September 18, 2007 · 12:03 am

Race Report

13:22. That’s how many minutes FASTER I ran the Philadelphia Distance Run on Sunday over my previous ½ marathon, which was back in the Spring.  And just between you and me, the 13:22 shaved off my time means I set a personal record for speed on Sunday.  So congratulations to me!

They call Philadelphia The City of Brotherly Love.  I don’t know about the brotherly part except to say my brother is here visiting on his vacation from where he lives kind of far away and he ran the Philadelphia Distance Run yesterday too.  So I was in Philadelphia with my brother if that counts.  And I think it counts because he volunteered to drive us there in the first place.

Now the love part, I get that.  Because having set my personal best ½ marathon time ever in that city, I love Philadelphia now too!!!
 
But let’s back up a bit, shall we?

It took us a little longer to get to Philly than we had anticipated because somewhere along the way we hit some serious traffic that appeared, like traffic often does, out of nowhere and for no good reason.  The closest hint we got for the traffic being so heavy was when we finally, after about an hour, inched our way 15 miles up the road and saw one lone police car at the side of the highway and everyone slowing down to look at it.  I guess maybe it was a novelty, like some strange and beautiful bird you might want to watch, or like some sort of dangerous animal you’d creep slowly and silently by, hoping not to attract it’s attention so that it won’t jump out and attack you write you a ticket.

After we arrived in Philly we debated which to undertake first: should we check into our hotel or go to the race expo to pick up our race packets?  We attempted the first and got a little lost, so we settled on the second.  The lost part wasn’t our fault though.  I attribute it to the map that came in the mail as part of our final set of race instructions.  The map showed our hotel on 8th street, only it wasn’t on 8th, it was on 4th street.  I suspect that in the interest of space and saving paper, the map maker simply ended the map at 8th street and stuck little hotel dots along the edges to indicate that they were “near” the borders of the page and if only you drove around and around in ever increasing circles you’d eventually find your way and be so relived to have finally done so that you wouldn’t dare complain or blog about it to the world. 

And yet, I also suspect the map maker didn’t attend all of his  requisite cartography courses during college because a little thing called scale would have helped immensely and also, the map maker didn’t count on a geographer (ahem, that’s me) trying to follow the map worthless piece of paper.

Now, in case you aren’t a runner or a person who likes to hang out at race expos, I’ll tell you that the expos are place where you go the day or two before the actual race to pick up your race packet which includes your race bib (no it’s not a bib for eating, it’s simply a sheet with a number on it that you pin to your shirt so they can identify you as runner number some-thetty-something), your timing chip, your free race t-shirt, and other goodies.  Then there are vendors who set up booths to try and sell you stuff: running shoes and shorts, socks, energy bars, hats, sunglasses, key chains, spinal adjustments, muscle creams, etc…  You get lots of free handouts from the vendors too, like band aids and safety pins, notepads and tote bags, packs of oatmeal, and energy drinks.

I enjoy wandering around the expos and collecting all the free goodies and then parting with some of my money when I see something I really need.  Like the pink running shirt I bought that says, on the front: This seemed like a good idea 3 months ago, and on the back: Race Official, Do Not Pass.  It’s a lovely shirt but none of the other racers seemed to heed the warning on the back because plenty of them were passing me right on by during the actual event on Sunday.  Personally, I think they just didn’t know how to read.

After we collected our race packets and parted with some hard earned cash at the expo, my brother and I waited in line to check into our hotel.  While there we witnessed a hotel employee standing guard over an adolescent boy in a wet t-shirt and wet shorts and the hotel employee was saying something to the boy’s mother about two chairs and a life preserver.  I was enthralled by the scene but before I could learn any more I was called to the front desk to get my room key.

My hotel room had 3 pillows on the bed and a small card with “pillow menu” printed on it, describing the varieties of pillow firmness that were available depending on how you liked to sleep: on your side, on your back, or even both ways, like a flopping fish.  I played Goldilocks and tried all three pillows before picking my favorite and falling into a deep slumber.

And then it happened.  I had a nightmare!  I woke with a start at 4:00 a.m., having dreamt that we had already run the ½ marathon but that I hadn’t gotten my finisher’s medal because they weren’t giving them to you for crossing the finish line.  Rather, I dreamt they were passing them out down a dark alley near the entrance to a different hotel.  Only I hadn’t known that and so I didn’t venture down that alley and didn’t get my hard earned medal.  I tried to go back to sleep because technically, I had one hour until my alarm was set to go off, but I was rattled, my heart was pounding, and sleep didn’t come easy.

In the darkness that is 5:00 a.m. in mid-September, my brother and I debated driving to the race start or taking a cab.  Driving would mean getting the car out of the hotel’s parking garage and finding a garage closer to the race start where we would probably have to fork over an additional $20 in parking fees, so we decided on a cab.

When we stepped outside the hotel door we were accosted by a woman demanding to know how we were getting to the race.  And in case you are wondering how she knew that’s where we were headed, well, it’s a pretty easy guess when you have a large race number pinned to your shirt.  We told her we were going to take a cab and she asked if we’d like to share a cab with her.  Of course we said yes because the more people in a cab, the less any one person’s fare will be if you split the cost, right?  That’s what sharing a cab means, right?  Share a cab = split the cost.  Well, that’s what I thought it meant, but apparently I was wrong.

The cab fare came to $9.60.  I had two five dollar bills at the ready.  The man in the front seat who at the last minute decided to share the cab along with us, actually turned to us in the back and said, after the cab driver announced his dues, “Can you guys spot me a couple of dollars?” as if we would ever find him again in the crowd of 12,000 runners.  As if he ever really inteded to pay us back.  The woman who had the bright idea to share the cab in the first place had a whopping $2 at the ready.  Sensing this wasn’t going to be an even split, I handed the cab drive all of  my $10 and the woman handed me her $2 and said, “No that’s for YOU, not the cab driver!” and she stepped out of the cab.  I thought about this for a split second.  My $10 left the cab driver with a tip of $0.40.  I felt that was inadequate even for the short ride.  So when big spender lady wasn’t looking I handed her $2 over to the cab driver and told him “Here, here’s $2 more for your tip.  Thanks for the ride!”  And he said thank you and  waited for me to exit the cab before driving off.

