I'm looking out the window at over two feet of snow, a lot for Maryland, and quite an early arrival (generally, snowstorms visit our area after the holidays, not before).
We have kind of a pretend winter in Maryland. Looking out, we seem very New England, but there are tell tale drips from the roof and the freshly shoveled driveway is wet, signs that it's already beginning to melt. In the northernmost parts of New York State, for instance, once the stuff falls it stays put until spring. Here, the snow teases - now you see me, now you don't.
That's what makes it a little harder to deal with. We don't have the gear. We don't want to invest in snow gear when we don't know if we'll get any or if it'll stick around. A few indulge in snow blowers and such - items that sit gathering dust in the garage 360 days of the year, emerging for their triumphant fifteen minutes of fame every now and again, making the rest of us jealous (but not jealous enough to buy one of our own).
But getting snow in inconsistent spurts is also what makes it magical. We snap photographs and update our Facebook statuses, we call our parents and measure the snowfall on our decks with yard sticks. We send the dogs out, free of a leash, to frolic (where could they go, anyway?) and stuff our ovens and stomachs with baked goods. We'll never get used to it; it's like loving a man on deployment. You make the most out of every second of leave, because in a few days he's gone again. And when the snow leaves, then it's just plain winter. It's just plain cold.
This was a big year, from the start of a historic presidency to the high school graduation of Mini Mannerz 1.0. We lost cultural icons like Michael Jackson and witnessed the emergence of new artists, like Susan Boyle, onto the world stage. We looked on as disgraced athletes returned to play and celebrated sportsmen took their turn at falling from grace. We celebrated new jobs and, all too often, mourned lost ones. We drove up the price of gold and watched the price of cars plummet.
This year end capped the decade, finishing the clean peel away from the last century and insisting that we chin up and look into the next one with clear eyes. It's fitting that, at the end of such an event filled decade, we witnessed a historic snowfall. We hurried to the grocery store to stock up on the supermarket triple crown, tossing in a few extras like wine. Then we went home, and waited for the promised two feet of snow, which came just as expected.
We'll cherish the memory of the big storm, of the big year, of the big decade, because we know how fast time goes. We know how fleeting each moment is, how if you wait five minutes, the entire world will have changed and the landscape will be completely different.
Just like snow.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Friday, December 04, 2009
Come on, Vogue.
Fashion articles drive me crazy. They continue to churn out articles detailing how to camouflage figure flaws that have nothing to do with me. Pear and apple shaped women have been targeted for decades, and then there's me: apparently the only woman in the world who is less pear and apple than she is, well, potato.
A different kind of vegetarian, if you will.
The potato shaped woman (me) does not have a single area to camouflage, but a series of areas that need to be peeled, sliced and mashed into her clothing. Just as the potato has spuds, so does the potato shaped woman. Push in any part of me and I swear, something comes poking out on the opposite side. This is partly due to genetics - I descend from a paternal line of long skinny legged women who carry most of their weight in various squirrel like pockets in the upper body. It is also due to a lack of discipline; if I may trot out the potato analogy once more, I am definitely guilty of living a life that is too buttered and salty.
I'd love to see an article that speaks to the "other" figure flaws, like those of women who don't need to minimize their stomach so much as procure a social security number for it and claim it on their taxes. Or one that focuses on the right shoes for thick ankles, or, I'm sorry, ya'll: the right sandals for ugly feet. Some of you just shouldn't. Acceptance, dear.
Lest you think I'm being mean, please know that I'd trade my attractive feet for ten ugly stubs of toes if it meant I could rid myself of the neck that looks like the last remaining evidence of my life as a man (turtlenecks? Burkas?).
So, how about it, writers? While you're suggesting how we could look ten pounds lighter and two inches taller, could you include a few tips for the hat seeking big headed woman, or skinny legged women who want to wear skirts without invoking Laura Ingalls?
Many thanks.
A different kind of vegetarian, if you will.
The potato shaped woman (me) does not have a single area to camouflage, but a series of areas that need to be peeled, sliced and mashed into her clothing. Just as the potato has spuds, so does the potato shaped woman. Push in any part of me and I swear, something comes poking out on the opposite side. This is partly due to genetics - I descend from a paternal line of long skinny legged women who carry most of their weight in various squirrel like pockets in the upper body. It is also due to a lack of discipline; if I may trot out the potato analogy once more, I am definitely guilty of living a life that is too buttered and salty.
