What It Feels Like to Get In Shape
This is probably not the best time for me to be writing this entry.
I am on day three of my new workout routine. I thought I was in decent shape. I thought my new workout routine would get me into better shape. As it turns out, I am not in shape at all.
"Why, Kim, do you think you are not in shape at all?" you might be asking yourself. Or perhaps you're more of a realist, and you are saying to yourself, "Well, it took her long enough to figure that out!" I'm not really going to address you realists.
However, I will answer the first question, and I will do it with brutal honesty and complete humility. I know I am not in shape at all because I am sitting here writing this blog. I have been doing my 50 minute workout for two hours now. I was supposed to do two sets of a circuit (a mix of weight lifting, push-ups, leg lifts, planks, etc...that takes about twenty minutes total) followed by 30 minutes of cardio. Here's how that panned out:
I did one set of the circuit. My heart was racing. I had to stop for water. I was dripping sweat. Slightly out of breath. I paused to check my email (you know, to catch my breath). I laid down on the couch because it felt cold against my body. Closed my eyes for a few minutes (I did NOT fall asleep, thank you very much). Got back up. Went out to do circuit number two.
Oh dear god. Completed the circuit, but then felt like I was going to throw up I was so tired. Paused for another glass of water. Checked my phone, hoping there was some urgent message that needed tending to. Damn it. Why do my kids only forget their lunches when I'm in the middle of something fun? Thought about the 30 minutes of cardio that I was now supposed to do.
And here I sit. The mere thought of starting that cardio was enough to make me lie down on my now-sweaty yoga mat and say out loud, to no one but myself, "So this is what it feels like to be out of shape."
I'm telling you this because you would otherwise have no way of knowing it, but since I typed that last sentence, I have been to the grocery store, made the bed, eaten my lunch, and yes, done some cardio. Maybe not half an hour of cardio. Maybe not even quite twenty minutes. Perhaps as little as ten. But hey, I did some cardio. After I did all that other stuff. And again, it winded me.
Not fun. This is not a fun place to be at all. I am utterly unused to not being able to somewhat remotely accomplish my fitness goals. I've trained for and run nine half marathons (okay, I trained for eight and ran nine--remind me to blog about that one that I ran without training for sometime--good story). But anyway, I have been in decent shape for most of my adult life. But no more.
I let it go.
Totally my own fault. After that last half marathon (in Disneyland!), I said to myself, as I say to myself after every half marathon, "Kim, you should just keep running like you're still training. You're in great shape. Don't let it all go."
And yet, after every single half marathon I have run, I have then let all that training go to waste and had to start from scratch again. I kid you not. After EVERY SINGLE ONE, I have thought those thoughts and then not followed through.
But this time feels different. The base layer, that ability to get right back into the groove and have it feel good to be exercising again--kaput! Disappeared. Not making any kind of appearance. It's just me and my very distraught lungs and my wildly racing heart. And my profusely sweating brow. And my slightly wounded pride.
It's as if my body is older. Oh, wait....
Okay, so there's a realization I need to fully confront. My body is, apparently, not as forgiving as it once was. It's a little easier to gain a pound. It's a little harder to lose one. It's going to take more to accomplish less. Good times, people, good times.
But, and I am writing this down and publishing it so that it's out there and I cannot deny it, I will get back in shape. I am determined to follow my new workout routine, eat (more) properly, and generally get my body back to feeling, at the very least, 46 years old instead of any number higher than that.
I've got my iPod all charged up and I'm ready to go do my cardio run tomorrow. Hopefully, I will not be blogging in the middle of that run.
I am on day three of my new workout routine. I thought I was in decent shape. I thought my new workout routine would get me into better shape. As it turns out, I am not in shape at all.
"Why, Kim, do you think you are not in shape at all?" you might be asking yourself. Or perhaps you're more of a realist, and you are saying to yourself, "Well, it took her long enough to figure that out!" I'm not really going to address you realists.
However, I will answer the first question, and I will do it with brutal honesty and complete humility. I know I am not in shape at all because I am sitting here writing this blog. I have been doing my 50 minute workout for two hours now. I was supposed to do two sets of a circuit (a mix of weight lifting, push-ups, leg lifts, planks, etc...that takes about twenty minutes total) followed by 30 minutes of cardio. Here's how that panned out:
I did one set of the circuit. My heart was racing. I had to stop for water. I was dripping sweat. Slightly out of breath. I paused to check my email (you know, to catch my breath). I laid down on the couch because it felt cold against my body. Closed my eyes for a few minutes (I did NOT fall asleep, thank you very much). Got back up. Went out to do circuit number two.
Oh dear god. Completed the circuit, but then felt like I was going to throw up I was so tired. Paused for another glass of water. Checked my phone, hoping there was some urgent message that needed tending to. Damn it. Why do my kids only forget their lunches when I'm in the middle of something fun? Thought about the 30 minutes of cardio that I was now supposed to do.
And here I sit. The mere thought of starting that cardio was enough to make me lie down on my now-sweaty yoga mat and say out loud, to no one but myself, "So this is what it feels like to be out of shape."
I'm telling you this because you would otherwise have no way of knowing it, but since I typed that last sentence, I have been to the grocery store, made the bed, eaten my lunch, and yes, done some cardio. Maybe not half an hour of cardio. Maybe not even quite twenty minutes. Perhaps as little as ten. But hey, I did some cardio. After I did all that other stuff. And again, it winded me.
Not fun. This is not a fun place to be at all. I am utterly unused to not being able to somewhat remotely accomplish my fitness goals. I've trained for and run nine half marathons (okay, I trained for eight and ran nine--remind me to blog about that one that I ran without training for sometime--good story). But anyway, I have been in decent shape for most of my adult life. But no more.
I let it go.
Totally my own fault. After that last half marathon (in Disneyland!), I said to myself, as I say to myself after every half marathon, "Kim, you should just keep running like you're still training. You're in great shape. Don't let it all go."
And yet, after every single half marathon I have run, I have then let all that training go to waste and had to start from scratch again. I kid you not. After EVERY SINGLE ONE, I have thought those thoughts and then not followed through.
But this time feels different. The base layer, that ability to get right back into the groove and have it feel good to be exercising again--kaput! Disappeared. Not making any kind of appearance. It's just me and my very distraught lungs and my wildly racing heart. And my profusely sweating brow. And my slightly wounded pride.
It's as if my body is older. Oh, wait....
Okay, so there's a realization I need to fully confront. My body is, apparently, not as forgiving as it once was. It's a little easier to gain a pound. It's a little harder to lose one. It's going to take more to accomplish less. Good times, people, good times.