As we got in line for the race, I spotted two of the women I’d spent much of my summer training with.  I inched my way over to them and asked if they were running together for part of the race.  Usually people train together and then on race day it’s “everyone runs their own race” meaning if, during the race, you have to stop and tie your shoe, your friends run on.  They don’t stop with you. Likewise, if your running mate falls and breaks an ankle during the race, you wish them well and continue on.  It sounds harsh, but honestly, an ambulance will come along and pick your friend up so they’ll be okay. You know, eventually.  Like once the cast comes off and they’re finished with physical therapy and all that.

My training partners, however, said they were running together the whole way and I was free to join them.  Since my brother had predicted a faster finishing time than I had, he was positioned closer to the starting line of the race and I was alone back in the crowd.  I thought it would be nice to have some company along the way so I eagerly agreed to run with my old training pals.  We ran together until mile 8 or so where my friends pulled over to grab some Gu (an energy gel that many runners like but which I can’t stomach) and I kept going.  I figured they’d meet up with me again so I kept trucking trudging along.  With only 1/10th of a mile to go, my friends caught up with me and we ran it in. 

I collected my race medal, dug out my cell phone, called my brother to find out where he was in the sea of race finishers, and then called my husband to tell him I’d finished the race with a pretty good time.  Then my brother and I, not ones to be lazy after all that running, walked the 2 miles back to our hotel so we could shower and change before heading home.

And there you have it, my race report. 

5 Comments

Filed under 1/2 marathon, freeloaders, life, Philadelphia, running, taxicab, traffic

September 14, 2007 · 12:09 am

The Bionic Woman

I’m off to the races this weekend. A foot race, that is.  A ½ marathon.  I’ve been training for it all summer long and it’s finally here.   This isn’t my first ½ marathon, and it’s not even my second.  I’ve done a few of them by now.  My race this Sunday will be my second one this year and the one I’m running in October will be my third, again, for this year.  But I’m not bragging, I swear.  Bragging would be if I wore my finisher’s medal around my neck when I go to work on Monday.  I won’t do that.  Although… I might pass it around for people to look at.

While I’ve put in a lot a lot of time running this past year, I haven’t lost a single pound.  In fact, somehow I’ve piled on all the pounds the rest of the world has lost.  I’m some kind of pound magnet.  Or maybe it’s all the chocolate I’ve been eating.  Yeah, I suppose that could be it…

Or maybe it’s the chocolate combined with the fact that I’ve somehow managed to excuse myself from other forms of exercise on my days off from running.  Yes, I am one those people who take days off from running.  And not just when I’m sick.  Some runners, I know, would say that I’m not a real runner if I take days off.  I could argue the point but I won’t.  I want to save my energy for this weekend. 

I used to run an average of about 6 miles a day.  Then I started getting some aches and pains and tired and bored, so I backed off a bit.  Okay… a lot.  Now I run 3 days a week.  Two short runs of oh, three to five miles say, and one long run on the weekends.  On the intervening days I should be doing some other form of exercise, cross training by walking or cycling, or even lifting weights, but I’ve gotten LAZY.  That probably explains some of these extra pounds, too. 

Despite my slothfulness, I want you all to know that I am still strong.  Oh yes, I am.  These arms may have flab hanging from them but they are powerful.  Bionic powerful, I tell you. In fact, I may be the reason they have a remake of The Bionic Woman coming out on TV this fall.  I know that when you think about The Bionic Woman you are most likely remembering the days of Lindsay Wagner and her portrayal of Jaime Sommers, but I’m pretty sure it’s because of me and the feat of strength I pulled off the several days ago that they are bringing the series back.

Last week there was a fire right outside of the parking garage that charges me $150.00 dollars too much per month to park my car there while I work.  I didn’t actually witness the fire when it was in full blaze, but I came upon the aftermath, the burnt remains, when I made my way to the garage to retrieve my car and go home.
 
To enter the garage and get to your car you have to wave your parking ticket or monthly pass card in front of a magnetic card reader machine affixed to the brick façade of the parking garage.  The machine then sends a signal to a lock on the door.  You listen for a click and then pull the handle, open the door, and walk inside to the elevator.

On the day of the fire I walked up to find the card reader machine, which is made of metal and plastic, all sagging like the clocks in an M.C. Escher drawing.  It looked, well, melted.  I looked up and noticed that the awning above the door was half missing and the other half was hanging in tattered melted strips of nylon, like a shredded shower curtain.  The glass around the door was cracked, the street was covered in ash 2 inches deep, and black streaks ran along the sidewalk.

I thought it was odd, that it looked as if a fire had blown by, but that seemed impossible.  My office is right across the street.  If there had been a fire surely I would have heard the fire trucks, seen the flames. 

Since there was a man at the door with his hand already on the door handle, I passed the card reader machine without waving my parking pass at it.  Another woman walked up, and the man gave one good strong yank, and the door, despite its magnetic lock, popped open.  I remarked that it looked like there had been a fire and the man said there had been one.  A generator mounted on a truck that was parked right alongside the garage entry had caught fire around noon he said.  The flames, he told us, could be seen for several blocks.  Somehow I had missed all of this. 

But I learned my lesson.  The card reader machine, all melted as it was, wasn’t working properly so it wasn’t going to open the door for me anymore.  The following day, as I approached the door, the cracked glass had been repaired but the card reader was still sagging, the awning still missing.  I had two choices.  I could turn around walk down the street and around the corner then up the ramp that the cars use to enter and exit the garage, or I could yank on that door handle with all my might and pop the lock.  I chose the latter.