I'd love to see an article that speaks to the "other" figure flaws, like those of women who don't need to minimize their stomach so much as procure a social security number for it and claim it on their taxes. Or one that focuses on the right shoes for thick ankles, or, I'm sorry, ya'll: the right sandals for ugly feet. Some of you just shouldn't. Acceptance, dear.
Lest you think I'm being mean, please know that I'd trade my attractive feet for ten ugly stubs of toes if it meant I could rid myself of the neck that looks like the last remaining evidence of my life as a man (turtlenecks? Burkas?).
So, how about it, writers? While you're suggesting how we could look ten pounds lighter and two inches taller, could you include a few tips for the hat seeking big headed woman, or skinny legged women who want to wear skirts without invoking Laura Ingalls?
Many thanks.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
What Say You?
It is official. I'm a dumb ass.
A friend loaned a few of her Signing Times DVDs to me. If you're not familiar, Signing Times is a program that helps parents teach their children simple words in Sign Language. Babyhood is rather like living in a country where you don't speak the language. Eventually, everyone gets frustrated at your attempts to communicate via hand gestures (or, if you're a baby, screaming fits). Sign Language helps parents and babies work well and play nice with others.
My twin toddlers have a speech delay, as did their father and grandfather before them. Since I prefer communication that is absent of shrieking and soul piercing wails, I decided to give Sign Language a try. We'd successfully learned four or so words on our own, and then I borrowed the discs and sat my children in front of the television set.
They are taking to Sign Language like ducks to water. My daughter, who had assigned the word "more" to about sixteen different definitions, today walked up and requested the Signing Times DVD to be played. In Sign Language. It has been less than a week. My son spent a good deal of this evening delighting in telling us that he was a girl (we are assuming he has the Signs mixed up and that he is not trying to clue us in to early gender confusion).
And then there's me.
How the heck am I supposed to remember all these hand positions? I watched my children walk around this afternoon discussing The Pelican Brief with their nanny (okay, not really, but almost), who, as it turns out, used to be fluent in Signing. The three of them giggled away as they made confusing gestures with their hands while I tried to keep up and remember how to say "cookie".
I need a make up class.
This is entirely unfair. I'm a talker. I'm a good talker, a great talker, I talk a lot. I assumed the fact that I lack a natural affinity for learning spoken languages would not carry over to Signing. I have long daydreamed about being the beautiful, angelic like creature on the podium of a large church who translated the word of God elegantly and flawlessly for the hearing impaired. I assumed, at least, that this could be my thing, and that, again - AT LEAST - I'd be quickly floating around the house communicating with my children with graceful Signs.
Instead, I am frantically pressing the forward and reverse buttons on my DVD player so I can make sure I'm not confusing the word water with tears, and that I look like I'm milking a cow when I mean milk, and not like I'm attempting to wring out my socks (which I'm sure means something else entirely).
Come to think of it, perhaps it's my fault my baby boy is telling me he's a girl.
Clearly, I have some studying to do. Smart as a fourth grader - ha. I'm hoping to become as smart as my toddlers.
We'll see.
A friend loaned a few of her Signing Times DVDs to me. If you're not familiar, Signing Times is a program that helps parents teach their children simple words in Sign Language. Babyhood is rather like living in a country where you don't speak the language. Eventually, everyone gets frustrated at your attempts to communicate via hand gestures (or, if you're a baby, screaming fits). Sign Language helps parents and babies work well and play nice with others.
My twin toddlers have a speech delay, as did their father and grandfather before them. Since I prefer communication that is absent of shrieking and soul piercing wails, I decided to give Sign Language a try. We'd successfully learned four or so words on our own, and then I borrowed the discs and sat my children in front of the television set.
They are taking to Sign Language like ducks to water. My daughter, who had assigned the word "more" to about sixteen different definitions, today walked up and requested the Signing Times DVD to be played. In Sign Language. It has been less than a week. My son spent a good deal of this evening delighting in telling us that he was a girl (we are assuming he has the Signs mixed up and that he is not trying to clue us in to early gender confusion).
