The car pool line has grown tiresome. I know I have complained about sitting in it for a half an hour twice a week for the entire school year, but the truth is, some of my best blogs were written in the car pool line. Long hand. In a spiral notebook I purchased on clearance at Target for twelve cents. Beat that!
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I leave my house and park in the car pool line right before 2pm, and I tend to recognize the same cars, vans, and SUVs on the same schedule. There is the older Asian man in his red subcompact car who takes a nap while he waits for school to finish. And the Muslim woman with her brood of toddlers and pre-school children shrieking in the back of the mini-van. The PTA moms with all those magnets identifying their children’s interests. The mom in the 1980’s conversion van, who waits in the line with her teenage high school drop-out unwed mother daughter, both of them smoking cigarettes while her mixed race grandbaby sleeps in the car seat.
Normally I crack a window or two, scoot my seat way back, and write in my notebook until I notice tail lights glaring red in front of me. I am able to concentrate on what I am doing and tune out the cars and their drivers around me. If a mom in the car next to me is chatting on her cell phone, I close the driver's window and open the two windows on the passenger side, so I still get fresh air, without all that hot air.
Except I couldn’t do that yesterday. It was 82 degrees, and I refused to let my car idle for thirty minutes, even for that precious, life-affirming air conditioning. So instead of eating up my premium gas and ruining the environment for my future grandchildren, I opened all four windows, just in case the wind decided to pick up and dry off my sweat. I wish I could drive around in a bathing suit.
I was hot. I was uncomfortable. I couldn’t concentrate on what I wanted to write. I was trapped in my car next to a Chevy Tahoe, driven by a Barbie mom. So instead of writing what I wanted, I studied her closely and recorded her actions, like a gorilla in the mist:
She is an attractive woman, in that Miss Hawaiian Tropic/Girls Gone Wild kind of way: overly processed, bleached blond hair, stick straight from her dark roots to her split ends. Her skin is roughly the color of a tangelo, and her sunglasses are oversized. I am pretty sure she stole them from my grandmother in 1977. She is very busy texting, one finger at a time, so as not to ruin her French manicure. Her typing at home probably looks just like her texting on her Blackberry.
Next to her in the passenger seat is a baby, presumably hers. It has red baby hair and is unable to speak fluently in English, instead making a bunch of gargling baby sounds. It appears to be in the ten to fourteen month old category. It is doing what babies at that age like to do. It is crawling around on the front seat, touching buttons and putting its mouth on everything.
The Barbie mom does not appreciate the baby’s actions, which are distracting her from her slow, methodical texting. So she mildly protests, her words tainted with a heavy Southern accent.
“Stop,” she says to the baby. “Don’t.”
The baby either does not understand or does not care, as it continues its moving about, at one point even crawling over the seat back before plunging face down into the back seat area. The woman grabs the baby by its arm, appearing more annoyed. “Now, quit, I told you,” she says. “Do you want a spanking? Do you want to get back in your car seat?”
The baby does not want either of these things, but is unable to clearly express its dislike of the options, so it cries instead. The crying gets the mother’s attention. She puts down the phone and says to the baby, “You are a pitiful thing.” The mother places the crying baby on her lap, which the baby finds amusing. Its crying turns to mild whining and whimpering. Then it begins to pound on the steering wheel, slapping the leather and occasionally making the SUV honk. The baby is both frightened and delighted by this noise. The mother appears bored now that she is unable to text.
The baby grows tired of this activity and again starts to fuss. At this point, the Barbie mom is looking right at me looking right at her. She makes a face at me and rolls up her tinted windows, sealing off the car’s interior and totally obscuring my view. She starts the engine, and proceeds to pollute the environment for my grandchildren. Show’s over.
I am not judging how this Barbie mom chooses to spend her time in the car pool line. I use my time for creative outlets. Some people use it for resting or interacting with others. Some people expand their minds through books or music. Some people use it to get organized or be productive. Some people take a moment to appreciate the air, the clouds, the leaves on the trees. The one thing we all have in common, besides waiting for our children to exit the school building, is that we are all trapped in the car pool line and trying to make the best of it. So, please don’t misunderstand me, Barbie mom. I don’t care that you text slowly or dangle your baby by its arm. I merely find you fascinating to watch, since unfortunately the noises you and the baby make are distracting enough that I am unable to concentrate on recording minutiae that doesn’t involve you. I’ll have to save that for the next car pool line.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Happy Ending?
Mother’s Day is full of expectations, occasional disappointments, and sometimes even delightful surprises. Mothers who work out of the home probably look forward to spending quality time with their families, perhaps a nice brunch out in the morning, followed by some quiet at home with the kids. Stay at home moms, on the other hand, have more than enough time with their families and are looking for a little appreciation and a much needed break. My friend JR and I fall in that category, where we spend so much time with kids that we need a moment apart from them to remember why we wanted families in the first place. Unfortunately for both of us, Mother’s Day did not allow for much of a respite. We did manage to eke out an hour for a pedicure, and JR swung by to pick me up before yet another family need arose and sucked away our opportunity for a little R and R.
We went to A nails, one of those Vietnamese nail joints. I don’t know what the A stood for, but I bet it has more to do with phone book visibility than honoring a family name. And it must work too, because the place was packed. JR had thoughtfully called ahead for our appointments, which I never think to do. Almost every station was occupied by mothers and daughters bonding over some toenail clippings. Two pedicure chairs were still open, which JR and I were led to believe were being saved for us. I soon got the impression that had we arrived five minutes later, they would not have been able to pretend that our appointments existed at all. The nail technicians were outnumbered two to one, unless you count individual fingers and toes, in which case it was an unfair fight.
JR and I rolled up our jeans and stuck our feet into the warm water in the foot baths.