As I grabbed the handle, a woman standing nearby said to me, “You can’t get in that way, it’s locked.  You’ll have to go…” and I looked her in the eye, put my hand on the door handle, and yanked.  With an audible snap, the door popped open.  The woman’s eyes grew large, she took a few steps back, staring at me in shock and surprise, and I think, a little bit of fear. 

I hope my legs are bionic at the race this weekend!

6 Comments

Filed under 1/2 marathon, bionic woman, exercise, fire, humor, life, running

September 12, 2007 · 12:01 am

Thank You, Randy Newman

I’m short. 5’3” short to be exact.  Except when I wear heels and I can trick people into thinking I’m taller than I really am.  My husband, he’s tall.  Taller than me.  Probably average tall for a guy.  I can’t remember exactly how tall he is and so I can’t tell you here because you know how men are.  If I get it wrong, especially if I err on the short side of his correct exact height, he’ll get all upset and I’ll have to come back and issue a correction.  Something like Correction: For the record, my husband is X and 1/4” tall, not X and 1/8” tall as I had previously stated…  And I’m so not in the mood for that.  So let’s just say he’s a fair deal taller than I am and leave it at that.

For the most part, my height hasn’t been much of an issue.  Well, except when I buy clothes and have to pay some highly talented seamstress to trim 3 feet of material off the bottom of my pants.  Where ARE all these women who are eight feet tall anyway?  I’ve never met any of them but when I shop most of the clothes seem to be made for them.

But this isn’t really about clothes. It’s about attitudes and it’s about music, because it made me think of the Short People song by Randy Newman.  It’s about religion and gender (but only barely) and wondering what, exactly, got into my son. Really, it’s about the things kids say that make you go “hmmm…”

Because at breakfast this morning my son Snags said to me, completely out of the blue, “Ms. Trish is short, too!”  Then he asked, “Are all women like that?”

I said no, some women are tall. Ms. Trish is one of his teachers, and while I haven’t actually measured her, if I had to guess, I’d say she’s about my height. I reminded Snags that his Aunt Viv is pretty tall.  I pointed out that his cousin Christina, standing at her full height of young and strikingly beautiful and about 6 feet, is tall. 

And he looked at me and said, rather pointedly, “Yeah, but she’s really skinny.”

A little later, as I buckled Snags into his booster seat in the back seat of the car, he stopped me so he could adjust his shorts.  “Do you want my waist band to be higher than my belly button?” He demanded to know.

“Higher than your belly button?  Sure. Doesn’t matter to me.” I replied, still stinging from the implied fat comment.

Then he made up a song and sang “Higher than the women were the lemon drops!  Higher than everything were the clouds.  The rain came down on all the women and the men hid inside their houses.” 

Yeah, the men were probably watching football, or playing Xbox, I thought.

Then his song turned kind of dark…

“The men locked the doors so the women got soaking wet.  Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! HA!”

I don’t know why but I started getting irritated at his five year old callousness. I said “Hey, that’s not funny.  That’s kind of mean. You shouldn’t make fun of women. If it weren’t for women, men wouldn’t even be here.”

He looked contemplative then asked “Why not?” 

“Well,” I said, “Women are the ones who have all the babies. Girl babies AND boy babies.  If there weren’t any women then there wouldn’t be any boy babies so they couldn’t grow into men.”

“Why can’t men have babies?”  He asked. 

“Because,” I said “God made it so only women could have babies.”

“God could do it!” He retorted. “God is really powerful, right?  He could have babies himself or he could just make them.”

“Or,” he added after a short pause, “God could make men have the babies.” 

“No,” I said, “That wouldn’t work.  The men wouldn’t take care of the babies.  They’d probably sit around playing video games all day, ignoring the babies when they cried and needed to be fed or have their diaper changed.”

“Yea-ah” agreed my son.  “That’s why the women would take care of the babies.  “Anyway,” he added, “You’ll understand one day when you’re as tall as dad.”

12 Comments

Filed under babies, God, height, humor, short, Snags, tall

September 10, 2007 · 12:07 am

Dance Party DJ

One of Snags’ recurring ideas is to hold a Dance Party.  He usually begins planning the event upon waking in the morning.  He must think about the party all through breakfast, because as soon as he downs that last bite of brown sugar Pop Tart, he springs from the table to begin gathering everything he’ll need.

His list of rockin’ party supplies generally includes an overturned laundry basket to serve as a convenient table, a CD player, at least one CD (you’ll be lucky if there are two),  a couple of lights to throw various colors around the room, and some snacks.

Since he’s not allowed to plug anything in himself, I get recruited to help.  I do so, but I admit it’s with a weary trepidation.  I’ve been to these dance parties before you see.  They aren’t well attended, and the night usually ends with the host in tears as I shoo him off to bed before the fun ever really starts. 

Snags is, of course, the host of the dance party.  He also controls the lighting, the music, and the snacks.  The lights aren’t bad. His disco balls and stop lights throw multiple colors across the walls, almost like a real disco.  If you close your eyes you can imagine that you aren’t in my family room; you can almost pretend you’re on a wide wooden dance floor and not surrounded by strewn toys, crayons, magic markers, or the oversized sofa.

The snacks are just so-so for a dance party.  But if you favor graham crackers, fruit snacks, and apple juice, then you’re in luck. 

The music, however, leaves something to be desired. Maybe it’s me.  I admit I’m not a great dancer.  I can’t keep a rhythm.  Even so, it’s easier to dance to popular music:  hip-hop, rock, disco, or dare I say it, even country.  But try dancing to Barenaked Ladies as they sing “Oh Hanukkah Oh Hanukkah” over and over.  Or “Baby Bumblebee” from Toddler’s Favorite Tunes.  Whatever Snags’ favorite song du jour is, that’s what you’ll listen to non-stop until your head explodes or you trip over an errant tinker toy and have to retreat to the sidelines with an ice pack planted on your ankle. 

Fairly soon after that the dance party will end.  I’ll declare it’s bedtime, and the Dance Party DJ will cry in protest as I begin to turn off disco balls and unplug the CD player.
But don’t worry, there’s always another dance party being planned. Be sure to check your mailbox, your invitation should arrive any day now.

