Obviously when you get married, begin having children, leave your twenties (not necessarily all in that order) things change. Sure, you're no longer as "hip" and youthful as you once were. There are usually less late nights on the town, less little black dresses, and less hangovers (at least compared to being single in NYC for a year). But one particular change is the most alarming to me: magazine choices.
A free issue of Woman's Day arrived in my mailbox last year and it depressed me. Where were the free issues of Cosmo, Glamour, or Fly Young Women Like Yourself Quarterly? Clearly the marketing powers that be got together and decided that I no longer need to know about flirty cocktails, strappy stilettos, or enticing the object of my affection by the photocopier in my chic Manhattan office (y'know, things that used to be an everyday for me).
I wouldn't even OPEN that first issue. Who do these people think they are, sending me this smut? Sure, since the birth of my son, my hair is lucky to see a brush, my footwear is two steps away from orthopedic nursing shoes, and discussions about our child's digestive health make their way into daily interactions with my husband more than I'd expect, but I'm still cool... RIGHT?!
Then I was at "work" one day. I put "work" in quotations because I take care of a second grader after school and enjoy it thoroughly so it doesn't really feel like work. Actually, the real "work" is caring for MY son! But anyhow, a down-and-out man selling magazines caught me off-guard as he rang the doorbell. He had a story of addiction, loss, and redemption that convinced me to use the ten dollars in my pocket to order a magazine subscription from him.
The magazine selection was slim: fishing, financial, Cat Fancy... plus I had two children to return to, so I skimmed the list until I saw a familiar name in a low price range. What do you know: WOMAN'S FREAKIN' DAY.
My husband thought I "doth protest too much" after I had been so INSULTED by one issue and then willingly signed up for a year's subscription, and I can't blame him. Then the issues started to arrive. Well, I may as well give it a skim. Recipes for homemade donuts and quiches, the wonders of coupon-ing, dieting tips (thanks, I'll read those after I use your donut recipe), three billion new ways to organize your tupperware, makeovers that make women look very stylish and yet somehow add two decades to their age...
Then something happened. I started getting INTERESTED... "25 Ways to Meal Plan and Save on Grocery Items"? "Affordable Decorating Solutions"? "Ways to Organize Yourself and Your Family While Not Hating Life"? YES PLEASE. Obviously I'm just making up names of articles, but you get the gist. SIGH. What do you know? Woman's Day actually has a LOT of great articles and tips that touch on financial advice, organization, parenting, grandparenting (!), fitness, decorating for morons like me, charity opportunities, small business management, and more. And it does a great job of spotlighting entrepreneurial, diverse women. It encourages goals both in and out of the house, and I love that. Plus I kind of want to try that donut recipe...
So I guess I'm a Woman's Day woman now. Please pass the snuggie and Murder She Wrote anthology. I will never be sexy AGAIN.
")
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Cell Phones, Vehicles, and GB
I think anyone who's met my dad loves him (with the small exceptions of traffic court judges and the entire staff at Zoots cleaners--long story).
GB's a big, gregarious guy who believes life's too short to drive the speed limit and and pizza is a vital food group. He also believes that it's okay to follow an ambulance if there's traffic in Boston and he's late for a Sox game. He's a peaceful, friendly person most of the time (unless you take the parking spot he was planning on using, drive slowly (the speed limit) in front of him, or are elderly and confused in the Logan Airport parking garage).
Other GBisms have included covering various holes in his condo walls with posters ("It's like the Shawshank Redemption in here!") and solving the issue of a car rejection sticker with strategically placed autumn leaves on his windshield (a plan, he later admitted, which became more difficult as the seasons changed). But out of the many quirks of my favorite dad in the world, this is one of the finer moments:
It was January 2000, and I had invited my friends Heather and Kevin to come visit me up in Massachusetts during our winter break from college. Oddly enough, I had invited them to go skiing. Why, I have no idea. Seeing as how my first ski trip ended in complete and utter humiliation (story to come at a later date) and my second trip wasn't a great deal better, I cannot comprehend why I would give it another shot. My only guess is that I wanted to show Heather and Kevin (children of southern parents) that the North DID have things to offer and was not just full of rude people dressed in black (a stereotype that was not helped by our trip to Boston later that week).
Our ski trip was a failure, much as I feared it would be. Only rather than failing due to sheer embarrassing circumstances, it was just plain soul-crushingly freezing and every slope was a sheet of ice. Also I was with people who grew up skiing in Maryland and Pennsylvania, sometimes in t-shirts (?!) but that's neither here nor there.