But, and I am writing this down and publishing it so that it's out there and I cannot deny it, I will get back in shape. I am determined to follow my new workout routine, eat (more) properly, and generally get my body back to feeling, at the very least, 46 years old instead of any number higher than that.
I've got my iPod all charged up and I'm ready to go do my cardio run tomorrow. Hopefully, I will not be blogging in the middle of that run.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
The Magic Number
I'm wondering, what's the magic number of calories in a can or bottle of soda that will make me actually NOT drink that can or bottle? I will happily down several Coke Zeros in a day. Same goes for Pepsi Max (which although it sounds like it would be a lot of calories, is actually calorie free). I will guzzle Pepsi One. And Diet Dr. Peppers. They all, essentially, are calorie free.
Today, however, I discovered a new marketing tactic. Or ploy. Or gimmick. I grabbed a bottle of Dr. Pepper 10. That's the title of the drink. I innocently thought it meant that there would be 10 calories in the drink. Not a particularly bold or, in my opinion, risky assumption there. But then I noticed, halfway through my refreshing mid-afternoon drink, that in very small letters underneath the very large and bold Dr. Pepper 10 it said, "10 calories per 8 ounces". Hmmm. Eight ounces is one cup. I have never encountered a soda container, be it can or bottle, that was a mere eight ounces. I did a little detective work. I read the serving size: one bottle. Okay, that's good. I read how many ounces are contained in the bottle: 20.
Twenty? So my Dr. Pepper 10 just turned into my Dr. Pepper 25.
This seems extremely deceptive marketing to me.
I know that recently the FDA started requiring packaging to show how many calories are in the entire package. This was done because some foods (junk foods I'm thinking) would put the calories per serving on the front of the, say M&M's bag, and then in very small print on the back tell you that there were in fact 3.5 servings of that 100 calorie/serving food in that tiny bag.
Now, the Dr. Pepper 10 people threw me completely. They named their product with a 10, causing me to think there were ten calories in the bottle. They put that it was one serving per bottle, so I'm still thinking I'm drinking a mere 10 calories. But then they told me that it was in fact 10 calories per eight ounces, and they did it with fine print in a very muted shade, so I wouldn't notice that little fact. And then to boot, they made the bottle size 20 ounces. So to my figuring, it would have made just as much sense for them to tell me that there are 5 calories per four ounces and called it a Dr. Pepper 5. Or perhaps go all James Bond and tell me there are 7 1/2 calories per..... okay, frankly I'm not that good at math and I'm just not going to go to the trouble to figure that one out. But you get the picture.
So no great epiphany here, just an average consumer noticing that in a society where one in three people are obese, a little straight shooting from the good people who package the food would be nice.
It was a good reminder to me, as well, to read the nutrition labels. I do realize it's my responsibility to understand what I'm putting into my body (although, again, I would so appreciate it if the packaging didn't require me to do math to figure it out).
And just FYI, I drank the Dr. Pepper 10. The whole bottle. All two and a half servings of it.
Today, however, I discovered a new marketing tactic. Or ploy. Or gimmick. I grabbed a bottle of Dr. Pepper 10. That's the title of the drink. I innocently thought it meant that there would be 10 calories in the drink. Not a particularly bold or, in my opinion, risky assumption there. But then I noticed, halfway through my refreshing mid-afternoon drink, that in very small letters underneath the very large and bold Dr. Pepper 10 it said, "10 calories per 8 ounces". Hmmm. Eight ounces is one cup. I have never encountered a soda container, be it can or bottle, that was a mere eight ounces. I did a little detective work. I read the serving size: one bottle. Okay, that's good. I read how many ounces are contained in the bottle: 20.
Twenty? So my Dr. Pepper 10 just turned into my Dr. Pepper 25.
This seems extremely deceptive marketing to me.
I know that recently the FDA started requiring packaging to show how many calories are in the entire package. This was done because some foods (junk foods I'm thinking) would put the calories per serving on the front of the, say M&M's bag, and then in very small print on the back tell you that there were in fact 3.5 servings of that 100 calorie/serving food in that tiny bag.
Now, the Dr. Pepper 10 people threw me completely. They named their product with a 10, causing me to think there were ten calories in the bottle. They put that it was one serving per bottle, so I'm still thinking I'm drinking a mere 10 calories. But then they told me that it was in fact 10 calories per eight ounces, and they did it with fine print in a very muted shade, so I wouldn't notice that little fact. And then to boot, they made the bottle size 20 ounces. So to my figuring, it would have made just as much sense for them to tell me that there are 5 calories per four ounces and called it a Dr. Pepper 5. Or perhaps go all James Bond and tell me there are 7 1/2 calories per..... okay, frankly I'm not that good at math and I'm just not going to go to the trouble to figure that one out. But you get the picture.
So no great epiphany here, just an average consumer noticing that in a society where one in three people are obese, a little straight shooting from the good people who package the food would be nice.
It was a good reminder to me, as well, to read the nutrition labels. I do realize it's my responsibility to understand what I'm putting into my body (although, again, I would so appreciate it if the packaging didn't require me to do math to figure it out).
And just FYI, I drank the Dr. Pepper 10. The whole bottle. All two and a half servings of it.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Customer Service
Dear Tyler at O'Reilly Auto Parts Store in Glendora, CA,
You are a life saver. Truly. You have no idea.
When I got up this morning, 400 miles from home, and found that my car wouldn't start, it was not the greatest start to my day.
First off, I really needed a Coke Zero to get my day going. And my car wouldn't start. The hotel chain I was staying at only carried Pepsi products (that particular chain shall remain nameless, but let's just say that for that reason--and really for that reason only, as they did serve wine and chocolate chip cookies in the evening which was awesome-- in my opinion it is not the BEST hotel in the WESTERN area). AND MY CAR WOULDN'T START!
I put that last sentence in all caps because there is no such thing as a font called Panic, otherwise that is what I would have used because that is how I felt. I can't really tell you what was agitating me more, the lack of a Coke Zero (and the complete inability to get one now that MY CAR WOULDN'T START), or the fact that MY CAR WOULDN'T START!
Getting the picture? Neither of these situations is truly alarm-inducing in and of themselves. But together, they create a caffeine-deprived woman with no remedy for her distress.
I can hear you saying to yourself (not you, Tyler the life saver--other people who might be reading this blog), "You could just buy yourself a Diet Pepsi and half of your problem would be solved."
If you said that, if you even thought that, then I have no idea how you found your way to this blog. Clearly you do not know anything about me. You probably had to press Ctrl•Alt•Delete to even get to this blog.
Sorry, Tyler. I got sidetracked there. Back to my recap of how you are a wonderful person.