5 Comments

Filed under dancing, disco balls, DJ, humor, life, party, Snags

September 6, 2007 · 12:04 am

Journey Into the Unknown

There are no books, no articles, no manuals, no sage advice from friends or family that can adequately prepare you. No matter how many millions of women have embarked upon this journey before you, no two adventures will ever be alike. It’s a non-stop head long dive into something different every day…

When my son was an infant, motherhood was about crying.  His AND mine. His because he was hungry or tired or wanted to be held or put down or had a dirty diaper that needed to be changed or a sock that was too tight or a light that was too bright. Or maybe he just liked the sound. Mine because HE was crying and I worried I’d never figure out the reason and what if I couldn’t stop him and I was so very, very tired and what had I gotten myself into and why didn’t my friends tell me motherhood was so hard and a kind neighbor asked how I was doing, and why wouldn’t he breast feed properly and was he gaining enough weight, and what was that rash on him, and why couldn’t I sleep if I was so tired? Why did I sit instead, anxious and waiting for his next cry and oh by the way, I had post partum depression.

When my son was almost two he threw a mighty tantrum and threw himself to the ground hitting his face on a plastic toy.  He cracked his forehead open and for one horrible moment motherhood was all about his disfigurement and the cut that had opened above his eye that looked like another eye oozing blood and OH! MY BABY WAS RUINED!  And it happened in the middle of a snow storm and where was the ambulance? Would it ever arrive? It was about the ambulance coming and taking us to the hospital where it was about fear, and would they think this was my fault?  It was about stitches and bandages and his smiles and flirtations with the nurses after he was all patched up and then it became about getting home safely through the storm that raged outside.

Last week it was all about starting Kindergarten and what time we would have to leave the house in the mornings to walk to school so we wouldn’t be late and what constituted an appropriate school night bedtime and what to pack for his lunch and what to pack for his afternoon snack and would he make new friends at school and would he measure up to the teacher’s expectations and would he have a lot of homework? It was about filling out paper work and joining the PTA and becoming room mother and reading all of the papers that came home in his backpack each night.
 
This week it’s about the crayon left in the backseat of my car which melted in the summer heat. It was a red and the color’s soaked in and now it looks like a horrific blood stain and how do I get it out?  It’s about his obsession with Star Wars and Harry Potter and LEGOs and fountains.  It’s about taking walks and hearing about his day at school, playing on the playground, learning sight words and counting down.  It’s about starting soccer on Saturday and taking him to his very first practice and his first time wearing cleats and shin guards and it’s about worrying will he even like soccer, will he get hurt, will he make friends on the team, and will the coach be nice?

Next week will be different yet again.  Motherhood cannot be predicted with any certainty beyond knowing it’s about love, it’s about worry, it’s about frustration, and it’s about love again. It’s an over-the-top adventure that cannot be understood until it’s experienced and it’s experienced only as it happens. 

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This essay was written as part of the September MommaBlogga Group Writing Project.
 

16 Comments

Filed under group writing project, kids, life, MamaBlogga, motherhood, parenting

September 4, 2007 · 12:03 am

Memories of My Grandmother

My Grandmother died yesterday.  She was 98 years old.  I don’t think many people live to see ninety-eight these days.  The average life expectancy in the United States, according to the National Center for Health Statistics, is 77.9 years old.  But my grandmother passed 77 right on by.  I don’t think she gave it a second glance.  I wished, up until a few weeks ago, when it became apparent that her health was deteriorating rather rapidly, that she’d make it to 100.  We could send her picture in to Willard Scott, have him wish her a Happy Birthday on The Today Show.  Some things just aren’t meant to be, I guess.  It was finally her time.  

My grandmother was from Pennsylvania, and she could speak Slovak.  Still!  Even though she had nobody who knew how to speak it back to her for probably the past 50 years.  My dad, who doesn’t speak Slovak, learned a holiday song or two in that language when he was a child.  Sometimes when the family would gather at Christmas he’d sing it to her, and she’d smile.

I spent a fair amount of time with my grandmother when I was a kid.  These are my memories…

She liked to play Bingo. Actually, “like” is too weak a word for what she felt about bingo.  She LOVED Bingo.  That might be why she died.  All those little letters and numbers floating around her bloodstream, one of them just got caught, lodged in a way it couldn’t get loose again…

Actually, the truth is that she had congestive heart failure.  It outpaced her body’s ability and the doctor’s efforts to keep her healthy.  About a week before she died she became very weak, then mostly unresponsive.  She may have suffered a stroke.  If she did, I’d like to think it was a tiny clot in the shape of a Bingo number that got her. B98, maybe.

My grandmother went to the Bingo hall as often as she could; not forgoing a night even when she had company in town.  She’d invite the company to come along and play with her!  I went with her often over years, from the time I was a little kid until I was a teen.  At some point, the smoky hall began to bother me and I spent more time in the bathroom trying to breath than I did sitting there marking numbers on my card.  But my grandmother could play about 25 bingo cards at once, and still point out the numbers you’d failed to mark on your card, and that the people sitting on her other side and across the table from her had failed to mark.  Sometimes she’d win and give some of the money to me, or she’d take me shopping and buy me things with her winnings.

One time she bought me a doll that had a battery compartment in its butt,  The doll crawled and rolled over.  I think I still have that doll, shoved in a box somewhere.  I wonder, if I find her and dig her out, and shove new batteries in her butt, if she’d work again.  I might try that some day.  I could get back at the dog after she’s peed on my floor again.  She’d hate that.  Toys that move, seemingly of their own accord, scare her.  My grandmother liked animals though, and I think it would give her a laugh to see my dog barking like a fool at that doll.

Another time, my grandmother bought me a globe.  I’m not saying she’s responsible, but I did grow up to be a geographer…

She used to cut my bangs, which I hated.  She’d tape an IBM card to my forehead and use it as a guide to cut my bangs straight across.  Only she’d tape it too high, and so I’d come home from my visits with her practically devoid of hair, my forehead visible like a billboard.