“See, this is how they get us,” JR said. “They get you to stick your feet in the tub, and then they have you. You aren’t going anywhere with wet, unpainted feet.”
“Good point,” I said. “Let’s just enjoy the warm foot bath and gentle massage action of the chair.”
Now, mind you, I am not stranger to the dark underworld of the Vietnamese nail joint. I have seen my share of incense sticks and mangoes around a statue of Buddha, a trifle dish filled with dirty nail brushes, bizarre wall decorations of hands and feet, and even an interesting collection of crocheted doll clothes. I am what you call a regular pedicure patron. I have been in any number of different nail salons, all of which have their own variety of fancy massage chairs. Different colors, different styles of foot baths, some with little shelves for your purse, some with cup holders like a mini-van. One thing they all have in common is their massage feature, which you activate by pressing the start button followed by the auto button.
JR and I pressed our buttons and commenced gossiping and bitching while our necks were squeezed and our spines kneaded. JR is working towards a personal goal of mastering nail salon Vietnamese, so she engaged the male nail technician who was removing my toe nail polish in a stimulating review of help, please, and thank you, when suddenly the chair began squishing my thighs like a juicer.
“Oh,” I said, then leaned over to JR and whispered,” Is your chairs smushing your saddlebags?”
“Kind of,” she said, “and I’m not sure I like it.”
She squinted at her controls, trying to figure out how to turn off the thigh squishing, while I rambled on about my morning Mother’s Day treats, which included breakfast in bed, a spa gift certificate, and the all important assortment of dark chocolate. JR followed by telling me about her morning, when all of a sudden...
“Oooh,” I squeaked.
“What, oooh? What’s oooh?” she asked.
“Did you just get probed anally?” I asked her.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“My chair just rammed something…”I flinched again. “What kind of massage chair is this?”
JR laughed at me. The man shaving my heel calluses smiled to himself.
“It’s like something is going up my…oh my God, it just did it again. Is yours doing it too?”
“Doing what too? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My massage chair is anally raping me,” I said, gripping the arm rests. I jumped a little higher. “I swear it just popped my ass cherry.”
“You still have an ass cherry?” JR asked.
“Not anymore,” I said. “Whew, I think it stopped. Jesus. What the fuck? I thought they said 'Pick a color', not 'peck my colon'.”
“Ha,” JR said. “How come mine isn’t doing that? I want it to do me too.”
“You would,” I said.
We both peered at our chair controls. And there it was, below the thigh button: the buttock button.
“Well, no wonder,” JR said. “My buttocks is turned off.”
“Not mine, buddy. I think I’m starting to enjoy mine,” I said.
JR pressed the buttock button, which immediately triggered her own anal probe. “Oh, that’s too hard. I don’t like that,” she said, turning it right back off.
“That’s not what I heard about you on the streets,” I said.
“It’s too forceful. Talk about ripping me a new one.”
“Why not ask the guy if there’s any lube?” I told her.
She didn’t, opting instead for a refresher on counting from one to ten in Vietnamese, and also commenting on everyone who walked through the door to wait their turn for their pedicure/ass fucking. I was unable to maintain my end of the conversation due to all that deep penetrating action. Honestly, I don’t know how Bill Clinton could conduct official presidential business on the phone with his cock in Miss Lewinsky’s mouth. I couldn’t even tell JR what I was going to make for dinner while my chair dry humped my asshole.
Finally, my toes were finished and my chair was spent. JR’s nail technician had yet to put the finishing touches on her French pedicure, so I took her control, pressed the buttocks button, and increased the intensity to the highest setting. “Happy Mother’s Day!” I said joyfully.
“Give me that!” JR snatched the remote out of my hand. “Oooh.”
I smiled sweetly while she turned off the buttock massage action.
When JR dropped me off at home, I said goodbye and rushed into the house, heading straight for the bathroom. All that butt play stimulated my digestive system, which honestly is yet another reason why I don’t want anything going in the out door. I made it in time, after clenching my ass cheeks the whole way home.
What I want to know is why didn’t any of those women sitting in their pedicure massage chairs tip us off to what was in store. Then again, maybe that’s why that nail salon was so packed. And here I thought it was because they had Sunday hours. I might have to make another trip, just to be sure.
We went to A nails, one of those Vietnamese nail joints. I don’t know what the A stood for, but I bet it has more to do with phone book visibility than honoring a family name. And it must work too, because the place was packed. JR had thoughtfully called ahead for our appointments, which I never think to do. Almost every station was occupied by mothers and daughters bonding over some toenail clippings. Two pedicure chairs were still open, which JR and I were led to believe were being saved for us. I soon got the impression that had we arrived five minutes later, they would not have been able to pretend that our appointments existed at all. The nail technicians were outnumbered two to one, unless you count individual fingers and toes, in which case it was an unfair fight.
JR and I rolled up our jeans and stuck our feet into the warm water in the foot baths.
“See, this is how they get us,” JR said. “They get you to stick your feet in the tub, and then they have you. You aren’t going anywhere with wet, unpainted feet.”
“Good point,” I said. “Let’s just enjoy the warm foot bath and gentle massage action of the chair.”
Now, mind you, I am not stranger to the dark underworld of the Vietnamese nail joint. I have seen my share of incense sticks and mangoes around a statue of Buddha, a trifle dish filled with dirty nail brushes, bizarre wall decorations of hands and feet, and even an interesting collection of crocheted doll clothes. I am what you call a regular pedicure patron. I have been in any number of different nail salons, all of which have their own variety of fancy massage chairs. Different colors, different styles of foot baths, some with little shelves for your purse, some with cup holders like a mini-van. One thing they all have in common is their massage feature, which you activate by pressing the start button followed by the auto button.
