The Bubble Lady and the Shhher
At my local mall, there is a woman who works in a department store shoe department. She has worked there for decades now, and that’s not the only thing that has stayed the same. When I was a little girl, my Mom would take my sister and me to the department store; and while my Mom tried on shoes, the bubble lady blew bubbles from a bottle and wand that she wore around her neck. I adored that lady. There’s just something exciting about blowing bubbles in a department store when you’re a kid.
Today, Lil C and I were roaming the mall while waiting for Big I’s reading class to finish up. Because Lil C has long abandoned her love for the stroller, I brought along her little push car and it was working perfectly right up until it wasn’t. Lil C was standing there in the mall, walking the opposite direction almost constantly, and I was trying to get her back in her car. She wasn’t behaving badly, just being a typical one year old, wanting to assert some control over her shopping decisions.
And that’s when, out of nowhere, the bubble lady appeared. "Here," she said, "I’ll blow bubbles over the car and I bet she’ll sit for you." There, in the middle of the mall, the bubble lady worked her magic, blowing bubbles for Lil C until she was mesmerized. After a minute of bubble-induced happiness, Lil C was more than willing to get back in her car. I was elated; but the bubble lady didn’t stop there. To encourage Lil C to continue sitting in her chair, she got out a sheet of frog stickers and handed those over. We began putting the frog stickers on her car and she was thrilled.
"You know," I said to the bubble lady, "you used to blow bubbles for me when I was a kid." She laughed and said, "Really?" and I continued to tell her how much I had loved her as a kid and how much more I love her now as a parent. I truly believe there is a special place in heaven for the bubble lady, because anyone who helps a woman entertain her child and get more shoes in the process is truly a very special person.
Contrast this with the very rude shher in my daughter’s reading class only an hour later. I was feeling happy with the world after my encounter with the bubble lady. Lil C and I left the mall and went to pick up Big I. Parents are supposed to attend the last 10-15 minutes of class to hear what the homework is for the following week and get tips from the teacher. I arrived about five minutes before I needed to be there, because I wanted to make sure I was on time. I stood outside the closed door with Lil C and was going to wait until it was the exact time. The reading teacher smiled, and waved us both in.
Lil C and I went in and took a seat in the back of the classroom. Lil C is a talker. She was sitting on my lap and running through her inventory of favorite things: "Mommy, Dada, Big I (o.k. she doesn’t really call her Big I but I’m not telling her real name)". I quietly told her to whisper and then occupied her with looking at the pictures and credit cards in my wallet. She preferred the credit cards.
While this was going on, the kids were playing a game to end class. They were divided into two teams. The room wasn’t exactly quiet to begin with. And then, out of nowhere, came this loud "SHHHHHH." And again, "SHHHHHH," and on this second Shh, I whipped my head around to see one of the father’s Shhing me and my daughter from across the room. Being the involved parent that he is, he sits in the back of the classroom each week, apart from his daughter, busy with his own reading. At least when I was able to participate (when I had a sitter for Lil C) I was involved in her learning.
If you’ve been reading here for a while you know that I am not the type to be Shhhed. And don’t even think about SHHing my children. Seriously not cool. So, when I whipped my head around, I couldn’t help myself. I gave him a look that could easily put him 6 feet under and mouthed the exaggerated words "I. AM. TRYING. SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH."
I don’t think he was expecting that response from me. I think he thought I would rush Lil C out of the classroom, because God forbid Lil C or I interrupt the group game (which we weren’t doing anyway). I continued to look at him like I wanted to rip his head off, and he sheepishly looked down and away.
After class I stood around and waited to see if he would say something to me. I wanted him to, because I really wanted to tell him that he needs to mind his own business, and that if he ever thinks about Shhing me or my child again, he should strongly reconsider since I may need to then shush him. He instead looked intimidated and steered very clear of me.
I didn’t do anything wrong. I never would have even walked in that classroom with Lil C had the teacher not told me to do so. AND, it wasn’t like she was screaming in the background or even being loud for that matter. She was just talking occasionally in her normal voice. The Shhing was completely unwarranted.