She was always, even until she died, busy crocheting or sewing or quilting.  She especially liked to make afghans, usually of two colors and with a zigzag pattern.  I still have one that she made me when I was 4 or 5 years old.  It’s pink and white, just like the poncho she made me.  My son has an afgan that she made for him when he was born. It’s pale blue and white.  My son called her “Great Grandma” and has dubbed the afghan his “too nice blanket” because it’s too nice to mess up.

I wish I had asked my grandmother to teach me how to sew.  It’s a skill that would come in handy.  If I knew how to sew I could hem my son’s pants instead of rolling them up or letting him walk the bottoms off.  All of my grandmother’s neighbors, and half the town, would bring her items of clothing to mend and alter.  She’d replace buttons, hem pants, repair torn linings inside of jackets.  Bring her a pattern and she’d even make you an outfit.  She made my First Communion dress. And I remember one green jumpsuit in particular that she made me, and that I favored.  I think I wore it everyday of my entire 4th grade year.  I felt like a Girl Scout in it, or a jungle explorer.  And there then there was the pair of matching mother-daughter vests and skirts that she made, crochet overlaying another material, and which my mother and I wore back in the 1970s.

My grandmother had an old coffee can full of buttons that I used to play with when I visited her. It’s probably more appropriate to say I lusted after that can of buttons.  Hundreds upon hundreds of beautiful little buttons of plastic and wood!  The colors!  The shapes!  They were like miniature treasures.  I loved to dip my hand in that coffee can and let the buttons run through my fingers before pulling them out and inspecting them, one by one, searching for my favorites.  I don’t know whatever happened to that coffee can and all those buttons, it’s been gone for years now, but I would have loved to have had it. 

My grandmother’s attic floor was forever covered in bits of thread and scraps of material, small squares cut out for whatever quilt she was working on.  Sometimes she’d forget a straight pin or two that she’d inadvertently left in a quilt.  You’d cover yourself up only to get stuck by a pin hidden in a seam.  It’s funny how I remember the scraps of material, but I don’t remember seeing her sewing the quilts.  She probably put them away when she knew the grandchildren would be over, getting into everything.  But I still have the quilt she made for me when I was a child.  It too is pink and white on one side, but it has a fabulously ugly pattern of odd twisted shapes made up of pink and brown circles that I used to look at and see things in — animals, monsters, birds.  I can pick out shapes from the back of the quilt like you might pick shapes out of the clouds in the sky.  The quilt is warm and weighty, heavy enough to pin you to the mattress when you try and sleep under it.  It’s old now, and some stitches have popped, and so I’ve stored it away for safekeeping.  It’s one of those things that can’t be replaced.

My grandmother loved to listen to baseball games on the radio or watch them on TV.  She always rooted for the Pirates and she always watched The Price is Right.

She kept a pot holder I’d woven for her when I was a kid on her refrigerator for years.  I don’t think it was replaced until I was in my 20’s and another granddaughter, one of my younger cousins, had made her one.  I admit I was a little bit jealous to see that mine had been replaced.

Her kitchen was filled with delicious snacks.  In her cupboards she had cans of Pringles which we never had at home. She had the fun sugary cereals like Peanut Butter Captain Crunch and Applejacks, whereas at my house, we had only Kix and Cheerios.  Dishtowel covered loaves of Kolache filled her countertop, and plates of it, sliced, appeared at breakfast.  The kind with the apricot filling was, and still is, my favorite. 

Once in a while my grandmother would come to visit us.  She’d spend her days watching my brother and me, while my parents were at work.  She’d do some mending and cooking for us, cleaning, and ironing.  Once, she even saved me from what I envisioned was to be supreme wrath and certain punishment, if not death, for ruining my parents bathtub!  I was in 5th grade, and one of my chores was cleaning the bathrooms.  I hated that job to no end and so I’d often try to make it more entertaining by pretending that I was actually starring in a commercial for tub and tile cleaner.  On that particular day, I remember I’d been pouring everything I found under the bathroom sink into the tub and pretending I was comparing the ability of the various substances to clean the tub.  Only there must have been some type of chemical reaction that occurred, because the white porcelain of the tub turned a bright yellow of which my 5th grade elbow grease could not remove!  My grandmother found me crying in despair and without asking for explanation, she took the scrubby sponge from my hand, got down on her hands and knees, and scoured that yellow stain away.  I don’t think my parents ever knew about it. 

My grandmother was fond of playing cards and taught me how to play her favorite games: Gin Rummy and War.  I remember many, many, many late nights at her house, sitting at her kitchen table and playing War, willing my eyes not to close, my head not to smack the table as I fought off sleep at 1:00 a.m., trying to stay awake while wishing desperately for a game of war to end so I could crawl into bed.

Two weeks ago I took my son to visit my grandmother.  She was in an assisted living facility and she was hooked up to oxygen to help her breath better.  Something, most likely the oxygen, had energized her.  She was out of her wheelchair.  She was walking unassisted, her cane and walker shoved in a corner.  There wasn’t a whole lot to do there in her room so we pulled out her deck of playing cards.  She taught my son, her five year old great-grandson, how to play a card game called Piggy.  We played several rounds of the game with her.  When we tired of that we talked.  But since her hearing was poor, even with her hearing aid, I wrote her notes so I wouldn’t have to shout at her.  She read them and responded.  I told her we had been to Disney World.  When she remarked that she had never been there, my son decided that he would build Disney World in our back yard for her and she could come to our house to see it. Later, he insisted on telling her about a Starship he was building, how he would bring it back and show it to her one day.   She couldn’t really hear what he was saying, so I wrote the words “He’s building a Starship, like a space ship…” on my pad of paper.  I think I rolled my eyes a bit, to let her know “Hey, he’s a kid, it’s unlikely his Starship will even fly.”  But she shared his enthusiasm. “Ah! A Starship!” she said and she nodded at him, vigorously.  Like that was right up her alley.  As if she’d won one playing Bingo before, sewed one from a pattern, or crocheted one perhaps.  Her eyes twinkled and she smiled.   

