The post where I make a fool of myself
When Karl emailed me a few weeks ago and asked me to guest blog over at his place, I was flattered to be among those he asked. He's calling it his Super Summer of Lovin' as he's asked only what he deems to be hot women bloggers to be guest posters.
Since I asked to be able to take my turn towards the end of the three weeks of guest posters, I've had lots of time to check out what the other women have been writing. There's lots of drooling over Karl and flattery galore. While all the saliva is completely justified because Karl is indeed a catch, I thought I'd take a bit of a different approach. . .
I've been saying for months now that maybe, just maybe I'll put up a video of myself doing a kata or something karate related. Who would have ever thought that my first video to hit the web would be one like this? Certainly not me, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I struggled with what to write over there and then realized that I shouldn't really write. I should just "perform."
To entice you to visit and see for yourself, here are some answers to common questions you might have after watching the video:
Yes, that is my daughter's echo microphone.
No, that is not actually my voice.
Yes, that is me doing something karate related; and yes, I am highly disturbed about how I look when I am doing something karate related (I have so much work to do).
No, none of the girls' toys were harmed during the filming of this video (I can't say the same for the pictures on my heavy bag.)
Yes, I was completely 100% sober.
No, I don't take myself too seriously so you probably shouldn't either.
Yes, I used my sai for the "carving."
I think that about covers it. Go watch, leave a comment over there for Karl, and then come back here and tell me what you think when the laughing or head shaking has subsided enough for you to type. Go on, go!
No Sew Zone
Filed under: Favorite Posts, Mental Strain for Mama
When I was in Junior High, I had Home Economics classes. We learned how to cook things, clean up after ourselves and also how to sew. I was not looking forward to the sewing part. But when it was my turn, I gave it everything I had. I started by making a football shaped pillow which turned out so fabulously well that I began grabbing scraps of material at home and sewing additional pillows. Pillow sewing rocked.
When sewing pillows got dull, I got super ambitious. We had a Valentine’s Day dance coming up and I decided that instead of making my Mom take me to the mall for a new outfit, I was going to make an outfit for myself. I graduated from high school in 1993, so you can probably do the math and figure out that when I was in junior high school, there were a whole lot of fashion no-no’s and nightmares.
Take M.C. Hammer pants for example, which is what I decided I absolutely must make for the dance. Mine would not be metallic. Instead, I opted for a nice peach color. The pants were pleated and baggy at the top and then tapered to their ankle choking end. I measured and cut and was convinced that these pants were going to be amazing.
Because a girl can’t wear just pants to a dance, I needed a shirt to match. So, what better to go with M.C. Hammer pants than a 3/4 length sleeved baseball style top. The sleeves were peach to match the pants and the front and back of the shirt was a complementary paisley pattern with peach and cream colors. It was going to be an amazing outfit to stand on the sidelines through the Guns and Roses slow songs that would be played.
In fact, it was going to be such an amazing outfit that I got extra material and decided to make a pair of purple pants and a purple paisley baseball shirt to go with them as well. On the day of the dance, I could decide which color to wear. You know what they always say right? If you find something you like, that flatters you, buy it in every color. Well, I was making my new wardrobe and it was going to be flawless.
Dances were such a treat. We had them every other month or so and every girl always got her hopes up, me included of course, that our "Prince Charming" would somehow find a way to detach his butt from his chair in the corner and get up to ask you to dance to something like "Every Rose has Its Thorn." Or, if they were really ambitious they might attempt "Girl you know it’s true" by Milli Vanilli in case they wanted to show off their running rabbit moves or something.
As the Valentine’s dance quickly approached, I worked tirelessly on my smashing outfit. I even went during study halls, and before and after school when it got to be crunch time. With my permed, spiked hair and peach (or purple) Hammer pants, I was going to be a star.