JR and I pressed our buttons and commenced gossiping and bitching while our necks were squeezed and our spines kneaded. JR is working towards a personal goal of mastering nail salon Vietnamese, so she engaged the male nail technician who was removing my toe nail polish in a stimulating review of help, please, and thank you, when suddenly the chair began squishing my thighs like a juicer.
“Oh,” I said, then leaned over to JR and whispered,” Is your chairs smushing your saddlebags?”
“Kind of,” she said, “and I’m not sure I like it.”
She squinted at her controls, trying to figure out how to turn off the thigh squishing, while I rambled on about my morning Mother’s Day treats, which included breakfast in bed, a spa gift certificate, and the all important assortment of dark chocolate. JR followed by telling me about her morning, when all of a sudden...
“Oooh,” I squeaked.
“What, oooh? What’s oooh?” she asked.
“Did you just get probed anally?” I asked her.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“My chair just rammed something…”I flinched again. “What kind of massage chair is this?”
JR laughed at me. The man shaving my heel calluses smiled to himself.
“It’s like something is going up my…oh my God, it just did it again. Is yours doing it too?”
“Doing what too? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My massage chair is anally raping me,” I said, gripping the arm rests. I jumped a little higher. “I swear it just popped my ass cherry.”
“You still have an ass cherry?” JR asked.
“Not anymore,” I said. “Whew, I think it stopped. Jesus. What the fuck? I thought they said 'Pick a color', not 'peck my colon'.”
“Ha,” JR said. “How come mine isn’t doing that? I want it to do me too.”
“You would,” I said.
We both peered at our chair controls. And there it was, below the thigh button: the buttock button.
“Well, no wonder,” JR said. “My buttocks is turned off.”
“Not mine, buddy. I think I’m starting to enjoy mine,” I said.
JR pressed the buttock button, which immediately triggered her own anal probe. “Oh, that’s too hard. I don’t like that,” she said, turning it right back off.
“That’s not what I heard about you on the streets,” I said.
“It’s too forceful. Talk about ripping me a new one.”
“Why not ask the guy if there’s any lube?” I told her.
She didn’t, opting instead for a refresher on counting from one to ten in Vietnamese, and also commenting on everyone who walked through the door to wait their turn for their pedicure/ass fucking. I was unable to maintain my end of the conversation due to all that deep penetrating action. Honestly, I don’t know how Bill Clinton could conduct official presidential business on the phone with his cock in Miss Lewinsky’s mouth. I couldn’t even tell JR what I was going to make for dinner while my chair dry humped my asshole.
Finally, my toes were finished and my chair was spent. JR’s nail technician had yet to put the finishing touches on her French pedicure, so I took her control, pressed the buttocks button, and increased the intensity to the highest setting. “Happy Mother’s Day!” I said joyfully.
“Give me that!” JR snatched the remote out of my hand. “Oooh.”
I smiled sweetly while she turned off the buttock massage action.
When JR dropped me off at home, I said goodbye and rushed into the house, heading straight for the bathroom. All that butt play stimulated my digestive system, which honestly is yet another reason why I don’t want anything going in the out door. I made it in time, after clenching my ass cheeks the whole way home.
What I want to know is why didn’t any of those women sitting in their pedicure massage chairs tip us off to what was in store. Then again, maybe that’s why that nail salon was so packed. And here I thought it was because they had Sunday hours. I might have to make another trip, just to be sure.
Monday, May 17, 2010
A Penny For Your Thoughts
I wanted to blog today, I really did. I want to most days, to be honest, but times being what they are, well, I just can’t. Usually, by bedtime, I am lucky to have had a shower, and I forgot I needed to pee two hours ago. So instead of a nice, tasty start to finish coherent blog, I’ll instead share with you some random thoughts from my day. They are in no particular order and are in no way related, much like the way I think.
*I just passed an accident on the road. It seems someone rear-ended an ambulance. The car’s front end was still sniffing the ambulance’s behind, and all the red lights were on and flashing, like the ambulance was enjoying it. At first, I thought, wow, how convenient. But in reality, wouldn’t they just need to call another ambulance? What if the ambulance already had a full load? That would mean two ambulances. Unless the EMT’s were also injured. How many ambulances would potentially have to respond to an ambulance accident? What about school bus accidents, with multiple injuries? Do they stack the kids on top of one another on the gurneys, or does an entire fleet of ambulances converge on the scene? A school bus accident could wipe out a city's first responders in one fell swoop.
*I don’t know if this qualifies as the definition of risky, but I just went to the grocery store with only a panty liner because I was too lazy to walk upstairs to get a tampon. You think jumping out of an airplane is hazardous? Try pushing a grocery cart around the store in white shorts on day two of your period without a Super Plus. Who says I don’t live on the edge?
*I ordered some sliced turkey at the deli counter, and I noticed another woman working there. She was busy impaling raw chickens on a rotisserie spit, and she was missing an eye. Did she lose it in a rotisserie related incident? The spit looks to be about the same size as her empty eye socket. At what point does a one-eyed person decide to forgo a glass replica to match the other eye? Or to skip the eye patch and just go for it, really own that vacant orbital cavity? All I’m saying is pirates are really popular, and eye patches lend a certain air of mystery. Whereas, in comparison, empty eye sockets with sagging eye lids look like the dog next door who just got to take off its cone. I don’t want to stare, but I can’t help it. Oh, Thank God, she is done slicing my Muenster cheese.
*I am tired of trying to like the new Barenaked Ladies CD. It’s lousy, and I know why. They sound like a bunch of pussies, making whiny pussy music. Gone are the days of interesting melodies and catchy lyrics, when BNL was clever and fun. Now they are recording songs that would make you try to claw your way out of the elevator. And I know why. When Steven Page, the former lead singer, quit the band, he took the only set of balls with him. He was the witty lyricist, and now they are trying to fill his void with a shitty rhyming dictionary and a Roget’s thesaurus, which is not, by the way, a species of dinosaur. Page left the band last year after a spectacular display of mid-life crisis. He cheated on his wife, leaving her and his three sons for a younger woman he met on MySpace. After his divorce came his cocaine arrest, which coincided with the release of the Barenaked Ladies’ new children’s CD. None of that took brains, but it sure did take some cohones.