That’s the last time I saw my Grandmother. But I think, perhaps, it’s my best memory of her.  A 98 year old woman teaching a five year old how to play cards, and smiling about his plans to construct Disney World and a Starship in his own backyard.    

14 Comments

Filed under death, grandmother, life, memories, tribute

September 3, 2007 · 10:15 am

This Thing Called Kindergarten

And here we are.  The first week of Kindergarten has drawn to a close and the second week is about to start.  Snags seems to be enjoying his new elementary school and his life as a Kindergarten student.  It’s different than preschool in a number of ways, but one difference in particular has Snags especially impressed.  Witness the conversation we had at breakfast this morning:

Snags:  “Know what I’m surprised about in elementary school?  That the toilet paper dispenser, if you’re running out of toilet paper, will just drop down a new roll that was up there, already unwrapped, that nobody’s used before!”

Me: “It wasn’t like that at preschool?” 

Snags: “No.”

Me: “What did you do if you ran out of toilet paper at preschool?”

Snags: “Called the teacher.  And you know what they gave you?  Tissues!” (and here you should note that the word “Tissues!” is said with disdain).

In the evenings, my husband and I ask Snags about his day while we all eat dinner together.  Over the past week, we’ve interrogated Snags enough to find out that the Kindergarteners practiced what to do for a fire drill.  They had a fire drill.  They drew pictures.  They participated in a scavenger hunt.  They played a copy cat game. 

Snags offered to teach me a new song he had learned in music class, but he claimed to need “those little Hawaiian drums that are stuck together” to do so. “Bongos?” I inquired. But he didn’t know what they were called.  Whatever they are, we don’t have any, so he retracted his offer. I’m a little sad that he refuses to sing me the song until I get a hold of the proper kind of drums.  But in the back of my mind I wonder if this isn’t all just a ploy on his part to get me to buy him some drums. 

In gym class they tossed beanbags in the air, “no higher than your nose or they’d blow the whistle at you.”  And finally, Snags walked another child to the nurse’s office.  “Why?” I asked.  “What happened?  Why did he need to go to the nurse?”  I don’t know,” Snags said. “I think his lip was bleeding.”  I’m still not clear if this incident was in any way related to the beanbag tossing.

Who do you sit with at lunch?” I asked one evening.

“My friends,” Snags replied.

“Yes,” I said.  “But what are their names?”  

“I don’t know.” He said with a shrug.  “I have to ask them.”

And later:

“Who did you play with on the playground?” I asked.  But Snags wasn’t telling.  “James?”  I prodded. “Did you play with James?”  Finally, he said yes, he had played with James.  “And guess who I saw?” He demanded.  “Who?”  I asked. “Megan?  No?  Okay, Andrew!” I guessed.  But no.  It wasn’t Andrew.  I couldn’t think of any other neighborhood children he might have seen on the playground.  But I didn’t have to keep guessing for long… 

“I saw three bounty hunters, two people from the dark side, and a person with 100 light sabers!” Snags proclaimed.

And that’s when I choked on my mac-n-cheese. 

This school… I don’t know.  I thought it was a good place, but bounty hunters on the playground?  Here? In suburbia?

Still, I was feeling pretty proud of Snags, so I thought it would be nice if, to celebrate the end of a successful first week of school, I made his favorite dinner of barbeque brisket and gave him a small gift.

I settled on buying him a Star Wars action figure.  He was happy with the special dinner and even more delighted with his gift, but the delight soon turned into something else altogether.  Because before I knew it, he was arguing with me.  Snags wanted to use the action figure to build a Star Wars model.  And not only that, he wanted the model to be permanent, the figure forever frozen in place with glue! 

His model parts included a toy bug habitat that he had busted the insides out of, and his brand new Boba Fet action figure.  Only Snags calls him Bobo Fat, like he’s some kind of overweight circus clown.  But I wasn’t agreeable to letting Boba Fet, only 3 days old in our house now, get ruined by a five year old with a bottle of Elmer’s. 

Eventually Snags dropped his insistence on the need for glue and decided that tape!  Scotch tape! Could be used to secure “Bobo Fat” into his model like he wanted.  I consented to the tape, since it’s a much less permanent method, and I handed over the dispenser.  I watched for a while as Snags proceeded to cover up all of the vent holes on top of the bug habitat. 

“What are you doing?”  I asked.

“I’m killing him!”  Snags said.

“What?!”  I shrieked, horrified. “Don’t talk like that!” I said.  “That’s not nice at all.”

“I have to kill him,” he replied calmly. “He tried to kill Luke! I have to cover up all the air holes so he can’t breathe and he’ll die.”

I looked at my husband.  What should we do?  I pleaded with my eyes.  Who should we call?  The police?  A shrink?  I don’t think this is right, I tried to say.

But my husband, nonplussed about it all, just shrugged.

So I gave in.  “Fine!” I said.  “But don’t use all the tape trying to kill something that’s not even alive in the first place,” I added. And then I left the room.  I could hear Snags’ laughter in the background.  

Later, Snags brought his Star Wars model to me.  It was all sealed up with every possible crack covered.  Entrapped in the model without air Bobo Fat doesn’t stand a chance.  And since there’s no way to slip him any food, Bobo Fat might lose a bit of weight in there too.  I’ll check after Snags get’s home from Kindergarten tomorrow.

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Filed under Boba Fet, humor, Kindergarten, life, Snags, Star Wars

August 30, 2007 · 10:14 am

Chinese Takeout

I’m really aggravated.  I ordered Chinese takeout for dinner, okay?  I called the place and asked for a large order of Roast Pork LoMein, a large order of General Tso’s Chicken, and a large order of the Chef’s Special: Crispy Beef.  I ordered the beef because it was the Chef’s Special, so:

a. it had to be good, right? and
b. the menu said it had carrots in it and that could count as my vegetable

Phone order-taker man said it would be 20 minutes.  To be fair, since it was approaching dinner time, I gave them an extra five minutes beyond the time they quoted me to get my food together before I went to pick it up.