Afterward I thought about the contrast between these two people. One sees a young child and decides to make her day (and therefore her mother’s); the other sees a young child and decides to reprimand for no reason and try (notice I said "try") to make the mother feel about two inches tall. It made me think about many different aspects of my life, and how the good and the bad are just inherent in life. I guess to really appreciate the good people in your life, you have to encounter some not so great people. Likewise, the unfortunate or bad things that happen in life, make the good moments and experiences that much sweeter.
Flat Abs Guaranteed
I don’t know why I’ve wasted my time with Pilates or sit-ups, crunches or ab machines. I’ve found the perfect way to tone and tighten abs without doing any exercising at all. . .
Bronchitis.
I’m telling you, my stomach muscles have never been tighter than they are right now. This wicked cough I have is totally paying off. Sure, I have to deal with the hacking discomfort every time I cough; and yes, it certainly is unpleasant when those coughs become productive. But my abs I tell you, they are stellar right now. They are so stellar in fact, that I have decided to go out on a limb and order this. . .
. . . without trying it on first. (Yeah, I know. If the abs are that great then why am I not going out on a limb and getting a bikini? I’ll tell you why. Bronchitis may tighten and tone, but bronchitis wants nothing to do with helping on the stretch mark front.) See that little one inch span of stomach there? I can handle that, and if I’m having a bad day I’ll wrap my obi (karate belt) around my waist and say I’m wearing my summer gi.
I don’t know what it is about the Victoria Secret swimsuit catalog, but it brings out the gambler in me. I know that I can walk in any department store and try on 40 swim suits without finding one that I like. Yet, I am completely confident that even without appropriate sizing information, I am going to order this one and be happy. Maybe it’s the lack of dressing room lighting and the comfort of home; but tonight’s the night. I am ordering that swimsuit.
Plus, I figure once I hack up these lungs I’ll have a bunch more room in there and maybe things will flatten out even further. See, there’s a silver lining to even the darkest of clouds.
Bronchitis = flat abs. Who knew? Now if I could just figure out a way to get that nasty cough to work on my thighs. . . hmm. . .
And for all my karate readers, I’ll have something to say about karate again, just as soon as I can get my sick butt back to class. Since I’m sick and you’re all feeling appropriately bad for me, scroll down the previous post, vote for me, and email Barbara. Pretty please???
You might be old if. . .
Mr. BBM and I went out with my sister and some of her friends on Saturday night. We had a blast. I haven’t been out in a very LONG time, so it was nice to have dinner without the girls for a change. We also went to Dave & Buster’s and then hit a cool bar that had a great band playing. Mr. BBM, my sister and I all "got our groove on." It was a nice night out.
Mr. BBM and I right before we went out. . .
I did realize, however, that my crowd of people was certainly a bit older looking than the rest of the crowd. Here are some of the ways you can tell you might be a little older than the rest of the crowd:
1. You get to and from the bar in a mini-van. The people in the back seat may have been intrigued by the Elmo video playing on a constant loop.
2. You don’t get carded.
3. The drunken guy who says, "How you DOIN”?" as he stumbles up the stairs behind you looks to you like he’s about 14.
4. The song "You down with OPP" draws you out to the dance floor. I still don’t know what that song means, but it makes you want to dance. (Just so you know, I’d like to remain completely naive as to what that song means so please don’t tell me.)
The rest of our crowd, NOT drawn out to the dance floor by OPP. One of the crowd was researching on the internet via cell phone. That is how you know you’re a dork (or K-Jo which is the new nickname for the one in our crowd who was a "Kill Joy".)
5. You know every single word to the old school rap music mix played while the band breaks, including the songs, "The Choice is Yours" ("You can get with this, or you can get with that. . . this is where it’s at. . .") "Humpty Dance," and "Doin’ the Butt."
6. You also know all the appropriate dance moves to go with said songs, and you don’t care one bit how stupid you look while doing them.
Me and . . . um, err. . . blacked out eyes have been added to protect the innocent (i.e. person whose work-mates sometimes read this blog. . . Hi Girls!)