*I am sitting inside the exam room at my doctor’s office, waiting for my internist to come in. I just heard an old man say in an angry he knew where he was going, and then I heard the loudest pee, like a morning pee. It went on forever. I am pretty sure there isn’t a bathroom on this side of the doctor’s office.
*If I eat a handful of deluxe mixed nuts and a square of chocolate, then follow it with an apple, does that count as a balanced meal? What if I drink a bunch of water with it?
*The piano tuner came today. Listening to him tune is like listening to Nora the piano playing cat, an internet sensation. I found out today when writing a check to him that not only have I been calling him by the wrong last name, I have done it twice now. Who I thought was Mr. Troyer wasn’t in fact Mr. Teller, he is Mr. Taylor. He has an easy disposition and a good ear, which is why he is the piano tuner and I am the mother who can ignore her children’s whining. (Why, right now I am ignoring a low guttural cry so I can type. It doesn’t sound like she’s in pain, so no rush.) When Mr. Taylor bent over to get his tuning tools, I silently prayed that he would not fart, although I am sure it would have been in perfect pitch. Then I felt badly that I never offered him a glass of water.
* If you and your child have to go to the doctor on the same day, which one of you is the hypochondriac? I have some funk under my left eye, and she has a sore throat; they both seem to be legitimate complaints. Her pediatrician didn’t think her throat was a big deal, since she didn’t have a fever, but he did change her asthma inhaler. In fact, he came into the room carrying a clear plastic cylinder and asked me if I knew how to use it. I almost asked him what end of the tube was for inserting a flaccid penis. I decided to answer “no” and hope I was thinking of the wrong plastic tube. I was. It had something to do with breathing. My bad.
*I stopped by the drug store this afternoon and found a hotel key card that someone had dropped on the sidewalk. Poor fool. By the time he bought the box of condoms, drove back to the hotel, rushed to his room, and realized he couldn’t get in without returning to the lobby, no doubt he lost that erection.
Sometimes people tell me that I say what they are thinking, or that I need to filter my thoughts. I am doing the best that I can with the filtering since only about a third of what I think escapes my mouth into actual out-loud words. Chances are good that when you ask me “Are you thinking what I am thinking?”, the answer is no. Except about the one-eyed deli worker. You would have thought that stuff too.
*I just passed an accident on the road. It seems someone rear-ended an ambulance. The car’s front end was still sniffing the ambulance’s behind, and all the red lights were on and flashing, like the ambulance was enjoying it. At first, I thought, wow, how convenient. But in reality, wouldn’t they just need to call another ambulance? What if the ambulance already had a full load? That would mean two ambulances. Unless the EMT’s were also injured. How many ambulances would potentially have to respond to an ambulance accident? What about school bus accidents, with multiple injuries? Do they stack the kids on top of one another on the gurneys, or does an entire fleet of ambulances converge on the scene? A school bus accident could wipe out a city's first responders in one fell swoop.
*I don’t know if this qualifies as the definition of risky, but I just went to the grocery store with only a panty liner because I was too lazy to walk upstairs to get a tampon. You think jumping out of an airplane is hazardous? Try pushing a grocery cart around the store in white shorts on day two of your period without a Super Plus. Who says I don’t live on the edge?
*I ordered some sliced turkey at the deli counter, and I noticed another woman working there. She was busy impaling raw chickens on a rotisserie spit, and she was missing an eye. Did she lose it in a rotisserie related incident? The spit looks to be about the same size as her empty eye socket. At what point does a one-eyed person decide to forgo a glass replica to match the other eye? Or to skip the eye patch and just go for it, really own that vacant orbital cavity? All I’m saying is pirates are really popular, and eye patches lend a certain air of mystery. Whereas, in comparison, empty eye sockets with sagging eye lids look like the dog next door who just got to take off its cone. I don’t want to stare, but I can’t help it. Oh, Thank God, she is done slicing my Muenster cheese.
*I am tired of trying to like the new Barenaked Ladies CD. It’s lousy, and I know why. They sound like a bunch of pussies, making whiny pussy music. Gone are the days of interesting melodies and catchy lyrics, when BNL was clever and fun. Now they are recording songs that would make you try to claw your way out of the elevator. And I know why. When Steven Page, the former lead singer, quit the band, he took the only set of balls with him. He was the witty lyricist, and now they are trying to fill his void with a shitty rhyming dictionary and a Roget’s thesaurus, which is not, by the way, a species of dinosaur. Page left the band last year after a spectacular display of mid-life crisis. He cheated on his wife, leaving her and his three sons for a younger woman he met on MySpace. After his divorce came his cocaine arrest, which coincided with the release of the Barenaked Ladies’ new children’s CD. None of that took brains, but it sure did take some cohones.
*I am sitting inside the exam room at my doctor’s office, waiting for my internist to come in. I just heard an old man say in an angry he knew where he was going, and then I heard the loudest pee, like a morning pee. It went on forever. I am pretty sure there isn’t a bathroom on this side of the doctor’s office.
*If I eat a handful of deluxe mixed nuts and a square of chocolate, then follow it with an apple, does that count as a balanced meal? What if I drink a bunch of water with it?