But when I got there, it wasn’t ready.  I was directed to grab a chair for a while.  I sat and waited while they seemingly caught the chicken, cut its head off, plucked the feathers out of it, cut it up, and deep fried it and poured General Tso’s secret sauce all over it. 

FINALLY they brought out my order.

As the order delivery lady handed it over to me she said something in Chinese that I didn’t quite catch.  I was going to say “What?” but then didn’t because I remembered that except for take out menu, I don’t speak Chinese anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered.

When I got home and unpacked the sack of food, I got a surprise: two egg rolls that I hadn’t asked for.  I deduced then (because I’m smart that way) that the order delivery lady had probably said to me, “Thank you for your patience.  You waited longer than it took us to build the Great Wall and so I hope you’ll accept my offering of two free egg rolls.”  I mean, I’m not exactly sure that’s what she had said, but I wasn’t about to drive back over there and return the egg rolls, so we ate them.

The egg rolls were good, but the Chef’s Special was not special at all.  Not even close.  In fact, I suggest you skip it.

The sack of food also contained 6 bags of Chinese noodles.  The fried kind they’d put in a bowl on your table if you were sitting at a restaurant.  The equivalent, I think, of a basket of corn chips on your table when you go to Don Pablos.  Then there were about 12 fortune cookies in the bag.

I wondered what they were thinking.  I mean, people!  Come on!  I only ordered three entrees.  Why do I need 6 bags of noodles and 12 fortune cookies?  Then I started to think that maybe they were trying to tell me something.  Perhaps three large orders of food are supposed to feed more than 3 people?  Well, no matter, we could each have four fortune cookies for dessert.

But here’s the part that pisses me off the most.  They gave me the WRONG fortune cookies.  They gave me someone else’s fortune cookies!  No wonder there were so damn many of them.

How do I know they weren’t MY fortune cookies?  I opened them all.  I read the fortunes.  Check these out:

The only rose without a thorn is friendship.  What is THAT supposed to mean?  Whose stupid fortune is that?  Not mine.

Keep your feet on the ground even though friends flatter you.  What friends are flattering me?  Where are they doing this?  Behind my back?

You love sports, horses and gambling but not to excess.  Okay.  Wrong, wrong, and wrong again.  I don’t love sports unless roller skating counts.  Does roller skating count?  Not the roller blade kind.  The old fashioned kind where you have 4 wheels underfoot and are much more stable and the disco lights are going and you skate round and around to the beat of the music until they call “couples only.”   Plus, I hate horses.  I’m sorry, but it’s true.  I was never fond of horses as a child, even though all girls are supposed to be in love with them.  Sorry Black Beauty.  Plus, once when I was in high school I had this boyfriend who took me horse back riding and the horse slipped on a patch of ice on a hill and we were thrown to the ground and the horse fell and my stupid boyfriend worried more about the horse’s leg and if it was hurt than he did about me, and it wasn’t even his horse!  And finally, gambling?  Come on!  Okay, I do sometimes buy a lottery ticket, but only when the jackpot is REALLY, REALLY big so millions of others are buying tickets too and they ruin my chances of winning.  Like I said, this one, definitely NOT mine.

But wait.  It gets better. Immediately after I opened the one about horses and gambling I opened:

What’s vice today may be virtue tomorrow.  Seriously.  Look, I have it right here.

I couldn’t stop there though.  There were two more cookies left and I had to see if one of them was actually meant for me.

You have an important new business development shaping up.  Well, that’s totally news to me.  So I think it’s not mine.

And after that:
You will have good luck and overcome many hardships.  Does that mean hardships in the new business?  And if so, what is it?  So again, not my fortune!

I went through all twelve cookies and am feeling terribly full now only to be disappointed. 

I decided I wasn’t going to stand for this so I drove over to the take out place again and told them my problem.  There was a lot of fist pumping and pointing and raised voices as they argued with me. They said I couldn’t prove I got those fortunes from their cookies.  They said maybe I got them from Wong’s down the road.  I got mad and stormed out and all the workers yelled after me in Chinese as I headed out the door.  I don’t know what they said.  It was probably an apology but I’m going to have to learn to speak Chinese beyond the menu dialect if I’m going to be able to figure it out.

8 Comments

Filed under Chinese food, fortune cookies, humor

August 28, 2007 · 12:17 am

Backseat Driver

My husband and I are both Geographers.  By schooling and by hobby.  We both have undergraduate and graduate degrees in Geography.  We like maps, especially old maps, and we have framed maps hanging on many of the walls in our home.  We have more than one globe, and issues of National Geographic abound.  We have road atlases in our car, and folded up maps in the glove compartment.  And the irony of this is that none of those things, of course, ever stop us from getting lost.

And our son seems to be following, to some degree, in our footsteps.  Or in this case, our tire tracks…

You see, I was driving Snags to preschool one recent morning when he pulled one of our many road atlases out from the door compartment in the car where we store them.  From his position in the backseat of the car he asked, “Mom, what does ‘S’ stand for?”  I had to think about this for a moment.  Then I realized that he must be looking at the north arrow in the atlas so I responded, “Um…South.”  To which my backseat driver announced, “Okay.  We’re going to go south out of the garage and down the driveway. Then we are going to turn west up the street.” 

And now you must be wondering, if I just taught him ‘S’ stood for south, where did he learn about west? Well, from Curtis, Kimee, Karla, Shaun, and Jenn on Hi-5, of course!  You don’t think professional geographers like my husband and I would teach this kind stuff to a child do you? Because we didn’t.  We don’t have the time.  North, south, east and west are on a whole other directional plane from “Go UP to your room!” or “Sit DOWN, you know better than to stand on the table!” 