So I'm stranded hundreds of miles from home on day three of a four day college road trip with Steven, my sixteen year old. I guess technically that means we are stranded, not just me. In our defense, we are two cool cats. We do not panic at all. We go about our day calmly.
We leave our car at the hotel and carpool with our good friends the Andersons to the college that we are visiting that day. We have a fantastic time looking around. We enjoy ourselves immensely. We are not in the least bit stressed out or worried about the fact that we currently have no working vehicle with which to get to the next college or get home. We just figured we would solve that problem when we got back to the hotel.
One set of cheap jumper cables (they did not do the trick), a call to a tow truck, one set of really good jumper cables from the tow truck (they did do the trick), and a short drive down the street to O'Reilly's Auto Parts Store, we finally get to you, Tyler.
We told you our predicament, politely asked if your store installs batteries, and even though your store does not install batteries as a matter of policy, you offered to take a look for us and give us some guidance.
And then you took the next hour and a half of your time and installed our battery. It was way more involved than you originally thought it would be, but not once did you lose patience or tell us that it was simply too much for you to do. You scraped off the corrosion. You loosened the nuts with pliers when the space was too small to get the socket wrench into. You consulted your manager when it turned out that one of the terminals had a slight crack in it. You found a way to remedy the crack, at least for enough time for us to get the car home.
It was hot outside, Tyler, and not once did you even mention the heat, even though you were standing in the direct sunshine the entire time.
When you finished and I turned the key, not only did the car start right up, but my automatic locks, which had not worked for over a year, now worked!
So Tyler, what I want you to know is that you are a wonderful young man who went far above and beyond what was expected of you today, and probably far and beyond what your boss usually allows in the parking lot (there was a sign hanging there saying no car work to be done in the parking lot, but your boss seemed okay with you helping a pair of distressed travelers).
You could have simply told me at the outset that O'Reilly's policy is to not do the actual battery changes and just sold me the battery, but you didn't. You talked to me, asked me questions, listened to my answers, assessed the situation, and decided to help.
Not everyone would have done that, Tyler. I'm so grateful you did. We are so grateful you did.
You created an O'Reilly customer for life (and I did send an email to corporate headquarters detailing your good deed, so I hope you get some kudos for it).
More importantly, you set a great example. You paid attention to the situation and to the predicament of the people involved. You did not shy away from a hard job. You were persistent. You got help from your manager when you needed advice. You went out on a limb and against standard policy to get the problem solved.
World leaders could take a lesson from you, Tyler.
Thank you for making what could have been a disastrous situation instead a positive, uplifting escapade I will repeat with a smile.
You made our day, Tyler!
You are a life saver. Truly. You have no idea.
When I got up this morning, 400 miles from home, and found that my car wouldn't start, it was not the greatest start to my day.
First off, I really needed a Coke Zero to get my day going. And my car wouldn't start. The hotel chain I was staying at only carried Pepsi products (that particular chain shall remain nameless, but let's just say that for that reason--and really for that reason only, as they did serve wine and chocolate chip cookies in the evening which was awesome-- in my opinion it is not the BEST hotel in the WESTERN area). AND MY CAR WOULDN'T START!
I put that last sentence in all caps because there is no such thing as a font called Panic, otherwise that is what I would have used because that is how I felt. I can't really tell you what was agitating me more, the lack of a Coke Zero (and the complete inability to get one now that MY CAR WOULDN'T START), or the fact that MY CAR WOULDN'T START!
Getting the picture? Neither of these situations is truly alarm-inducing in and of themselves. But together, they create a caffeine-deprived woman with no remedy for her distress.
I can hear you saying to yourself (not you, Tyler the life saver--other people who might be reading this blog), "You could just buy yourself a Diet Pepsi and half of your problem would be solved."
If you said that, if you even thought that, then I have no idea how you found your way to this blog. Clearly you do not know anything about me. You probably had to press Ctrl•Alt•Delete to even get to this blog.
Sorry, Tyler. I got sidetracked there. Back to my recap of how you are a wonderful person.
So I'm stranded hundreds of miles from home on day three of a four day college road trip with Steven, my sixteen year old. I guess technically that means we are stranded, not just me. In our defense, we are two cool cats. We do not panic at all. We go about our day calmly.
We leave our car at the hotel and carpool with our good friends the Andersons to the college that we are visiting that day. We have a fantastic time looking around. We enjoy ourselves immensely. We are not in the least bit stressed out or worried about the fact that we currently have no working vehicle with which to get to the next college or get home. We just figured we would solve that problem when we got back to the hotel.
One set of cheap jumper cables (they did not do the trick), a call to a tow truck, one set of really good jumper cables from the tow truck (they did do the trick), and a short drive down the street to O'Reilly's Auto Parts Store, we finally get to you, Tyler.
We told you our predicament, politely asked if your store installs batteries, and even though your store does not install batteries as a matter of policy, you offered to take a look for us and give us some guidance.
And then you took the next hour and a half of your time and installed our battery. It was way more involved than you originally thought it would be, but not once did you lose patience or tell us that it was simply too much for you to do. You scraped off the corrosion. You loosened the nuts with pliers when the space was too small to get the socket wrench into. You consulted your manager when it turned out that one of the terminals had a slight crack in it. You found a way to remedy the crack, at least for enough time for us to get the car home.
It was hot outside, Tyler, and not once did you even mention the heat, even though you were standing in the direct sunshine the entire time.
When you finished and I turned the key, not only did the car start right up, but my automatic locks, which had not worked for over a year, now worked!
So Tyler, what I want you to know is that you are a wonderful young man who went far above and beyond what was expected of you today, and probably far and beyond what your boss usually allows in the parking lot (there was a sign hanging there saying no car work to be done in the parking lot, but your boss seemed okay with you helping a pair of distressed travelers).
You could have simply told me at the outset that O'Reilly's policy is to not do the actual battery changes and just sold me the battery, but you didn't. You talked to me, asked me questions, listened to my answers, assessed the situation, and decided to help.
Not everyone would have done that, Tyler. I'm so grateful you did. We are so grateful you did.
You created an O'Reilly customer for life (and I did send an email to corporate headquarters detailing your good deed, so I hope you get some kudos for it).
More importantly, you set a great example. You paid attention to the situation and to the predicament of the people involved. You did not shy away from a hard job. You were persistent. You got help from your manager when you needed advice. You went out on a limb and against standard policy to get the problem solved.
World leaders could take a lesson from you, Tyler.
Thank you for making what could have been a disastrous situation instead a positive, uplifting escapade I will repeat with a smile.
You made our day, Tyler!