With two days left to go, I finished my outfit. I got an A on the outfit and my teacher was impressed that I made, not one, but two outfits. I couldn’t wait to try it on and see how incredible I was going to look so I took my new digs to the girls bathroom and gave them a whirl. They seemed to fit just fine but when I went out to the mirror I was very disappointed.
The pants were entirely too baggy in the butt and front. The bubbling pant effect was just not right. The shirt looked like it belonged to a girl three years younger and just hung there. It was not a dance worthy outfit. In fact, it was barely worthy of being called pajamas. I ripped it off, stuck it in my backpack and never wore it again.
When I got home, I begged my Mom to take me to the mall where the Deb shop delivered as usual. I went to the dance and spent the night staring across the floor at the group of boys wondering why they even bothered to come if they weren’t ever going to even get off their butts. And then I went home and never sewed again. . .
Until karate. Have you ever noticed those patches that seem to be on everyone’s gi’s? Big I’s gi is currently patch-less and mine is missing one of the ones I should have on there. Today, I attempted to sew the patches on the arms of our gi’s. After sewing less than an inch I had stabbed myself half a dozen times, and managed to tangle the thread to the point that the only option was ripping it out. Currently, Big I’s patch is hanging by a thread and I’m just hoping that I see my Mom before we have to go to karate because the only way I will succeed in getting these patches onto our gi’s is by using super glue.
Considering that super glue doesn’t even hold karate guys on trophies, I’m not very optimistic about it. Hey, at least my expectations have become more realistic since Junior High.
Celebrity Encounter OR I MET SEBASTIAN JUNGER!
When one of my former teaching buddies in Delaware emailed me about a Book Fair that was going to take place in Delaware, I was, at first, only mildly interested. I pictured it as a place to buy books. But when I went to the website, I was amazed at how many awesome authors and illustrators were going to be there and I just had to be there. I especially had to be there when I was that one of my all time FAVORITE writers was going to be there: Sebastian Junger.
If you don’t know the name, Sebastian Junger wrote The Perfect Storm which was turned into an international best-seller and blockbuster movie. He also wrote Fire; his latest book is A Death in Belmont.
Back when I was first married, I worked as an assistant editor for a small literary journal. I went to a writing conference and met some really cool writers like Gay Talese, and Tobias Wolf who wrote This Boy’s Life. After the conference was over, some of the talks and readings that the authors gave were broadcast on C-Span’s "About Books". They were interesting and my husband and I would occasionally check out who they were featuring. One particular night, Sebastian Junger was giving a reading from The Perfect Storm. He was mesmerizing and his writing was just amazing.
With a degree in English Writing, Creative Nonfiction, I found his writing particularly intriguing. He was the kind of writer I wanted to be someday. My husband and I went right out and bought his book and we both loved it.
On Saturday he spoke (or tried to anyway while I snapped about eight pictures of him from the front row), and was amazing.
He’s such an interesting writer and a nice person. He spoke about his latest book and then took questions. He said we had time for one more and another man and I both had raised our hands. He said, "Ok, well two." He answered the first question and then gestured in my direction and asked me for my question. I asked him about his writing process in relation to how he balances being immersed in the moment with taking accurate notes/recordings. He spent a good deal of time answering my question and then ended the session.
I jumped right up and asked him if he’d mind taking a picture with me. He said, "Not at all" and seemed almost shy about it. And then. . . HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND ME and my friend snapped our picture. I gushed about what a big fan I am of his writing and how I think he’s such an amazing writer, and how I first saw him on C-Span and went right out and bought his book and loved it. . . etc. etc.
Then, I followed him over to the book signing and he signed my book. I watched people. He signed most of them "To ‘name’, Sebastian Junger." He signed mine, "To ‘my name’, BEST WISHES, Sebastian Junger." BEST WISHES!!!!!!
I told him what a pleasure it was meeting him. I think I might have jumped up and down a bit, or a lot. It was so cool!