Anyway, think about this… Snags was holding that atlas flat on his lap.  In that position, the north arrow on the page would point straight ahead and north would always be in front of us.  If we back up, go in reverse to get out of the garage and down the driveway, we must be headed south.  Because as he sees it, the north arrow is pointing forward, and south is pointing behind us.

And so naturally, if we turn left off of our street we will be heading west, and conversely, if we turn right, we’ll be headed east.  And mostly this is correct.  But kids don’t understand that you need to take into account your current position when you are reading a map, and THAT makes all the difference.

As I continued driving toward preschool my son announced, roughly every 7 seconds, that we were “…going north… still going north… still going north… still. going. north.  Still going north, mom…” 

I found myself driving a little faster, trying to get to the place where we had to turn.  Because, I figured, at least then he could stop saying “still going north…” 

I mean, I felt like I was stuck in that orange-banana knock knock joke.  You know it right? 

Knock. Knock.
Who’s there? 
Banana. 
Banana who?
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there? 
Banana. 
Banana who?
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there? 
Banana. 
Banana who?

And just when you are about to take out your own eardrums with the stiff end of a banana peel after saying “Banana who?” for the 432nd time, the joke changes and they say “Orange” and you say, “Orange who?” and the joke teller says: “Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?” Yes, I know…  Ha. Ha. Very funny.  Not.

Finally, we had a turn approaching and the voice from the back seat declared “We’re going to turn east.”  I thought then I would just test my theory about my son’s directional competency and so I asked him, “How do you know that?” and he replied, pointing out the window, “Because my school is over there; see EAST!” 

“Okay,” I said.  “Is that right or left?” I asked him.

“Right!” he said.  And he was correct, he was pointing to the right.

Except… right wasn’t east.  On that point he was wrong.  And backing down our driveway isn’t south.  But he’s only 5.  I think this method of learning about direction is just fine for right now.  My husband tends to disagree and thinks I should correct Snags, tell him the actual direction we are traveling.  But understanding that takes more skill than I think a five year old possesses.  It requires the ability to read a map for one.  It requires the ability to READ as another. 

Besides, even possessing those very important skills of literacy and map reading, my husband still manages to get us lost when he’s driving somewhere.

So for now anyway, I’m content to keep on heading north.  You know, as long as I can turn once in a while.

6 Comments

Filed under direction, driving, geography, humor, life, maps

August 26, 2007 · 12:39 am

Little Slice of Hell

So here’s a little slice of hell.  Our air conditioner is broken down and it’s 98’ out with a heat index of 105’.  Minus the visible flames licking at my heels, I’m sure this is the full on heat of hell and I vow here on out to live a better life if only to avoid having to spend eternity in that great inferno. I mean, I’ve only been dripping sweat miserable in this for about a day, but I already can’t stand it.

My husband discovered the problem with our air conditioner late yesterday afternoon.  I guess he thought the house felt too warm and he went outside to check the unit.  He came back in saying the little red light was on indicating that the power company had assumed control of the unit, cycling it off to conserve energy in a period of peak demand.  But that didn’t sound right to me.  Peak demand?  Up until about 3:00 yesterday afternoon we’d had rain and clouds for an entire week.  Temperatures most days hadn’t made their way out of the 60s.  So how there could be such a huge demand causing the electric company to turn off our air conditioner was beyond me.  I could understand if temperatures had been high for days on end, but not when they’d only been elevated for some three hours.

I urged my husband to call the power company.  He did and came back to report that they had not, in fact, turned anyone’s AC unit off, not even ours.  And they were not experiencing a peak demand.

So it was our problem.  The utility company wouldn’t be turning our AC back on because they weren’t the ones who had turned it off.  Next, my husband shut the whole unit off and then back on from the thermostat inside the house.  Maybe it would work then, like how you sometimes have to shut the #%$&%@! computer off and turn it back on again to get it to work right.

But that didn’t help at all.  My husband came back in and shut the AC down for the evening.  He said that when he’d restarted it, the unit outside was making a horrible grinding noise and it was blowing hot air from its sides.  Worried it would get hotter and hotter and hotter until it would self combust, we had to leave it off.  He called the service company who said they would come out and take a look sometime after noon today.  When it’s supposed to be even hotter outside.  The thought alone was enough to get me all hot and bothered.  But not in an Ellen Barkin – Dennis Quaid Big Easy kind of way.  More like a red faced and sweaty after a 13 mile run, and pissed off that the air conditioner isn’t working bothered kind of way.  Not sexy at all, that.

As the sun set, we opened windows around the house.  A hot breeze, we thought, might be better than no breeze at all.  No?  I’d say it was a draw except for the animal outside that was croaking-chirping in the backyard.  Was it a frog?  Was it a bird?  It wasn’t Superman, that’s for sure.  Whatever it was, it croak-chirped outside the bedroom window all night long while the ceiling fan swirled hot and humid air around the room.   I imagined this must be what it feels like to sleep in a rain forest.  The carpeting in our hallway felt damp.

The service guy showed up at 4:00 in the afternoon today and determined that our air conditioner’s fan had burnt up.  As luck would have it, he doesn’t carry fans on his truck. He also declined to rig up our table top fan to work the AC for us.  I thought that would be a good stop-gap measure but apparently service guy is just a mean and lazy bastard.  He insisted that he has to order the part and it should be in Monday, maybe Tuesday.  Which means they can install it on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.

Now we’ve got the shades drawn, the lights off, and fans circulating wherever we can.  We’ve spent the better part of the day in the basement where it’s at least 5 degrees cooler than anywhere else in the house.  But I’m not sure how much longer we can stay here.  The chocolate in my cupboards is melting, which means it’s officially time to do something.  First, I think I’ll eat the chocolate.  Then, I think I’ll take a look at the list I made last night.  The list of places I know of that do have air conditioning:  the mall, the bookstore, the frozen food section of the grocery store, the video arcade, the movie theater, friends and relative’s houses, the interior of my car until it runs out of gas…  We might pack up and go to one of them.  Any place cooler than this house will be a little slice of Heaven.

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Filed under air conditioner, heat, hell, hot, humor, life