*The piano tuner came today. Listening to him tune is like listening to Nora the piano playing cat, an internet sensation. I found out today when writing a check to him that not only have I been calling him by the wrong last name, I have done it twice now. Who I thought was Mr. Troyer wasn’t in fact Mr. Teller, he is Mr. Taylor. He has an easy disposition and a good ear, which is why he is the piano tuner and I am the mother who can ignore her children’s whining. (Why, right now I am ignoring a low guttural cry so I can type. It doesn’t sound like she’s in pain, so no rush.) When Mr. Taylor bent over to get his tuning tools, I silently prayed that he would not fart, although I am sure it would have been in perfect pitch. Then I felt badly that I never offered him a glass of water.
* If you and your child have to go to the doctor on the same day, which one of you is the hypochondriac? I have some funk under my left eye, and she has a sore throat; they both seem to be legitimate complaints. Her pediatrician didn’t think her throat was a big deal, since she didn’t have a fever, but he did change her asthma inhaler. In fact, he came into the room carrying a clear plastic cylinder and asked me if I knew how to use it. I almost asked him what end of the tube was for inserting a flaccid penis. I decided to answer “no” and hope I was thinking of the wrong plastic tube. I was. It had something to do with breathing. My bad.
*I stopped by the drug store this afternoon and found a hotel key card that someone had dropped on the sidewalk. Poor fool. By the time he bought the box of condoms, drove back to the hotel, rushed to his room, and realized he couldn’t get in without returning to the lobby, no doubt he lost that erection.
Sometimes people tell me that I say what they are thinking, or that I need to filter my thoughts. I am doing the best that I can with the filtering since only about a third of what I think escapes my mouth into actual out-loud words. Chances are good that when you ask me “Are you thinking what I am thinking?”, the answer is no. Except about the one-eyed deli worker. You would have thought that stuff too.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Gimme a Break
My daughters returned to school after spring break, a six school day break from them, ten long, grueling days of intense family overload for me. Not that I don’t like my family; I like them just fine. But after a full week, sandwiched with two weekends, followed by an additional Monday, and since when is the Monday after Easter a holiday, I had enough. I was full of them. Thanksgiving full. And you know what a miserable feeling that is. No doubt, their first day back at school involved writing in their journals about what they did for their week off from school. Well, if they get to tell their side of the story, why not me, I ask you?
Let’s start with what I didn’t do. Relax? Nope. Rest? Seriously? De-stress? Are you for real? It’s been so many years since R and R was part of a vacation, I don’t even know how to do it. Besides, my family has certain expectations from our trips, and resting is not one of them. Instead, I spend my time away from the chores of home as Julie McCoy from the Love Boat, only without the crisp white nautical uniform and smartly stacked page-boy haircut. All entertainment, accommodations, and meals fall under my responsibilities, in addition to the packing and car ride entertainment planning. And don’t forget the post vacation responsibilities, the unpacking and laundry, laundry, and more laundry. Don’t think for a second that I relax when I get back home.
We originally planned to go to Washington, DC for spring break, but after researching hotel rates up there for the first week of cherry blossom season, I concluded that it was more cost-effective to either book a week of private rooms at a hospital or stay in-state. So that’s what we chose to do. My daughters are always happy to go to Charleston for a few days, and Myrtle Beach is a standard thanks to my in-laws’ beachfront condo, but I wanted to explore something different.
We decided to go for a couple of nights to Hilton Head. My husband has not been there since he was a lad, and the rest of us have never been, so I naively thought it would be fun to try something new. Clearly, I forgot with whom I was traveling. We are not spontaneous, go with the flow types. I generally do lots of planning and research about our destinations to take away some of the fear of the unknown, but frankly, I just didn’t have the energy for it this time. So we had to wing it.
We started off the week with a boring drive down to Hilton Head Island, the southernmost touristy spot in South Carolina. We had a two night stay planned in a time share (thanks, R family!), but we didn’t really spend much, or any, time in figuring out what to do while there. It’s early spring, so it’s not really beach weather yet, and none of us plays golf or tennis. My kids are still scared of their bikes, so we couldn’t even ride the many miles of bike trails. That left shopping at overpriced boutique island tourist traps, or eating. Some people might think, what about relaxing and doing nothing? Nothing with my family is the same as bickering and over-snacking. We do much better with scheduled activities.
We began our two night stay by exploring Harbortown at Sea Pines. There is a cute little playground there and a small lighthouse to explore, as well as many shops selling crap for too much money. We looked around the shops and played on the swings for a while before deciding on the lighthouse, which I had heard from a few friends was kind of fun for kids. I don’t know what their kids like to do for fun, but clearly they don’t enjoy the same kinds of things as my kids. E, my older daughter, brought her fear of heights with her, while S, my younger daughter, took one look at all the steps and pulled out her laziness. Each floor of the lighthouse had displays of historical, geographical, or ecological interest on it, which were all immediately classified by both children as boring.
We got to the top of the lighthouse, walked outside on the windy lookout, enjoyed the view, and then ducked back inside so that the two of them could race down the steps. “Well,” I said to my husband when we caught up with them at the bottom of the lighthouse, “that was a half an hour and twenty bucks wasted. Now what?”
Next came the great dinner debate. That’s when you name at least five restaurants where you have never been and then have your family reject them all because they don’t know where they are, if they will like them, or if the kid’s menu is adequate. For kids who pretty much eat pizza, macaroni and cheese, or chicken nuggets everywhere they go, you would think they would always be satisfied with a kid’s menu. Not so. They are picky about their pickiness, and I accommodate it because they would be even more unpleasant if they were disgruntled. We found decent seafood with decent kid’s spaghetti and called it a night.
The next day we went to the forest preserve to see an ancient Indian shell mound. A shell mound is one of those things that sounds fascinating, but in reality is boring as crap. An Indian shell mound is the ancient equivalent of a dump, and after a few thousand years, the mounds just turn to, well, mounds. Dirt mounds, with the occasional oyster shell poking out. No broken pottery, no arrowheads, no papoose boards or tepees, and absolutely no dioramas. After an hour of walking into the woods, during which we were traumatized by the occasional flying/stinging insect and enthralled by some deer tracks and an unidentifiable pile of scat, we approached the clearing where the shell mounds were. In the clearing was a pile of humps, in a circular pattern, about the size of a large gazebo or above ground pool. There were a few markers with information on them around the circle that you could read for more information.