7. You start chanting for Salt ‘N Pepa’s "Push it" because Duh, that’s obviously a song that should go with that set!
8. When a guy on the dance floor tells you he likes your shirt, you totally believe that he really likes your shirt and that it isn’t a ploy to get your number.
9. The last call jello shot totally does you in. You realize this too late, as your sister pulls out from her wallet the yellowing piece of paper that you gave her when she went off to college that says, "Beer before Liquor-Never Sicker; Liquor before Beer-In the Clear; Liquor before Wine-Feeling Fine; Wine before Liquor-Can’t get much sicker; Wine Before Beer-Have no Fear."
10. Instead of singing along with the radio on the way home, you promptly fall asleep as does everyone else in the van (minus the designated driver of course), as soon as you realize that the designated driver is not going to stop at McDonald’s despite the urgent plea’s to do so.
This night out marked the first time that Lil C spent the night at the grandparents house, AND she did AWESOME! When we picked the girls up on Sunday, my Mom said, "You should do this more often. . ." to which I responded, "Yeah, how about next weekend? Same time? Same place?"
We old people definitely need to go out more often to show the young ones how it’s done!
The Evolution of Instant Messaging
My sister will sometimes call me up and tell me about an argument she’s having with her boyfriend. "So, I text-messaged him this. . . and he texted me back this. . . ," and so it goes. Usually I turn into my dad for a moment and respond with, "You know, someday they’re going to invent something where you can actually speak to each other real time, without typing. . . it’s going to be amazing." What blows my mind the most is that they "text" each other with a PHONE! An actual phone! Wouldn’t it be easier to just talk? Wouldn’t it make the argument get over with that much faster? I don’t get it.
Today we have eharmony.com and match.com and though many have success with this, I’m oh so thankful that I’ve never had to venture into this world. I’ve spent hours looking through potential suitors with friends and family, trying to help them weed out the bad ones, laughing at the pictures that some people put out there of themselves, really laughing when we come across people I graduated with, thinking to myself how lucky I am that I met my husband when I was just 19. I didn’t have to go there. Thank GOD for that.
When I was teaching, I had a web site for my students that had helpful links and homework assignments. Students and parents also had my email address in case they had questions or concerns. I soon learned what a mistake that was, as I would log on to the computer and instantly be bombarded with instant messages from students, "whassup mrs bbm? wha r u doin?" I did not like the casual opportunity this gave to some of my students to just treat me like one of their friends, and I really didn’t like the spelling and grammar that resulted. I’ve graded term papers that looked like that and they were horrifying enough.
I occasionally took advantage of IM to "talk" to friends who were into the whole IMing thing. I’ve just always preferred the phone. I love email, don’t get me wrong, because it’s like modern day letter writing. But instant messaging. . . I’m just not that into it.
It could be because I was soured on it long ago.
I’m going to date myself here, big time. There was once a time when instant messaging. . . . didn’t exist (gasp!). During my freshman year of college at the University of Pittsburgh, we had several computer labs. Mostly the labs at 2 a.m. were full of procrastinators who were tiredly typing away on that paper for Latin American History or something equally awful. But on one particular spring evening, I was discovering the beginnings of instant messaging.
Back then it was called "phone." At least, that’s what I think it was called. I was typing away at an assignment and this "phone" box popped up. Someone was saying hello. I didn’t know what to do at first. Eventually, I typed back a tentative "hello," and the conversation continued from there. This "phone" was an early version of instant messaging, pre-IM and pre-text messaging. The person on the other end was a student at Pitt as well. He was a chemistry major and he seemed. . . interesting.
For the next two weeks, I would trek on over to the computer lab close to my dorm and type away. I don’t know why it never occurred to me to speak on the real phone with him. It would have been a lot easier. Eventually he asked me out on a date, a real date because he lived off-campus and had a car. I accepted; my friends thought I was nuts.
We set up this plan. He was going to drive into the dormitory area in his red car. We were going to go to a movie. He told me he had light brown hair, was 6′ tall and attractive. He said he’d be wearing a collared blue shirt. I knew he was a student at Pitt, a senior because only students had access to the "phone" feature on the computer. I didn’t describe myself because I wanted an out, or so I said. I wanted to be able to disappear without him knowing I was even there if the need arose.