And then there's me.
How the heck am I supposed to remember all these hand positions? I watched my children walk around this afternoon discussing The Pelican Brief with their nanny (okay, not really, but almost), who, as it turns out, used to be fluent in Signing. The three of them giggled away as they made confusing gestures with their hands while I tried to keep up and remember how to say "cookie".
I need a make up class.
This is entirely unfair. I'm a talker. I'm a good talker, a great talker, I talk a lot. I assumed the fact that I lack a natural affinity for learning spoken languages would not carry over to Signing. I have long daydreamed about being the beautiful, angelic like creature on the podium of a large church who translated the word of God elegantly and flawlessly for the hearing impaired. I assumed, at least, that this could be my thing, and that, again - AT LEAST - I'd be quickly floating around the house communicating with my children with graceful Signs.
Instead, I am frantically pressing the forward and reverse buttons on my DVD player so I can make sure I'm not confusing the word water with tears, and that I look like I'm milking a cow when I mean milk, and not like I'm attempting to wring out my socks (which I'm sure means something else entirely).
Come to think of it, perhaps it's my fault my baby boy is telling me he's a girl.
Clearly, I have some studying to do. Smart as a fourth grader - ha. I'm hoping to become as smart as my toddlers.
We'll see.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tis The Season: Great Gift For Your Gaggle
I ran across this fantabulous calendar on Etsy. Each page of this desk calendar is a postcard; either send it with a note when the month is over or with a circled date as a reminder of your pending martini date during the month. Either way, a very cute way to keep in touch, and I know some people who actually give real holiday presents to friends, instead of asking that not exchanging presents be the present.
Not that MzMannerz has ever suggested that or anything.
Monday, November 23, 2009
I've been driving for a long time, and I think I finally figured out why certain people do not or will not use a blinker to indicate a coming turn or lane change.
Side comment: First, let's all thank God that these people do not have a choice when it comes to using brake lights.
Alrighty. As far as I can figure, being a reasonable gal and all, if you are not using turn signals consistently, you either fall into the below list or do not like your car/paint color/spinal column and want a replacement. And you don't like mine, either, but I digress.
1. You are in the Witness Protection Program and believe you have been compromised. Any one of us could be henchmen for Uncle Sally and you'd prefer not to give us a head's up on your destination. I'm tooling around in a station wagon with carseats in the back, but this could be a cover. I understand. You are excused.
2. Your turn signals are broken. Sure, you're driving a late model Mercedes Benz that just rolled off the truck yesterday, but nothing in life is one hundred percent. You would absolutely use the blinkers on your 2010 7 Series if the darn things were working. I understand. You are excused.
3. You lack opposable thumbs. Perhaps it was a lawn accident; perhaps you are an escapee from the National Zoo and are just trying to get from A to B without a hassle. Animal rights and all that. Gripping the steering wheel is already a chore, using a pincher grasp on that little stick would be asking too much. I do want to point out that it comes on even if you just flick it with your wrist, but that's okay. I understand. You are excused.
4. You are mad at me. Maybe I inadvertently cut you off, or perhaps you're annoyed that I refused to go 90 in a 30MPH zone. Whatever the case, you passed me, and now here's your chance to issue a disproportionate response by causing a multi-car pileup. During rush hour. Emotions are so pesky; always popping up during stressful times like when you're riding along in leather and wood burled comfort instead of having to make a three day trek to Washington via horse and buggy. I understand. You are excused.
5. You have mommy or daddy issues. I'm not sure what the direct correlation between turn signals and your tumultuous parent/child relationship are, but I'm sure there must be one, so I understand. You are also excused.
If you do not fall into one of the categories, well, then, I do not understand. Perhaps you can help. Do you like surprising people? The sound of squealing brakes? Are you psychic, and therefore assume everyone else is?
If you'll share the secret, I promise not to tell. I realize secret sharing is a lot to ask of a person who will not even let us know of the intent to blaze into our lane at highway speed, but I'm optimistic.
I figure if I'm still alive after driving near you, the odds have gotta be with me.
Side comment: First, let's all thank God that these people do not have a choice when it comes to using brake lights.