Saturday, March 31, 2012
My Book Club
I am in a book club.
Okay, that's not really true. It was true for about two months. About two years ago.
Now, it's kinda more like I'm in a social club. That occasionally (okay, only twice) reads a book (and that's a very generous description of our reading material). And eats fabulous food that we all bring to the gathering. And there's wine. A lot of wine.
But most importantly, there's friendship. And love. And support. The kind that only your bestest girlfriends can give you.
Here's the scoop on the BFD's (Betty Ford Dropouts--our book club name).
It really did start out as a book club. I have wanted to be in a book club for years. My parents have been in a book club for literally as long as I can remember. It seemed something worthy of aspiring to be a member of. So I started asking my girlfriends if they were interested. I presented this fabulous idea wherein each month we would read a current literary work and, over dinner and drinks, have revealing and thought-provoking discussions as to how the characters related to our lives and the world around us.
They were interested. Kind of. They loved the idea of getting together once a month. They adored the idea of having dinner together and catching up over a glass (or five) of wine. They were excited about the thought-provoking discussions.
The whole "read a book" part seemed to get lost somewhere.
I don't think it was because no one wanted to read a book. It had more to do with people thinking they were too busy to get through a whole book. It also had a little to do with trying to find a book that appealed to everyone in the group--a tough challenge for a group of nine women with varied jobs, families, interests, and available time.
We forged ahead, though, and at our first official gathering, we delved into the depth and complexity of Cosmopolitan magazine.
Yep. Cosmo. Not exactly what I had envisioned for my book club, but it was a start. It was, at the very least (and wow, this did give new meaning to the term 'very least') all of us discussing the same thing, so we had that going for us.
Did it really matter that the "same thing" we were discussing was the tactic of using your thong underwear as a scrunchie in your hair in order to feel more sexy and turn on your spouse? Or what you can "accomplish" in the shower, besides actually bathing? It was animated and enthusiastic discussion, I will definitely say that. I'm not really sure we would have had the same results discussing, say, The Help.
For this inaugural meeting we met at our local Chevy's so no one would have to clean their house and then clean up again after everyone left. It seemed like such a great idea.
This was the first and last time we ever met outside of one of our homes for a BFD gathering. Incidentally, it's also one of the last times we actually discussed any reading material.
As it turns out, discussing thong underwear (and that wasn't even one of the racier topics covered) in a booth at Chevy's is not what I'd call comfortable when you have a small child from the booth behind you hanging his head into your booth and listening to the conversation. Awkward. Don't really know (or want to know) what that child took away from his otherwise lovely dinner out with his family.
Suffice it to say that neither he nor his future girlfriends are really going to understand his fixation with scrunchies.
We have since altered our meetings somewhat. We have put ourselves on house arrest--no more public gatherings. We have virtually eliminated the "book" part of book club. Our only other forays into literary material were one Harlequin Romance (named, and I kid you not, Red Wine and Her Sexy Ex--yeah, we are Classy with a capital C) and Wifey--described by the author herself as an "adult novel". That's not-so-subtle code for "don't let your kids get their hands on this one".
Detecting a pattern?
It's pretty hard to miss. Lost amidst the obvious raunchiness, however, would be the heart of this group.
As much as we all have fun knocking back a few glasses of wine, maybe a jello shot here and there, reading what would be generously described as smutty material, what we really look forward to the most is each other.
We talk. We listen. We giggle. We sympathize. We console. We support. We laugh. We celebrate each other's milestones and mourn each other's losses. We give advice and we take advice and we ignore advice. We have a lot to say to each other, and the conversation never gets dull.
I was looking for a book club. I guess, technically, I get that occasionally. But even better is what I get consistently: a group of smart, funny, considerate, perceptive, supportive girlfriends.
Who all know what to do with a scrunchie.
Okay, that's not really true. It was true for about two months. About two years ago.
Now, it's kinda more like I'm in a social club. That occasionally (okay, only twice) reads a book (and that's a very generous description of our reading material). And eats fabulous food that we all bring to the gathering. And there's wine. A lot of wine.
But most importantly, there's friendship. And love. And support. The kind that only your bestest girlfriends can give you.
Here's the scoop on the BFD's (Betty Ford Dropouts--our book club name).
It really did start out as a book club. I have wanted to be in a book club for years. My parents have been in a book club for literally as long as I can remember. It seemed something worthy of aspiring to be a member of. So I started asking my girlfriends if they were interested. I presented this fabulous idea wherein each month we would read a current literary work and, over dinner and drinks, have revealing and thought-provoking discussions as to how the characters related to our lives and the world around us.
They were interested. Kind of. They loved the idea of getting together once a month. They adored the idea of having dinner together and catching up over a glass (or five) of wine. They were excited about the thought-provoking discussions.
The whole "read a book" part seemed to get lost somewhere.
I don't think it was because no one wanted to read a book. It had more to do with people thinking they were too busy to get through a whole book. It also had a little to do with trying to find a book that appealed to everyone in the group--a tough challenge for a group of nine women with varied jobs, families, interests, and available time.
We forged ahead, though, and at our first official gathering, we delved into the depth and complexity of Cosmopolitan magazine.
Yep. Cosmo. Not exactly what I had envisioned for my book club, but it was a start. It was, at the very least (and wow, this did give new meaning to the term 'very least') all of us discussing the same thing, so we had that going for us.
Did it really matter that the "same thing" we were discussing was the tactic of using your thong underwear as a scrunchie in your hair in order to feel more sexy and turn on your spouse? Or what you can "accomplish" in the shower, besides actually bathing? It was animated and enthusiastic discussion, I will definitely say that. I'm not really sure we would have had the same results discussing, say, The Help.
For this inaugural meeting we met at our local Chevy's so no one would have to clean their house and then clean up again after everyone left. It seemed like such a great idea.
This was the first and last time we ever met outside of one of our homes for a BFD gathering. Incidentally, it's also one of the last times we actually discussed any reading material.
As it turns out, discussing thong underwear (and that wasn't even one of the racier topics covered) in a booth at Chevy's is not what I'd call comfortable when you have a small child from the booth behind you hanging his head into your booth and listening to the conversation. Awkward. Don't really know (or want to know) what that child took away from his otherwise lovely dinner out with his family.
Suffice it to say that neither he nor his future girlfriends are really going to understand his fixation with scrunchies.
We have since altered our meetings somewhat. We have put ourselves on house arrest--no more public gatherings. We have virtually eliminated the "book" part of book club. Our only other forays into literary material were one Harlequin Romance (named, and I kid you not, Red Wine and Her Sexy Ex--yeah, we are Classy with a capital C) and Wifey--described by the author herself as an "adult novel". That's not-so-subtle code for "don't let your kids get their hands on this one".