“That’s it?” S said, incredulously.
“Well, what did you think it would be?” said my husband. “Indians haven’t lived here for a few hundred years.”
“But this is boring!” she complained.
After we stomped all around on the mounds for a few minutes, which I am sure is against federal law, we trudged back to where we parked the car and drove to the Salty Dog Café.
I am not usually one to go for the tourist traps, but even the kids knew that EVERYONE goes to the Salty Dog at Hilton Head. It’s one of those places that everyone buys a t-shirt from and wears it like it’s a secret club or something, like the Hard Rock Café in the 80’s or the Masons. We did everything a good tourist is supposed to do. We bought t-shirts. We poked around in all the gift shops. We ate lousy food off of paper plates and paid too much for it. Even the eight year old was underwhelmed, and all she had was a stupid grilled cheese sandwich. The t-shirts ought to read “I survived the Salty Dog, and all I got was indigestion and this lousy t-shirt.”
After the long winter, the girls were dying to go swimming, and since the pool at the condo building was heated, my husband and I agreed. At the condo, we all used the bathroom, changed into our swimsuits, and wrapped up in our complimentary towels before walking over to the pool. The minute we got there, it began to sprinkle. The girls hopped into the pool anyway. My husband and I huddled under a big umbrella on lounge chairs, like all the other moms and dads, watching the pool full of kids. Not a single adult was in that crab pot of children splashing around. It rained harder and harder still, the air growing chillier with every raindrop. The girls were oblivious to the drop in temperature or the heavy rain, as were the rest of the children, until a loud thunder clap cleared the pool.
We killed the rest of the afternoon back at the condo, bickering and watching television, things we definitely could have done if we stayed at home. After a repeat performance of the great dinner debate, and a pretty tasty meal with a substandard kids menu, we drove back through the rain to our condo and went to sleep.
And the next day we drove to Charleston, where we have been many times, we love, and we feel much more comfortable with. Because we know what to expect, what to do, and where to eat.
While walking around the market, I said to my husband, “There is no way we can ever go to Europe.”
“Why not?” he asked me, sounding surprised.
“Because we can’t even handle two days in Hilton Head, and that is almost speaking the same language,” I answered. “We don’t even understand the metric system. How are we going to figure out money or how to order find the bathroom? We won’t be able to even order macaroni and cheese.”
“Cheese is fromage in French, Mommy,” S said helpfully.
“Great, at least you will be able to eat,” I replied.
So that was what I did on my spring break. As the Jews say, next year in Jerusalem. Or, more likely, Charleston.
Let’s start with what I didn’t do. Relax? Nope. Rest? Seriously? De-stress? Are you for real? It’s been so many years since R and R was part of a vacation, I don’t even know how to do it. Besides, my family has certain expectations from our trips, and resting is not one of them. Instead, I spend my time away from the chores of home as Julie McCoy from the Love Boat, only without the crisp white nautical uniform and smartly stacked page-boy haircut. All entertainment, accommodations, and meals fall under my responsibilities, in addition to the packing and car ride entertainment planning. And don’t forget the post vacation responsibilities, the unpacking and laundry, laundry, and more laundry. Don’t think for a second that I relax when I get back home.
We originally planned to go to Washington, DC for spring break, but after researching hotel rates up there for the first week of cherry blossom season, I concluded that it was more cost-effective to either book a week of private rooms at a hospital or stay in-state. So that’s what we chose to do. My daughters are always happy to go to Charleston for a few days, and Myrtle Beach is a standard thanks to my in-laws’ beachfront condo, but I wanted to explore something different.
We decided to go for a couple of nights to Hilton Head. My husband has not been there since he was a lad, and the rest of us have never been, so I naively thought it would be fun to try something new. Clearly, I forgot with whom I was traveling. We are not spontaneous, go with the flow types. I generally do lots of planning and research about our destinations to take away some of the fear of the unknown, but frankly, I just didn’t have the energy for it this time. So we had to wing it.
We started off the week with a boring drive down to Hilton Head Island, the southernmost touristy spot in South Carolina. We had a two night stay planned in a time share (thanks, R family!), but we didn’t really spend much, or any, time in figuring out what to do while there. It’s early spring, so it’s not really beach weather yet, and none of us plays golf or tennis. My kids are still scared of their bikes, so we couldn’t even ride the many miles of bike trails. That left shopping at overpriced boutique island tourist traps, or eating. Some people might think, what about relaxing and doing nothing? Nothing with my family is the same as bickering and over-snacking. We do much better with scheduled activities.
We began our two night stay by exploring Harbortown at Sea Pines. There is a cute little playground there and a small lighthouse to explore, as well as many shops selling crap for too much money. We looked around the shops and played on the swings for a while before deciding on the lighthouse, which I had heard from a few friends was kind of fun for kids. I don’t know what their kids like to do for fun, but clearly they don’t enjoy the same kinds of things as my kids. E, my older daughter, brought her fear of heights with her, while S, my younger daughter, took one look at all the steps and pulled out her laziness. Each floor of the lighthouse had displays of historical, geographical, or ecological interest on it, which were all immediately classified by both children as boring.
We got to the top of the lighthouse, walked outside on the windy lookout, enjoyed the view, and then ducked back inside so that the two of them could race down the steps. “Well,” I said to my husband when we caught up with them at the bottom of the lighthouse, “that was a half an hour and twenty bucks wasted. Now what?”