Alrighty. As far as I can figure, being a reasonable gal and all, if you are not using turn signals consistently, you either fall into the below list or do not like your car/paint color/spinal column and want a replacement. And you don't like mine, either, but I digress.
1. You are in the Witness Protection Program and believe you have been compromised. Any one of us could be henchmen for Uncle Sally and you'd prefer not to give us a head's up on your destination. I'm tooling around in a station wagon with carseats in the back, but this could be a cover. I understand. You are excused.
2. Your turn signals are broken. Sure, you're driving a late model Mercedes Benz that just rolled off the truck yesterday, but nothing in life is one hundred percent. You would absolutely use the blinkers on your 2010 7 Series if the darn things were working. I understand. You are excused.
3. You lack opposable thumbs. Perhaps it was a lawn accident; perhaps you are an escapee from the National Zoo and are just trying to get from A to B without a hassle. Animal rights and all that. Gripping the steering wheel is already a chore, using a pincher grasp on that little stick would be asking too much. I do want to point out that it comes on even if you just flick it with your wrist, but that's okay. I understand. You are excused.
4. You are mad at me. Maybe I inadvertently cut you off, or perhaps you're annoyed that I refused to go 90 in a 30MPH zone. Whatever the case, you passed me, and now here's your chance to issue a disproportionate response by causing a multi-car pileup. During rush hour. Emotions are so pesky; always popping up during stressful times like when you're riding along in leather and wood burled comfort instead of having to make a three day trek to Washington via horse and buggy. I understand. You are excused.
5. You have mommy or daddy issues. I'm not sure what the direct correlation between turn signals and your tumultuous parent/child relationship are, but I'm sure there must be one, so I understand. You are also excused.
If you do not fall into one of the categories, well, then, I do not understand. Perhaps you can help. Do you like surprising people? The sound of squealing brakes? Are you psychic, and therefore assume everyone else is?
If you'll share the secret, I promise not to tell. I realize secret sharing is a lot to ask of a person who will not even let us know of the intent to blaze into our lane at highway speed, but I'm optimistic.
I figure if I'm still alive after driving near you, the odds have gotta be with me.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Good Help
We've been having this conversation for five years. Finally, FINALLY, my husband suggested we get a quote for maid service. I believe my next step should be submitting my resume to the White House for the position of Ambassador to Everyone.
So, major coup. And then the first cleaning person stopped by to provide her estimate, and I'll tell you what: if you want an accurate gauge of the messiness of your home, walk a maid through it.
She didn't have to say a word. My sensitive to the circumstances eye saw every flaw. Toys stored haphazardly, shoes paired everywhere except in a closet. Limp dishtowels hovering near the sink, a chair in the basement stripped of fabric and bursting with exposed stuffing. My house is a mess.
She was interested in looking into sinks, peering into bathtubs. Ironically, these were the clean areas. And these are the areas she would clean. She told me what she'd accomplish on a biweekly or monthly basis. It did not include the pile of change, stamps and buttons on my husband's bureau or the gaggle of paper shopping bags littering the pantry floor. There was no mention of the towering piles of paperwork on our desk or the consignment shop look we've accomplished in our office, where we've temporarily hidden things we care about from our two toddlers. Those items are our responsibility.
I called my husband after she left. "I don't know."
"Was she high? Well, let's get a few more."
"It's not that. It's just... we need to clean the house."
"I know."
"No, we need to clean the house before we have a cleaning service come work for us."
He silently contemplated this, that before I would entertain any more prospective cleaners, we'd need to perform a deep clean ourselves. Doesn't that sort of forego the point? To have to clean to give up on cleaning?
The visit left me deflated and embarrassed and solidly feeling like I had been shipped back to square one. Dusty, cluttered, needs a good sweeping square one.
So that's where I am now: in the midst of a massive spring-cleaning-in-the-fall in the hopes that, by January, I will actually be confident enough to walk a cleaning service through my house again. I know I will have to sit on my hands to resist the temptation to call the same woman back again so she can see that what she saw then was not how we intended to live for the rest of our lives.
It really would be nice to have someone else clean the floors.
As soon as I finish putting away all my shoes and clean out the garage, that is.