So, Friday evening came and I stood in the quadrangle waiting for my "prince charming." I was excited. I envisioned a young Nicholas Cage or "Dr. Carter," a Romeo, Casanova. . .
And then I saw him.
Before the hood of his car even entered the parking area, his nose did. It’s harsh I know, but it’s true. Gone were the aesthetically pleasing images of actors. Gone were the images of a literary "Prince Charming". There was only one literary image that came to mind. . .
It was painfully obvious that we had very different ideas about what the term "attractive" meant. Being completely honest here, I have not been blessed with a small nose myself. I have my Dad’s nose (a smaller version of it, so he says), but I have always been a little uncomfortable with my nose. When I was in Junior High, I used to ask my parents for nose jobs instead of clothing or music when holidays rolled around. But I have NEVER seen a nose like that. NEVER.
My friends started to hoot, holler and laugh it up good. I froze. I wanted to run into my dorm and disappear into oblivion, never to "phone" him again. I had been on a bad blind date or two already; I really didn’t want another one. But, because I’m a somewhat nice person, I felt bad ditching him and stepped bravely out onto the curb. I hesitated and then waved. He smiled. It wasn’t pretty, and he totally wasn’t my type.
I got in the car and he stared at me. "You’re so BEAUTIFUL," he said. "Um, thanks," I said back and turned my head to stare out the window. He looked about 10 years older than me. He had a little pot belly that was very unbecoming. His nose. . .
You get the idea.
We drove to the theater. I knew he lied about how "attractive" he was, or deduced that he was delusional, or perhaps slightly blind, but the biggest lie was yet to be revealed.
At 5’9", I have always been one of the taller girls. I’m not one to slouch. I have never minded being one of the taller girls. I like it. I also like tall men, really tall men. My husband is 6’3". Most of the guys I dated before I met him were at least 6’1".
We got out of the car at the theater and there he was in all his glory, barely 5’7". What kind of tape measure was he using anyway? I towered over him, wearing flat shoes. I was furious. Looks that don’t make my heart race is one thing. I knew I wasn’t attracted to him; but sometimes, with time and conversation, people you wouldn’t normally think of as "attractive" become more so. I was willing to give him that chance. But someone who flat out lies to me. . . that warrants death.
I am not all about looks. I wanted to go to my senior prom with the guy who had the worst acne ever, because he could dance and we had fun together. Looks only last so long and take you so far. There has to be a connection. Of course, looks seem to help that connection. . . no one can deny that.
But lying is something I can not tolerate. Saying you’re 6′ tall when you’re actually 5" shorter than that is blatant. Did he think I wasn’t going to notice the discrepancy? When I first started dating my husband I told him that if he wanted to insure that I never ever speak with him again, then all he had to do was lie to me. I hate liars. "If you tell me you are wearing a green shirt, when in fact you are wearing a red shirt. . . and I find out about it. . . we’re done," I told him. Can’t. Stand. Liars.
So, back to my blind date from hell. I walk around the car and look down at him. I glared for a few seconds. "You said you were 6′ tall," I said. I walked towards the theater. His little legs tried to keep up with mine. Did I mention 90% of my height comes from my legs? We stood in line after we got our tickets and I was fuming. He kept saying, "You’re so beautiful." It was a little overkill. I’m o.k. I wouldn’t go as far as "so beautiful." It seemed to be his only line. "I’m sorry for being a lying pile of crap," would have warmed my heart more than trite flattery. A true Cyrano, with something subtantial behind the nose, he was not.
Then he tried to hold my hand. I ripped it away from his. "You lied," I said to him. "You’re so beautiful," he said back. "You lied," I repeated. Waiting in line continued like this.
He was a bona fide dork. It was a nightmare of a blind date, and the only person responsible for this was me. I could imagine all my friends back at the dorms, laughing until they cried, and then laughing some more. I was so annoyed with him, and more annoyed with myself.