Next came the great dinner debate. That’s when you name at least five restaurants where you have never been and then have your family reject them all because they don’t know where they are, if they will like them, or if the kid’s menu is adequate. For kids who pretty much eat pizza, macaroni and cheese, or chicken nuggets everywhere they go, you would think they would always be satisfied with a kid’s menu. Not so. They are picky about their pickiness, and I accommodate it because they would be even more unpleasant if they were disgruntled. We found decent seafood with decent kid’s spaghetti and called it a night.
The next day we went to the forest preserve to see an ancient Indian shell mound. A shell mound is one of those things that sounds fascinating, but in reality is boring as crap. An Indian shell mound is the ancient equivalent of a dump, and after a few thousand years, the mounds just turn to, well, mounds. Dirt mounds, with the occasional oyster shell poking out. No broken pottery, no arrowheads, no papoose boards or tepees, and absolutely no dioramas. After an hour of walking into the woods, during which we were traumatized by the occasional flying/stinging insect and enthralled by some deer tracks and an unidentifiable pile of scat, we approached the clearing where the shell mounds were. In the clearing was a pile of humps, in a circular pattern, about the size of a large gazebo or above ground pool. There were a few markers with information on them around the circle that you could read for more information.
“That’s it?” S said, incredulously.
“Well, what did you think it would be?” said my husband. “Indians haven’t lived here for a few hundred years.”
“But this is boring!” she complained.
After we stomped all around on the mounds for a few minutes, which I am sure is against federal law, we trudged back to where we parked the car and drove to the Salty Dog Café.
I am not usually one to go for the tourist traps, but even the kids knew that EVERYONE goes to the Salty Dog at Hilton Head. It’s one of those places that everyone buys a t-shirt from and wears it like it’s a secret club or something, like the Hard Rock Café in the 80’s or the Masons. We did everything a good tourist is supposed to do. We bought t-shirts. We poked around in all the gift shops. We ate lousy food off of paper plates and paid too much for it. Even the eight year old was underwhelmed, and all she had was a stupid grilled cheese sandwich. The t-shirts ought to read “I survived the Salty Dog, and all I got was indigestion and this lousy t-shirt.”
After the long winter, the girls were dying to go swimming, and since the pool at the condo building was heated, my husband and I agreed. At the condo, we all used the bathroom, changed into our swimsuits, and wrapped up in our complimentary towels before walking over to the pool. The minute we got there, it began to sprinkle. The girls hopped into the pool anyway. My husband and I huddled under a big umbrella on lounge chairs, like all the other moms and dads, watching the pool full of kids. Not a single adult was in that crab pot of children splashing around. It rained harder and harder still, the air growing chillier with every raindrop. The girls were oblivious to the drop in temperature or the heavy rain, as were the rest of the children, until a loud thunder clap cleared the pool.
We killed the rest of the afternoon back at the condo, bickering and watching television, things we definitely could have done if we stayed at home. After a repeat performance of the great dinner debate, and a pretty tasty meal with a substandard kids menu, we drove back through the rain to our condo and went to sleep.
And the next day we drove to Charleston, where we have been many times, we love, and we feel much more comfortable with. Because we know what to expect, what to do, and where to eat.
While walking around the market, I said to my husband, “There is no way we can ever go to Europe.”
“Why not?” he asked me, sounding surprised.
“Because we can’t even handle two days in Hilton Head, and that is almost speaking the same language,” I answered. “We don’t even understand the metric system. How are we going to figure out money or how to order find the bathroom? We won’t be able to even order macaroni and cheese.”
“Cheese is fromage in French, Mommy,” S said helpfully.
“Great, at least you will be able to eat,” I replied.
So that was what I did on my spring break. As the Jews say, next year in Jerusalem. Or, more likely, Charleston.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Spinning Out of Control
I am what some people would call a gym rat. That is a term used to refer to people who go to the gym with alarming regularity. I’m not sure if the use of “rat” is mean to be derogatory, as if frequent exercising at a fitness facility were somehow a bad thing. I go all the time for a number of reasons. For one, I don’t like to be fat. Working out regularly doesn’t give me a perfect body, but it does keep me out of the Lane Bryant. For another, regular exercise makes me less crazy. That’s right, without exercise, I would be even nuttier. I figure, for every day I spend at the gym, that’s one more day my family is still alive. I’m not saying I would kill them if I stopped working out, but do we really want to take that risk?
I also work out because it makes me feel better physically. You know all those aches and pains you get from just plain getting older? Well, I hardly notice them anymore because my muscles and bones are so often flexed and stretched and bent and contracted and taxed. Those aging aches and pains are replaced with sore muscles and strained ligaments. They are not the pains of an old couch potato. They are the mark of an athlete. Which sounds cooler to you, a sports-related injury or osteoarthritis?
The main reason I go to the gym almost every day, however, is because I like it. It’s like its own separate little community. The regulars all know each other on a first name only basis. We know who likes to do what, and sometimes even on what day. I know if I go to combat on Friday that I will see the shockingly thin old woman with her assortment of bandages, bruises, and skin tears, caused by a night, or a lifetime, of chemical dependence. Spin class on Wednesday means the topless woman, a Jane Fonda throwback who has yet to notice that she is the only one wearing her white sports bra with cups as a top, while the rest of us women are actually wearing, um, tops. Pilates is the usual group of women, with one or two regular men to balance out all that estrogen, and their mere presence makes us all feel more flexible in comparison. We become part of each other’s routine, and with routine comes comfort.
This is especially true for group fitness classes. I love group fitness, from yoga and Pilates on the soothing end of the fitness continuum, to combat and spin class, on the heavy sweating end. I especially like knowing my teachers, so I can skip the classes I don’t like and make an extra effort to attend the ones I do. But when someone subs for a regular teacher, well, I get more than a little discouraged at the change in my routine.