So, major coup. And then the first cleaning person stopped by to provide her estimate, and I'll tell you what: if you want an accurate gauge of the messiness of your home, walk a maid through it.
She didn't have to say a word. My sensitive to the circumstances eye saw every flaw. Toys stored haphazardly, shoes paired everywhere except in a closet. Limp dishtowels hovering near the sink, a chair in the basement stripped of fabric and bursting with exposed stuffing. My house is a mess.
She was interested in looking into sinks, peering into bathtubs. Ironically, these were the clean areas. And these are the areas she would clean. She told me what she'd accomplish on a biweekly or monthly basis. It did not include the pile of change, stamps and buttons on my husband's bureau or the gaggle of paper shopping bags littering the pantry floor. There was no mention of the towering piles of paperwork on our desk or the consignment shop look we've accomplished in our office, where we've temporarily hidden things we care about from our two toddlers. Those items are our responsibility.
I called my husband after she left. "I don't know."
"Was she high? Well, let's get a few more."
"It's not that. It's just... we need to clean the house."
"I know."
"No, we need to clean the house before we have a cleaning service come work for us."
He silently contemplated this, that before I would entertain any more prospective cleaners, we'd need to perform a deep clean ourselves. Doesn't that sort of forego the point? To have to clean to give up on cleaning?
The visit left me deflated and embarrassed and solidly feeling like I had been shipped back to square one. Dusty, cluttered, needs a good sweeping square one.
So that's where I am now: in the midst of a massive spring-cleaning-in-the-fall in the hopes that, by January, I will actually be confident enough to walk a cleaning service through my house again. I know I will have to sit on my hands to resist the temptation to call the same woman back again so she can see that what she saw then was not how we intended to live for the rest of our lives.
It really would be nice to have someone else clean the floors.
As soon as I finish putting away all my shoes and clean out the garage, that is.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
And I'll Cry If I Want To
I have a birthday coming up, and I'm upset.
Not because I'm getting older, but because I can't seem to remember that I have a birthday coming up.
Two lovely friends sent me an email asking if I wanted to go to dinner for my birthday, and it was akin to receiving a slap in the face. What birthday? Mine? Seriously? Cue rapid calendar flipping and Blackberry checking. My birthday was approaching in about two weeks, and I had forgotten.
I know why this happens.
I recently thanked my parents for my fifth birthday party, which was and remains the best birthday party I have ever had. Everyone came - or, at least I assume everyone came, given I had nothing whatsoever to do with the guest list. My best friends from church and school were there, along with my favorite aunt, my sisters, and my parents. At five, that was everyone. Extra people came, too, so there was lots of noise and balloon popping and potato chip eating and a sufficient enough crowd to make me feel a bit woozy about having to blow out the candles and make a wish in front of, well, everyone.
I've had two or three birthday parties since then that even begin to compare. One was also in childhood, and another was four or so years ago. I do not usually throw or ask to be thrown birthday parties, because as it happens, I was born on Thanksgiving Day.
If you do not know what it is like to be born on a major holiday, you may not be able to relate. If you were born on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter... even the Fourth of July, you know: everyone already has plans on your birthday. For the rest of your life.
My birthday generally occurs the day before, the day after, or every eleven years or so, on Turkey Day itself. This generally meant we were driving to, driving from, or dining at Grandma's House. Or my other Grandma. Or Aunt Shirley. Or Aunt Jean. Or....
I received presents and all. Probably more than my share, since I saw more extended family on my birthdays than my sisters did on theirs (this is where I have to bow to folks born on Christmas Day or anywhere around it. You pretty much get the shaft with the combined holiday and birthday present thing. I am probably the cut off birthday to prevent that from happening). But my presents were delivered as part of something larger. En route to something else. Here's your new sweater, dear. Now I've got to go stir the beans. There are three cakes for Thanksgiving - look! One of them has candles, so its yours!
In my mother's defense, she always, always, baked me a birthday cake. Until I was well into my thirties. Pretty much until last year, actually. My cake, and birthday, were usually a quiet affair, however. A mention at the Thanksgiving table, a birthday song from the Extended Family Mass Choir. I didn't have parties. It's Thanksgiving - who has time to plan another party?