We also met young adult authors, Lara Zeises and Jordan Sonnenblick. They were both so interesting and really made me want to go out and get their books. Big I got a book signed by Steven Kellogg (The Mysterious Tadpole) and Mr BBM sat in on his presentation with the girls. He said he was incredible and that he illustrated the entire time he spoke. He actually made a personal illustration in every kids book.
It was an amazing day, full of really inspiring presentations that just made me want to read everything and try to write a book.
But for now. . . I MET SEBASTIAN JUNGER!!!!! And by the way, his new book is AWESOME!
Just my Luck Or RIP Little Chipmunk
Filed under: Favorite Posts, Mental Strain for Mama
I drove Big I to school this morning and there was nothing extraordinary that separated today from any other day. Upon arriving home, I normally walk around the front of my car to get Lil C out. I don’t know what made me go around the back today, but I did and that’s when I saw it. . . a squished dead chipmunk. It lay there, three feet behind my back wheel, dead as a doornail and so obviously my doing.
I stopped in my tracks and let out a horrified sigh. And then I realized something even worse than the dead chipmunk. Before Big I gets off the bus today, I’m going to have to clean up my mess.
I am the person who can’t pick up a cat hairball without throwing up a little in my mouth or at least heaving to the point that I have to run to the bathroom, just in case. I scanned my neighbor’s houses and cars to see if anyone suitable for doing this sort of thing was home, and the answer was sadly, no.
I took Lil C in the house and did what any rational wife who just killed a chipmunk would do. I called my husband whose office is 45 minutes away and demanded that he come home and now. He laughed while I cursed him for not working from home today of all days DAMN IT. "Just put on a glove. . . " he started. "NO! I can’t do THAT!" I said completely horrified. "I’ll throw up!" I said. "Well, then your other option is to get the snow shovel. . . ". "Oh GOD NO. . . Can’t you just come home?" I begged. "Do you think my Dad would come out and take care of it for me?" I asked my husband. "No, well, maybe. You could call him and tell him that you hit a deer, and that you need help. Then, when he shows up, you could tell him ‘Oops! Sorry, I meant a deer MOUSE’" my husband said while relishing in the fact that he was a good hour away.
"How bad is it?" he asked. "It’s bad," I said "he’s a pancake, squished in the middle and what’s coming out the ends isn’t pretty." "Oh Man," he said and laughed some more.
So I hung up and did what any rational woman would do. . . I called my Mom.
"I have a problem," I said. "WHAT?" she asked thinking there was something seriously wrong. I told her my dilemma and she recommended that I first cover the poor little guy with some leaves and then scoop him up with a snow shovel and put him in some bushes or trees where he wouldn’t be disturbed. This from the woman who had a chipmunk trapped in her fireplace, so my Dad put a trap in there, caught him, and then released him into the woods. "I don’t know if I can do this," I said. "Well, you’re going to have to. Imagine Big I’s face when she gets off the bus." "I know," I said, resigned to my fate.
I got Lil C occupied in her port-a-crib and retrieved the snow shovel. As I opened the front door, a squirrel sat on my step just staring me down. You think I’m kidding? Because I’m not! Then the birds started making all kinds of noise and swooping around in a threatening fashion. I was waiting for a mountain lion to come charging down from the woods and eat me or something. I felt like the friendly forest folk were declaring war on me. I needed to do this quickly.
I threw some leaves on top and I’ll only say that dead chipmunks don’t just nicely move themselves onto snow shovels. There was some scooping and some squirming (that was me) and then I finally got him on the shovel and put him in a ground covering bush away from the house. Then, I had to hose off the shovel, and hose down the crime scene. I also had to hose down my back wheel. Can I tell you how relieved I was that it was my BACK wheel and not the front? I never saw him because he ran out after my front wheel had already passed. Stupid chipmunk running under a car.
And so considering how this day started, I think I’m ready to call it a day. The things we’ll do for our kids. . .
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.
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