Detecting a pattern?
It's pretty hard to miss. Lost amidst the obvious raunchiness, however, would be the heart of this group.
As much as we all have fun knocking back a few glasses of wine, maybe a jello shot here and there, reading what would be generously described as smutty material, what we really look forward to the most is each other.
We talk. We listen. We giggle. We sympathize. We console. We support. We laugh. We celebrate each other's milestones and mourn each other's losses. We give advice and we take advice and we ignore advice. We have a lot to say to each other, and the conversation never gets dull.
I was looking for a book club. I guess, technically, I get that occasionally. But even better is what I get consistently: a group of smart, funny, considerate, perceptive, supportive girlfriends.
Who all know what to do with a scrunchie.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Advice
Tonight at the dinner table Dave, without warning, asked me to give my daughter advice. He didn't specify what kind of advice. He just very suddenly, between bites of parmesan chicken, salad and biscuits, blurted "Advice from a mother to a daughter--GO!"
I had no idea this was coming, so I was not ready with life-changing words of wisdom for Olivia. I racked my brain for half a minute (the pressure was on, as there were three people staring at me, awaiting my potentially life-altering utterance). I came up with advice my great aunt Adah once gave to me in a letter before I left for college: "Don't feel the need to be friends with everyone."
Well, that's not exactly what she said. She actually wrote, "Don't make friends too quickly." But again, I was under pressure and unprepared, so I got it kinda right. And it has stuck with me all this time, so it seems like it must have been good advice.
Olivia just smiled and nodded. She didn't quite know what was going on and why she had been singled out to receive advice. Turns out, she hadn't been singled out at all, because just then....
Dave looked at Olivia and commanded "Advice from a sister to a brother--GO!"
And it went on like this for the next about ten minutes or so. Advice from a brother to a sister. Advice from a father to a son. Advice from a son to a father. Advice from a daughter to a mother. Advice from daughter to her father. You get the idea. We covered every permutation at rapid-fire speed.
It was a fun activity, and revealed a bit about each of us--both as the givers and the receivers of the advice.
For example, Olivia's advice to me, in a nutshell, was to be a good listener to people telling stories and not pipe in with the ending before they are done. It's wasn't exactly typical, sweeping advice that will improve the overall scope of my life, but it was her very personal advice to me. I drive her crazy when I don't wait for her to finish a story and I interrupt and blurt how it ends. So while it was not the kind of advice I expected her to give to me, it's definitely useful. Intent noted. I will try, Olivia. I will try.
Steven's advice to me took me off-guard for a few moments. It took him over a minute to come up with, in his words, "the right way to say this". That had me a little worried. It appeared as though he wanted to tell me something that would hurt my feelings, so he was trying to find a way to soften the blow. I smiled and patiently waited. When it finally came out, it was something along the lines of "a valid opinion recognizes all sides of an issue." He emphasized the word valid.
I did not know what to make of that one. My first reaction was to just keep smiling. 'Cause I kinda wanted to cry. And that would have ruined the game, which really was great fun.
So I racked my brain, and I mean I REALLY racked my brain (all the while still smiling), and I couldn't come up with what he could have been talking about. Steven and I have great discussions on everything from the Israeli/Palestinian conflict to what kind of tux he should get for the Junior Prom. And I mean these are GOOD discussions. We acknowledge differing opinions, we look up facts, we play devil's advocate. So truly, I was stumped as to why he would think that I don't recognize opposing sides to issues. Or why my opinions weren't valid.
But I said nothing. I just smiled and nodded.
Dave stepped in to disagree with Steven's advice. He stated that the whole point of opinions is that in fact they do NOT have to recognize the other side, thus the expression 'Opinions are like assholes--everybody has one'. He really said that. At the dinner table. We're classy like that.
And this statement degenerated, just for a brief moment, into uncontrollable laughter and some anatomical talk involving, shall we say, sizes of opinions. Again, I cannot emphasize enough how classy and appropriate our conversation can be.
This not only made me smile (a real smile this time), but it made Olivia come close to spitting out her milk (this is not an unusual occurrence for Olivia; she's pretty easy to crack up at the dinner table, and it's kind of becoming a bit of a sport to time things so that she's got a mouthful of milk at just the right moment).
Steven chimed in at this point to say that his advice was more in reference to politics in nature, not advice aimed at me. Whew!
The advice kept coming at lightening speed for a few more minutes. Some was sarcastic. Some was funny. Some was sincere, as was Dave's advice to me (the mom reluctantly approaching an empty nest): "Enjoy each phase of your life."
I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me. No one knows me better than he does. It was very thoughtful advice that I will keep close to my heart as life begins changing at a more rapid pace.
And as happens in our household, the seriousness can only last so long. We are a family prone to sarcasm and humor.
So then it got just plain silly (Steven to Olivia: be ready on time in the morning; Olivia to Steven: don't rush people; Steven to Olivia: ask nicely when you want something; Olivia to Steven: don't offer something if you're not going to give it). You get the idea. All this was going on amidst lots of very loud laughter from all parties involved.
Finally, I thought of a piece of advice that I really wanted to give. It was serious advice. It was good advice. From experience. From the heart.
Advice from a Mom to her kids: "It's never too late to say you're sorry."
Mind you, at this point, my kids don't actually have anything to say they are sorry for (that they know of...).
What was really going through my mind was the dozens of times in the last sixteen years (which, coincidentally, is the exact amount of time I have had children) I have called my parents to apologize for the many, many, many things I did in my (relative) youth that I now can see must have driven them beyond crazy. Mostly little things, a couple of doozies thrown in here and there (again, Mom and Dad, if I had that whole Hawaii thing to do over...). My parents aren't holding any grudges, and most of the things I call to apologize for they say that they don't really remember : ) But it's always a fun conversation, and I sometimes am sure that if karma (or justice) had a sound it would be the sound of my parents' laughter as they listen to me tell them how sorry I am for having driven them crazy doing the things that my kids now do that drive me crazy.
If we play the advice game again, as I'm sure we will, I have already thought of one more piece of what I think is wise counsel. "After you leave home, call your parents!"
I'm talking to you, Steven and Olivia!
I will be enjoying this phase of my life when you aren't home, of course, per your dad's advice, but still, call us!
Not to say you're sorry for anything (that's more gonna come after you've got kids of your own). Call to tell us a story (I will not interrupt and ruin the ending, Olivia). Call to talk politics.
Or call to ask for some advice.