And this was okay. Really - I never lamented my lack of parties as much as this post might make it seem I did. I'm not sure I ever even noticed - I mean, there was stuffing and macaroni and cheese to consider. I ignored it as much as everyone else, and somewhere along the way, I just started forgetting it altogether.
I can remember with stunning clarity that Thanksgiving is approaching, and generally like to know exactly where I am eating well before October dawns. I somehow never connect that to my birthday. I pretend to remember, and then I forget.
I really, really hope I remember to tell this to the nurses if I ever live in a senior citizen's place. I can envision them coming into my room, asking me if I know what day it is, and I'll say, "Thursday." They'll exchange glances, and I'll offer up, "Thanksgiving?"
You can see how it might go downhill from there. If you know me then, please be sure to let everyone know that I was forgetting my birthday way back when, when I was trusted to drive and be responsible for children and things like that. Please let them know that it's not a sign.
And if you're around on my birthday? Please bring cake... and maybe remind me the day before why you're coming over at all. Thanks.
Not because I'm getting older, but because I can't seem to remember that I have a birthday coming up.
Two lovely friends sent me an email asking if I wanted to go to dinner for my birthday, and it was akin to receiving a slap in the face. What birthday? Mine? Seriously? Cue rapid calendar flipping and Blackberry checking. My birthday was approaching in about two weeks, and I had forgotten.
I know why this happens.
I recently thanked my parents for my fifth birthday party, which was and remains the best birthday party I have ever had. Everyone came - or, at least I assume everyone came, given I had nothing whatsoever to do with the guest list. My best friends from church and school were there, along with my favorite aunt, my sisters, and my parents. At five, that was everyone. Extra people came, too, so there was lots of noise and balloon popping and potato chip eating and a sufficient enough crowd to make me feel a bit woozy about having to blow out the candles and make a wish in front of, well, everyone.
I've had two or three birthday parties since then that even begin to compare. One was also in childhood, and another was four or so years ago. I do not usually throw or ask to be thrown birthday parties, because as it happens, I was born on Thanksgiving Day.
If you do not know what it is like to be born on a major holiday, you may not be able to relate. If you were born on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter... even the Fourth of July, you know: everyone already has plans on your birthday. For the rest of your life.
My birthday generally occurs the day before, the day after, or every eleven years or so, on Turkey Day itself. This generally meant we were driving to, driving from, or dining at Grandma's House. Or my other Grandma. Or Aunt Shirley. Or Aunt Jean. Or....
I received presents and all. Probably more than my share, since I saw more extended family on my birthdays than my sisters did on theirs (this is where I have to bow to folks born on Christmas Day or anywhere around it. You pretty much get the shaft with the combined holiday and birthday present thing. I am probably the cut off birthday to prevent that from happening). But my presents were delivered as part of something larger. En route to something else. Here's your new sweater, dear. Now I've got to go stir the beans. There are three cakes for Thanksgiving - look! One of them has candles, so its yours!
In my mother's defense, she always, always, baked me a birthday cake. Until I was well into my thirties. Pretty much until last year, actually. My cake, and birthday, were usually a quiet affair, however. A mention at the Thanksgiving table, a birthday song from the Extended Family Mass Choir. I didn't have parties. It's Thanksgiving - who has time to plan another party?
And this was okay. Really - I never lamented my lack of parties as much as this post might make it seem I did. I'm not sure I ever even noticed - I mean, there was stuffing and macaroni and cheese to consider. I ignored it as much as everyone else, and somewhere along the way, I just started forgetting it altogether.
I can remember with stunning clarity that Thanksgiving is approaching, and generally like to know exactly where I am eating well before October dawns. I somehow never connect that to my birthday. I pretend to remember, and then I forget.
I really, really hope I remember to tell this to the nurses if I ever live in a senior citizen's place. I can envision them coming into my room, asking me if I know what day it is, and I'll say, "Thursday." They'll exchange glances, and I'll offer up, "Thanksgiving?"
You can see how it might go downhill from there. If you know me then, please be sure to let everyone know that I was forgetting my birthday way back when, when I was trusted to drive and be responsible for children and things like that. Please let them know that it's not a sign.
And if you're around on my birthday? Please bring cake... and maybe remind me the day before why you're coming over at all. Thanks.
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