As we sat in the theater, he tried to hold my hand again. I told him if he tried it one more time, he was going to have to move over a seat. He tried again. I moved over a seat. I am not a touchy-feely person with people I know and like, let alone with a lying pain in the ass.
After the movie was over, he asked if he could take me for something to eat. I told him to take me back to campus. I had him drop me off at a fraternity house where I knew my friends were hanging out. He asked if he could come along. "NO," I said. "Can I call you?" he inquired. "No," I said. He was seriously not getting it.
I found my friends and danced the rest of the night away. I drank some cheap fraternity beer koolaid. (Hi Mom!) I swore off blind dates forever. I swore off the "phone" forever. I swore off chemistry majors. I was done.
The next year in school, I met Mr. BBM. I was 19; he was 21. He was 6’3", and reminded me of Nick Cage and Dr. Carter.
He was a chemistry major. I was able to overlook his choice of majors.
I met him through real live friends, not the computer. We have never IM’d each other. We wrote each other sweet emails from time to time. Now they’re more like, "I’m up to my elbows in poop-when are you going to be done working already?" (Did I mention before that my husband works from home?)
I have never understood the IMing relationships or why someone would choose to IM instead of speak on the phone or in person. I may have a decent understanding of technology and I may have been there at the beginning of the IMing era. That doesn’t mean I like it or that I will ever understand it.
Then again. . .
I’m scarred for life.
What NOT to do
Remember that whole, "teach him what’s up" from yesterday? The thing about how I was going to practice my self-defense techniques on my husband? Yeah. It didn’t go so well.
After getting the girls to bed, I asked my husband if he was up for a little self-defense action. Usually he complies; sometimes he’s not in the mood to be twisted all over the place. So, we started out with a basic rear double wrist-grab. He stood behind me and grabbed both of my wrists. I easily got out of it with a work against the thumbs, "remove a gun from the holster" type of move with a step back into him. His hands remained at my sides, but my hands were now loose.
As demonstrated in class, I grabbed his right hand with my right hand. I lifted his right hand and arm up with that hand and slipped underneath my arm and his. His arm was now twisted behind his back and he was doubled over due to a joint lock at the wrist. Picture twisting someone’s arm behind their back but using their wrist joint as your controlling mechanism.
I wasn’t putting the joint lock on as strong as I could, but apparently it was uncomfortable. So, in an attempt to lessen the pain and make it more like a real life situation, he began to spin away from me. I followed along. Picture my husband, bent at the waist with his arm behind his back. I have control of his arm with my right hand and I start to follow his spin, so to speak. I was trying to figure out my next move. I wanted to put him on the floor. This is where things went terribly wrong. . .
I reach around his left shoulder with my left arm in an attempt to hold him still and throw him off balance so that I could use my right foot behind his right knee, and take him down. I attempt to place my right foot behind his knee, but the spinning is still happening. So my foot and consequently my knee slips in between his knees, he continues to spin and what occurred next can only be described as the sound effects for Rice Crispies.
Crackle.
Or, more accurately, Pop, Pop. Pop, and the only one who was "taken down" was me. The sound effects occurred when my knee, which is supposed to bend forward, bent completely out to the right. Did I mention my leg was straight when it got jammed between my husbands spinning legs? Yeah. Pain.
I writhed on the floor in pain, unable to move my leg after landing on the floor like a ton of bricks. I fell directly onto my side and hip. As my husband ran to the kitchen to get me ice, I yelled after him, "Well, that didn’t work." He laughed; I continued to writh in pain.
He eventually helped me to stand up and get to bed. Today, my leg is sore. I pulled the muscle that runs up the back of your thigh big time. When I move my leg, my hip makes a cracking sound, and my knee feels like squish, squish. My ankle was sore initially but is better today.
This is what happens when your partner is only 3.5 feet tall in class. You come home and try to practice on someone more realistic to what an attacker would be, but without someone to tell you what you’re doing wrong. . . you are apparently risking bodily harm. Ouch.
Next time I want to practice self defense on my husband, I’m going to wear one of these:
or maybe one of these:
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