I had no idea this was coming, so I was not ready with life-changing words of wisdom for Olivia. I racked my brain for half a minute (the pressure was on, as there were three people staring at me, awaiting my potentially life-altering utterance). I came up with advice my great aunt Adah once gave to me in a letter before I left for college: "Don't feel the need to be friends with everyone."
Well, that's not exactly what she said. She actually wrote, "Don't make friends too quickly." But again, I was under pressure and unprepared, so I got it kinda right. And it has stuck with me all this time, so it seems like it must have been good advice.
Olivia just smiled and nodded. She didn't quite know what was going on and why she had been singled out to receive advice. Turns out, she hadn't been singled out at all, because just then....
Dave looked at Olivia and commanded "Advice from a sister to a brother--GO!"
And it went on like this for the next about ten minutes or so. Advice from a brother to a sister. Advice from a father to a son. Advice from a son to a father. Advice from a daughter to a mother. Advice from daughter to her father. You get the idea. We covered every permutation at rapid-fire speed.
It was a fun activity, and revealed a bit about each of us--both as the givers and the receivers of the advice.
For example, Olivia's advice to me, in a nutshell, was to be a good listener to people telling stories and not pipe in with the ending before they are done. It's wasn't exactly typical, sweeping advice that will improve the overall scope of my life, but it was her very personal advice to me. I drive her crazy when I don't wait for her to finish a story and I interrupt and blurt how it ends. So while it was not the kind of advice I expected her to give to me, it's definitely useful. Intent noted. I will try, Olivia. I will try.
Steven's advice to me took me off-guard for a few moments. It took him over a minute to come up with, in his words, "the right way to say this". That had me a little worried. It appeared as though he wanted to tell me something that would hurt my feelings, so he was trying to find a way to soften the blow. I smiled and patiently waited. When it finally came out, it was something along the lines of "a valid opinion recognizes all sides of an issue." He emphasized the word valid.
I did not know what to make of that one. My first reaction was to just keep smiling. 'Cause I kinda wanted to cry. And that would have ruined the game, which really was great fun.
So I racked my brain, and I mean I REALLY racked my brain (all the while still smiling), and I couldn't come up with what he could have been talking about. Steven and I have great discussions on everything from the Israeli/Palestinian conflict to what kind of tux he should get for the Junior Prom. And I mean these are GOOD discussions. We acknowledge differing opinions, we look up facts, we play devil's advocate. So truly, I was stumped as to why he would think that I don't recognize opposing sides to issues. Or why my opinions weren't valid.
But I said nothing. I just smiled and nodded.
Dave stepped in to disagree with Steven's advice. He stated that the whole point of opinions is that in fact they do NOT have to recognize the other side, thus the expression 'Opinions are like assholes--everybody has one'. He really said that. At the dinner table. We're classy like that.
And this statement degenerated, just for a brief moment, into uncontrollable laughter and some anatomical talk involving, shall we say, sizes of opinions. Again, I cannot emphasize enough how classy and appropriate our conversation can be.
This not only made me smile (a real smile this time), but it made Olivia come close to spitting out her milk (this is not an unusual occurrence for Olivia; she's pretty easy to crack up at the dinner table, and it's kind of becoming a bit of a sport to time things so that she's got a mouthful of milk at just the right moment).
Steven chimed in at this point to say that his advice was more in reference to politics in nature, not advice aimed at me. Whew!
The advice kept coming at lightening speed for a few more minutes. Some was sarcastic. Some was funny. Some was sincere, as was Dave's advice to me (the mom reluctantly approaching an empty nest): "Enjoy each phase of your life."
I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me. No one knows me better than he does. It was very thoughtful advice that I will keep close to my heart as life begins changing at a more rapid pace.
And as happens in our household, the seriousness can only last so long. We are a family prone to sarcasm and humor.
So then it got just plain silly (Steven to Olivia: be ready on time in the morning; Olivia to Steven: don't rush people; Steven to Olivia: ask nicely when you want something; Olivia to Steven: don't offer something if you're not going to give it). You get the idea. All this was going on amidst lots of very loud laughter from all parties involved.
Finally, I thought of a piece of advice that I really wanted to give. It was serious advice. It was good advice. From experience. From the heart.
Advice from a Mom to her kids: "It's never too late to say you're sorry."
Mind you, at this point, my kids don't actually have anything to say they are sorry for (that they know of...).
What was really going through my mind was the dozens of times in the last sixteen years (which, coincidentally, is the exact amount of time I have had children) I have called my parents to apologize for the many, many, many things I did in my (relative) youth that I now can see must have driven them beyond crazy. Mostly little things, a couple of doozies thrown in here and there (again, Mom and Dad, if I had that whole Hawaii thing to do over...). My parents aren't holding any grudges, and most of the things I call to apologize for they say that they don't really remember : ) But it's always a fun conversation, and I sometimes am sure that if karma (or justice) had a sound it would be the sound of my parents' laughter as they listen to me tell them how sorry I am for having driven them crazy doing the things that my kids now do that drive me crazy.
If we play the advice game again, as I'm sure we will, I have already thought of one more piece of what I think is wise counsel. "After you leave home, call your parents!"
I'm talking to you, Steven and Olivia!
I will be enjoying this phase of my life when you aren't home, of course, per your dad's advice, but still, call us!
Not to say you're sorry for anything (that's more gonna come after you've got kids of your own). Call to tell us a story (I will not interrupt and ruin the ending, Olivia). Call to talk politics.
Or call to ask for some advice.
Friday, March 9, 2012
On What Aisle Would I Find the Will Power?
My best friend and I were having lunch today. Two forty-somethings, enjoying a lovely al fresco dining experience at Chipotle. We spent much of our time talking about how we'd like to lose ten pounds. This is not an unusual conversation for us. We have it almost every time we have lunch together (yes, I see the irony). The difference this time around, however, was that we have finally come to the conclusion that we now MUST lose ten pounds. Not because we want to look sexy in our summer shorts. We're beyond that. I think our bodies are beyond that, by about ten years or so (okay, okay, twenty years). No, we no longer WANT to lose ten pounds. We MUST lose ten pounds. We SHOULD lose ten pounds.We NEED to lose ten pounds.
We are at the age, we have decided, that needing to drop some weight is not solely about vanity anymore. It's about health. It's about longevity. It's about being able to physically do what you want to do. It's about staying injury-free, surgery free, and medication-free for as long as we possibly can.
So there we were, having resolutely decided that yes, it was time, and we WOULD lose the weight. And soon. We have running shoes. We have the time to take walks/runs in the morning. We know what healthy food looks like. We just needed one more thing: will power.
We weren't quite sure where we were going to find that. We had some ideas to get us started.