Take last week, for example. My regular spin instructor, CC, was out of town, or so I thought. It turns out she actually had one of those nasty little stomach bugs, which I realize is a perfectly acceptable reason to not teach a spin class. Spin, if you do it right, will usually make you feel like puking, and that’s when you aren’t sick. So CC wasn’t there that morning, and in her place was the groan-inducing instructor I will refer to as Trixie.
Trixie teaches a number of other fitness classes, but I don’t take them, so I can’t speak for her expertise in those areas. But spin is clearly not Trixie’s forte. Now, a quick caveat: I do not teach spin class, or any other classes, for that matter. I also know how intimidating a crowd of regulars can be, and no doubt, we treated Trixie like a third grade substitute teacher. And I also understand that every has his or her own style of teaching and way of doing things…blah blah blah. It’s just that Trixie’s way of doing things suck. Here are some reasons why:
I also work out because it makes me feel better physically. You know all those aches and pains you get from just plain getting older? Well, I hardly notice them anymore because my muscles and bones are so often flexed and stretched and bent and contracted and taxed. Those aging aches and pains are replaced with sore muscles and strained ligaments. They are not the pains of an old couch potato. They are the mark of an athlete. Which sounds cooler to you, a sports-related injury or osteoarthritis?
The main reason I go to the gym almost every day, however, is because I like it. It’s like its own separate little community. The regulars all know each other on a first name only basis. We know who likes to do what, and sometimes even on what day. I know if I go to combat on Friday that I will see the shockingly thin old woman with her assortment of bandages, bruises, and skin tears, caused by a night, or a lifetime, of chemical dependence. Spin class on Wednesday means the topless woman, a Jane Fonda throwback who has yet to notice that she is the only one wearing her white sports bra with cups as a top, while the rest of us women are actually wearing, um, tops. Pilates is the usual group of women, with one or two regular men to balance out all that estrogen, and their mere presence makes us all feel more flexible in comparison. We become part of each other’s routine, and with routine comes comfort.
This is especially true for group fitness classes. I love group fitness, from yoga and Pilates on the soothing end of the fitness continuum, to combat and spin class, on the heavy sweating end. I especially like knowing my teachers, so I can skip the classes I don’t like and make an extra effort to attend the ones I do. But when someone subs for a regular teacher, well, I get more than a little discouraged at the change in my routine.
Take last week, for example. My regular spin instructor, CC, was out of town, or so I thought. It turns out she actually had one of those nasty little stomach bugs, which I realize is a perfectly acceptable reason to not teach a spin class. Spin, if you do it right, will usually make you feel like puking, and that’s when you aren’t sick. So CC wasn’t there that morning, and in her place was the groan-inducing instructor I will refer to as Trixie.
Trixie teaches a number of other fitness classes, but I don’t take them, so I can’t speak for her expertise in those areas. But spin is clearly not Trixie’s forte. Now, a quick caveat: I do not teach spin class, or any other classes, for that matter. I also know how intimidating a crowd of regulars can be, and no doubt, we treated Trixie like a third grade substitute teacher. And I also understand that every has his or her own style of teaching and way of doing things…blah blah blah. It’s just that Trixie’s way of doing things suck. Here are some reasons why:
- She doesn’t know how to work the stereo system. Not like she doesn’t know how to balance the bass. I mean she doesn’t know the basics, like how to adjust volume. Her microphone was so loud it screeched with feedback every time she told us to increase the spin bike’s tension. She took her mike off at one point since she couldn’t figure it out, and instead yelled at us, which meant that by the middle of class, everyone was doing their own thing because we couldn’t hear her over the loud music that she was unable to regulate.
- She doesn’t know how to use her own iPod. She didn’t have a cord long enough to hook her iPod up to the stereo receiver from the instructor’s bike in front of the room. She had to leave her iPod on a bike in the corner near the stereo, so if she wanted to change a song from her playlist, she had to get off her spin bike and scuttle over to the iPod, then hop back on her bike and resume teaching. Also, back to the issue of her inability to control volume, she didn’t understand that songs are recorded at different volume levels. Older songs tend to be recorded at lower levels than new songs, so each time a different song began, the volume would need to be changed, which, as I said before, was beyond her capacity. Which meant that again, she would have to hop off her bike and fiddle with the volume. On, off, on, off. Do you have any idea how distracting that is, especially when the person who is doing it is yelling at you the whole time?
- She doesn’t know how to use her bike. A spin bike is not so complicated that you need an astrophysics degree to operate one, but it does have some distinct features. The seat can be set at different heights, as can the handlebars. The seat can also be adjusted to slide closer to the handlebars or farther back, depending on your preference. The pedals can be used on one side with clip-in bike shoes or with regular sneakers in the shoe cages on the other side. And then there is the tension knob, which can make your ride sticky like you are going uphill or loose like a flat road. It also works as an emergency brake if you press down on it. That’s about all there is to the bike. But Trixie doesn’t know all these little elements. So every time she had to get off the bike to adjust the music, she would stick one leg out and slow the pedals down with the other foot, instead of just stopping the pedals by using the tension knob. Let’s see, three minute songs, an hour class, that means, oh, about 20 times or so, she had to stop and get off by sticking her leg out like a dog at a fire hydrant. How exactly would she have explained how to use the bike to person who has never tried spin when she doesn’t understand how to use it herself?
I didn’t even get into the monotony of her routine or her horrible choice in music. I didn’t go all squirrel monkey on her when I walked in the spin room and heard country music blaring. I didn’t pitch a fit when I heard the third song from the “Dazed and Confused” soundtrack. I didn't rebel when we had to stand and sprint yet again. No, my complaints are objective in nature. She shouldn’t teach until someone teaches her. And believe me, I would be happy to school her. Or impale her head on a stick outside the spin room as a warning to other subs. I’m fine either way.
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