Perhaps we might find will power in our minds. If we could just summon the inner motivation, channel it with some positive thinking, and visualize our success, we would have no problems achieving our goal. Sadly, we've been trying to do this for eons, and it doesn't seem to be working for us (we should probably stop trying to do this over coconut crunch mochas--just sayin'). Next...
Or maybe we might find will power by looking to the triumph of others in their pursuit of weight loss. Possibly we might be inspired to stick to it by some feel-good stories of other women just like ourselves who overcame seemingly insurmountable obstacles (such as Starbucks on every corner) and now wear pants two sizes smaller. Unfortunately, when confronted with women like ourselves who have lost weight and now look fabulous, we mostly just get snarky and hypothesize about how they probably don't have jobs, have time and money to kill, and have private trainers and meal plans (we know they probably don't, but it makes us feel better). Moving on...
So it didn't seem likely that we were going to find the will power we were looking for in any of these places. We had looked there before with no luck and even less results.
So where does a girl go to get some will power these days? I decided that I think maybe we can find will power in the grocery store (I'm still not sure on which aisle). That sounds odd, I know, but getting healthy has to start with what you put into your body. And you get the stuff you put into your body at the supermarket.
The problem is that the good stuff you put into your body is surrounded by all the other crap that you really, really want to put into your body (but shouldn't). The hard part is that somehow you must summon your will power and pass up all the goodies (hello, Cadbury Eggs and jelly beans...) in favor of the good-for-you's (yeah, I see you spinach and broccoli).
And how do you do that?
That's not a rhetorical question. I'm really asking. How do you do that? What's the secret?
Did you think I had an answer? Cause I don't. If I did I'd have marketed it, sold it, and be ridiculously wealthy. And I would be thinner. And probably have a personal trainer. And a meal plan.
We are at the age, we have decided, that needing to drop some weight is not solely about vanity anymore. It's about health. It's about longevity. It's about being able to physically do what you want to do. It's about staying injury-free, surgery free, and medication-free for as long as we possibly can.
So there we were, having resolutely decided that yes, it was time, and we WOULD lose the weight. And soon. We have running shoes. We have the time to take walks/runs in the morning. We know what healthy food looks like. We just needed one more thing: will power.
We weren't quite sure where we were going to find that. We had some ideas to get us started.
Perhaps we might find will power in our minds. If we could just summon the inner motivation, channel it with some positive thinking, and visualize our success, we would have no problems achieving our goal. Sadly, we've been trying to do this for eons, and it doesn't seem to be working for us (we should probably stop trying to do this over coconut crunch mochas--just sayin'). Next...
Or maybe we might find will power by looking to the triumph of others in their pursuit of weight loss. Possibly we might be inspired to stick to it by some feel-good stories of other women just like ourselves who overcame seemingly insurmountable obstacles (such as Starbucks on every corner) and now wear pants two sizes smaller. Unfortunately, when confronted with women like ourselves who have lost weight and now look fabulous, we mostly just get snarky and hypothesize about how they probably don't have jobs, have time and money to kill, and have private trainers and meal plans (we know they probably don't, but it makes us feel better). Moving on...
So it didn't seem likely that we were going to find the will power we were looking for in any of these places. We had looked there before with no luck and even less results.
So where does a girl go to get some will power these days? I decided that I think maybe we can find will power in the grocery store (I'm still not sure on which aisle). That sounds odd, I know, but getting healthy has to start with what you put into your body. And you get the stuff you put into your body at the supermarket.
The problem is that the good stuff you put into your body is surrounded by all the other crap that you really, really want to put into your body (but shouldn't). The hard part is that somehow you must summon your will power and pass up all the goodies (hello, Cadbury Eggs and jelly beans...) in favor of the good-for-you's (yeah, I see you spinach and broccoli).
And how do you do that?
That's not a rhetorical question. I'm really asking. How do you do that? What's the secret?
Did you think I had an answer? Cause I don't. If I did I'd have marketed it, sold it, and be ridiculously wealthy. And I would be thinner. And probably have a personal trainer. And a meal plan.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
People I Can't Forgive, Part 2
Let's just get right into it.
OFFENDER #5: Newt Gingrich
It baffles me that people are, of their own free will, selecting this man as their candidate of choice to represent them not only in the upcoming Presidential Election, but possibly to represent them AS their President; to be the face of the United States of America; to be the voice of our great nation.
I say it again--it baffles me. To no end.
This is a man who has TWICE abandoned ship in his marriages, both times during times of medical crisis for his (former) wives. And both times he had already been cheating on said wives. Yet he claims to represent the idea of "traditional family values". Huh?
He is bombastic, impetuous, childish, bratty, and frankly just plain not likable. The thought of this man running the country frightens me more than I can convey in words. And I'm not alone. Last night, as the networks began to realize that he was about to win the South Carolina primary, one of the reporters revealed that many of Newt's former colleagues who are still serving in Congress were, and I quote, "freaking out" at the thought that this man might be in charge. And that was not just Republicans freaking out. Newt is an equal opportunity guy. He freaks 'em all out.
OFFENDER#6: Rick Santorum
Oh my god. This guy freaks me out even more than Newt. And that's pretty hard to do.
Some choice (paraphrased) quotes from Mr. Santorum:
•Your teenage daughter got pregnant from a rape? She should consider it a "gift from God".
•John F. Kennedy's speech on the importance of the separation of church and state: it "made (me) want to throw up".
•on President Obama: "what a snob" for wanting every child to have the opportunity to go to college.
Oy. This guy is such a right-wing idiot he makes Rush Limbaugh look like a mere entertainer...
OFFENDER #7: Rush Limbaugh
Oh, wait, according to Rick Santorum, Rush IS just an "entertainer". Yeah, right. Name me any "entertainer "who has Republican candidates walking on eggshells so as not to offend.
I don't get it. I just don't get it. At all. Not even a little.
This man called a female college student who wanted insurance coverage for birth control a "slut", a "prostitute", "someone who wants to be paid for having sex". And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, he proposed that she should have to post videos of her having sex with said birth control online so he, and all the other "taxpayers" who paid for her contraception, could get something for their money.
Wow. Any person with a daughter should be offended. Any person with a brain should be offended.
And yet none of the Republican candidates seem to be offended.
Why does this man, this arrogant ass (and really, that onomatopoetic name is far too nice sounding for him) hold so much sway with Republicans? Can he actually deliver votes, or is he just a big, loud-mouthed blowhard? That's a serious question. My money's on the blowhard.
That may be the one and only thing on which I actually agree with Rick Santorum.
OFFENDER #8: Sarah Palin
Yeah, I know. I already have her on my first list of People I Can't Forgive. But she's that bad. Even John McCain had a hard time keeping a straight face on CNN yesterday when asked to comment on Ms. Palin's recent announcement that, should there be a brokered convention for the Republicans, she would of course be available to step in and do whatever her country needed her to do.
Please, Sarah, do not mistake the need for a brokered convention as the need for you to in any way try to enter national politics.
Election season has a long way to go. Stay tuned for Part 3.
OFFENDER #5: Newt Gingrich
It baffles me that people are, of their own free will, selecting this man as their candidate of choice to represent them not only in the upcoming Presidential Election, but possibly to represent them AS their President; to be the face of the United States of America; to be the voice of our great nation.
I say it again--it baffles me. To no end.
This is a man who has TWICE abandoned ship in his marriages, both times during times of medical crisis for his (former) wives. And both times he had already been cheating on said wives. Yet he claims to represent the idea of "traditional family values". Huh?
He is bombastic, impetuous, childish, bratty, and frankly just plain not likable. The thought of this man running the country frightens me more than I can convey in words. And I'm not alone. Last night, as the networks began to realize that he was about to win the South Carolina primary, one of the reporters revealed that many of Newt's former colleagues who are still serving in Congress were, and I quote, "freaking out" at the thought that this man might be in charge. And that was not just Republicans freaking out. Newt is an equal opportunity guy. He freaks 'em all out.
OFFENDER#6: Rick Santorum
Oh my god. This guy freaks me out even more than Newt. And that's pretty hard to do.
Some choice (paraphrased) quotes from Mr. Santorum:
•Your teenage daughter got pregnant from a rape? She should consider it a "gift from God".
•John F. Kennedy's speech on the importance of the separation of church and state: it "made (me) want to throw up".
•on President Obama: "what a snob" for wanting every child to have the opportunity to go to college.
Oy. This guy is such a right-wing idiot he makes Rush Limbaugh look like a mere entertainer...
OFFENDER #7: Rush Limbaugh
Oh, wait, according to Rick Santorum, Rush IS just an "entertainer". Yeah, right. Name me any "entertainer "who has Republican candidates walking on eggshells so as not to offend.
I don't get it. I just don't get it. At all. Not even a little.
This man called a female college student who wanted insurance coverage for birth control a "slut", a "prostitute", "someone who wants to be paid for having sex". And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, he proposed that she should have to post videos of her having sex with said birth control online so he, and all the other "taxpayers" who paid for her contraception, could get something for their money.
Wow. Any person with a daughter should be offended. Any person with a brain should be offended.
And yet none of the Republican candidates seem to be offended.
Why does this man, this arrogant ass (and really, that onomatopoetic name is far too nice sounding for him) hold so much sway with Republicans? Can he actually deliver votes, or is he just a big, loud-mouthed blowhard? That's a serious question. My money's on the blowhard.
That may be the one and only thing on which I actually agree with Rick Santorum.
OFFENDER #8: Sarah Palin
Yeah, I know. I already have her on my first list of People I Can't Forgive. But she's that bad. Even John McCain had a hard time keeping a straight face on CNN yesterday when asked to comment on Ms. Palin's recent announcement that, should there be a brokered convention for the Republicans, she would of course be available to step in and do whatever her country needed her to do.
Please, Sarah, do not mistake the need for a brokered convention as the need for you to in any way try to enter national politics.
Election season has a long way to go. Stay tuned for Part 3.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Where's the Fire?
Okay, people, I need you to slow down. On so many fronts.
I need you to slow down in your cars. The speed you go on any given street is not a guessing game, or a game of any sort. There are signs posted to tell you exactly how fast you can/should be going, just in case you can't quite remember. They are not suggestions. They are the law. You need to obey them. Even if you don't think you do. You really do.
I need you to actually stop at the stop signs. All the way. Completely. No rolling through because "there was no one coming". The sign doesn't say "STOP if no one's coming". It just says stop. Which is what you should do. Again, even if you don't think you should. You really should.
I need you to slow down in parking lots. I'm sure you're in a hurry. That wine's not going to chill itself now, is it? I get it. But in case you hadn't noticed, parking lots are full of not only cars (which clearly are going far too slowly for you), but also people (who clearly are also going far too slowly for you). Please keep in mind that you are operating a two ton hunk of metal with powers of acceleration and destruction far beyond those of a sauntering pedestrian. It's not a racetrack. It's a parking lot. People are supposed to go slowly in a parking lot. I know that frustrates you, but it is not their fault that you didn't plan your time wisely and you are behind schedule. Don't take it out on them.
And while I'm on the whole parking lot scenario, may I make a suggestion? If you are driving down the main lane of a parking lot and a car is in the process of backing out of a parking space, thus impeding your forward progress, gently lift your right foot off of the accelerator pedal, shift it slightly to the left, and gently press down on the brake pedal. Let the car out of its space. Be kind and safe. If you are the guy who speeds up and veers around cars that are slowly backing out of their spaces, might I remind you that sooner or later that's going to be YOU stuck in that parking space, trying to get out. Karma's a bitch.
I need you to slow down in your cars. The speed you go on any given street is not a guessing game, or a game of any sort. There are signs posted to tell you exactly how fast you can/should be going, just in case you can't quite remember. They are not suggestions. They are the law. You need to obey them. Even if you don't think you do. You really do.
I need you to actually stop at the stop signs. All the way. Completely. No rolling through because "there was no one coming". The sign doesn't say "STOP if no one's coming". It just says stop. Which is what you should do. Again, even if you don't think you should. You really should.
I need you to slow down in parking lots. I'm sure you're in a hurry. That wine's not going to chill itself now, is it? I get it. But in case you hadn't noticed, parking lots are full of not only cars (which clearly are going far too slowly for you), but also people (who clearly are also going far too slowly for you). Please keep in mind that you are operating a two ton hunk of metal with powers of acceleration and destruction far beyond those of a sauntering pedestrian. It's not a racetrack. It's a parking lot. People are supposed to go slowly in a parking lot. I know that frustrates you, but it is not their fault that you didn't plan your time wisely and you are behind schedule. Don't take it out on them.
And while I'm on the whole parking lot scenario, may I make a suggestion? If you are driving down the main lane of a parking lot and a car is in the process of backing out of a parking space, thus impeding your forward progress, gently lift your right foot off of the accelerator pedal, shift it slightly to the left, and gently press down on the brake pedal. Let the car out of its space. Be kind and safe. If you are the guy who speeds up and veers around cars that are slowly backing out of their spaces, might I remind you that sooner or later that's going to be YOU stuck in that parking space, trying to get out. Karma's a bitch.
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