GB, always the guy to offer a ride whenever needed, was taking us somewhere in town. Car trips with my dad always involve good conversation, and at the time he was telling us about the latest issue at the insurance agency where he worked: cell phones.
If you're reading this and happen to be under, like, 28, please know that around the turn of the last century (how old can I possibly sound right now?!) cellular phone ownership was rapidly increasing and no longer limited to the Zack Morrises and hot-shot businessmen of the world. More people were buying them and the dangers of operating phones while driving were fast becoming evident.
My father, calling upon his expertise in the auto insurance industry, explained that these fancy portable calling devices just have so many buttons. They can easily distract drivers, cause fender benders, and worse. Though Heather, Kevin, and I understood his theory, he decided a visual aid would be necessary. He dug around in the console of his Maxima and pulled out HIS cell phone, turning around to show us the intricate display of buttons and switches. Then, almost as if on cue, he rear-ended the car in front of him.
Rather than be angry or upset, he just paused, looked at the car in front of him, then turned back to us and said: "What are the odds? I was JUST talking about how cell phones cause accidents!" I think he was relatively pleased at how efficiently his point had been proven. The woman in the car in front of us, however, had a look of shock and horror on her face that I only WISH could have been captured on film. However, young ones, this was before cell phones had cameras...
We didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but after determining that there was no significant damage to vehicle or person, we cracked up. I'm not sure what Heather and Kevin ended up thinking about the state of Massachusetts, but I know they DEFINITELY enjoyed their time with GB.
")
GB's a big, gregarious guy who believes life's too short to drive the speed limit and and pizza is a vital food group. He also believes that it's okay to follow an ambulance if there's traffic in Boston and he's late for a Sox game. He's a peaceful, friendly person most of the time (unless you take the parking spot he was planning on using, drive slowly (the speed limit) in front of him, or are elderly and confused in the Logan Airport parking garage).
Other GBisms have included covering various holes in his condo walls with posters ("It's like the Shawshank Redemption in here!") and solving the issue of a car rejection sticker with strategically placed autumn leaves on his windshield (a plan, he later admitted, which became more difficult as the seasons changed). But out of the many quirks of my favorite dad in the world, this is one of the finer moments:
It was January 2000, and I had invited my friends Heather and Kevin to come visit me up in Massachusetts during our winter break from college. Oddly enough, I had invited them to go skiing. Why, I have no idea. Seeing as how my first ski trip ended in complete and utter humiliation (story to come at a later date) and my second trip wasn't a great deal better, I cannot comprehend why I would give it another shot. My only guess is that I wanted to show Heather and Kevin (children of southern parents) that the North DID have things to offer and was not just full of rude people dressed in black (a stereotype that was not helped by our trip to Boston later that week).
Our ski trip was a failure, much as I feared it would be. Only rather than failing due to sheer embarrassing circumstances, it was just plain soul-crushingly freezing and every slope was a sheet of ice. Also I was with people who grew up skiing in Maryland and Pennsylvania, sometimes in t-shirts (?!) but that's neither here nor there.
GB, always the guy to offer a ride whenever needed, was taking us somewhere in town. Car trips with my dad always involve good conversation, and at the time he was telling us about the latest issue at the insurance agency where he worked: cell phones.
If you're reading this and happen to be under, like, 28, please know that around the turn of the last century (how old can I possibly sound right now?!) cellular phone ownership was rapidly increasing and no longer limited to the Zack Morrises and hot-shot businessmen of the world. More people were buying them and the dangers of operating phones while driving were fast becoming evident.
My father, calling upon his expertise in the auto insurance industry, explained that these fancy portable calling devices just have so many buttons. They can easily distract drivers, cause fender benders, and worse. Though Heather, Kevin, and I understood his theory, he decided a visual aid would be necessary. He dug around in the console of his Maxima and pulled out HIS cell phone, turning around to show us the intricate display of buttons and switches. Then, almost as if on cue, he rear-ended the car in front of him.
Rather than be angry or upset, he just paused, looked at the car in front of him, then turned back to us and said: "What are the odds? I was JUST talking about how cell phones cause accidents!" I think he was relatively pleased at how efficiently his point had been proven. The woman in the car in front of us, however, had a look of shock and horror on her face that I only WISH could have been captured on film. However, young ones, this was before cell phones had cameras...
We didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but after determining that there was no significant damage to vehicle or person, we cracked up. I'm not sure what Heather and Kevin ended up thinking about the state of Massachusetts, but I know they DEFINITELY enjoyed their time with GB.
")
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Surprise?!
My first experience with a sonogram was when I was six and my mom was pregnant with my second brother. It was the first time she, or anyone I had known, was able to find out if she was having a boy or a girl months before giving birth. Naturally, since nature had already *blessed* me with a strong-willed little brother, I was to have a sister. Isn't that how it works?
I don't remember much about the ultrasound, but I DO remember the nurse (or doctor, or sonographer--it was 1987 so my child brain remembers her as a "nurse") announcing that my mom would be having a boy.
To quote some beloved southern friends, "Do what, now?"
Clearly the nurse had read the wrong paper or looked at the wrong sonogram. Heck, maybe she wasn't even aware that we already had a boy in the family and we were due for a girl this time. I had already practiced putting my dolls in frilly dresses and envisioning all the different ways I would style my little SISTER'S hair. Obviously she was mistaken, and I inquired about the accuracy of this newfangled system of predicting the baby's gender. My mom recalls a single tear rolling down my face as I asked the nurse if she was absolutely, positively SURE it was a boy.
She was pretty sure.
After a brief period of adjusting to the idea of having even more Matchbox cars to trip over, I began to get excited. A baby's a baby, and they're all wonderful. And besides, someday I would have a baby and it would be a girl and everything would be fine. Because that's how life works, in case you didn't know.
Once I knew that sonograms existed, I assumed that EVERYONE knew what they were having before they went into labor. I can admit it now, but I was once nearly horrified to find out that there were people out there who CHOSE to wait until their baby was actually born to see if it was a boy or a girl (this was before I began to adopt a "To each his own" attitude about life, which I'm still working on).
With my first pregnancy, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to know what I was having. I had a strong, inexplicable feeling it was a boy (despite growing up believing that I would have a girl first). The day my husband and I had that 20 week sonogram was one of the most exciting days of my life, and I loved walking around with a name for the baby and telling everyone. I also had a moment of, "Oh my GAWD. I don't know how to raise a boy!! What if he does crazy things like get arrested or fly off to the Dominican Republic without telling me?! (Random examples, of course... my brothers NEVER did anything like that... AHEM). So I bought a book with the cheesiest, early 90's fabulous cover called "Raising Boys." That ought to do it, right? My son was born almost two years ago, and, in case you didn't know, he is the absolute greatest joy of my life.
I'm pregnant again and due in early February. After hearing some friends talk about being surprised with their children and how great it was, I started thinking maybe we could try that this time around and compare it with the experience of knowing ahead of time. My husband loved the idea, and he has much better willpower than me so I knew he could hold me to it when I'm at my breaking point (think Jack Black in Tropic Thunder).
Now, when I was pregnant the first time, I encountered MANY people who waited to find out. This time around, I might as well be telling everyone that I plan to give birth at a martini bar. I get this, "Why on earth would you do that?!" look, and I can't complain: it used to be the same look that I gave "those people."
I guess this is just a roundabout way of saying that we're going to "try" and wait to find out if we're having a boy or a girl, and I completely understand if this quasi-horrifies people. I just don't want to challenge the medical authority of a doctor or nurse if they don't give me the answer I want...
And, besides, I all but know it's another boy. It's my DESTINY. But, c'mon, healthy baby = win win.
")
P.S. I should mention that, though I mostly accepted that my baby bro was a boy, I still (sorry, mom) dressed him up occasionally in girls clothes and maaaaaay have tested some makeup techniques on his little face. But I'm pretty sure he's still grown into a mature, fine young man. At least that's what his parole officer tells me...
P.P.S Kidding about that very last part, of course ")
I don't remember much about the ultrasound, but I DO remember the nurse (or doctor, or sonographer--it was 1987 so my child brain remembers her as a "nurse") announcing that my mom would be having a boy.
To quote some beloved southern friends, "Do what, now?"
Clearly the nurse had read the wrong paper or looked at the wrong sonogram. Heck, maybe she wasn't even aware that we already had a boy in the family and we were due for a girl this time. I had already practiced putting my dolls in frilly dresses and envisioning all the different ways I would style my little SISTER'S hair. Obviously she was mistaken, and I inquired about the accuracy of this newfangled system of predicting the baby's gender. My mom recalls a single tear rolling down my face as I asked the nurse if she was absolutely, positively SURE it was a boy.
She was pretty sure.
After a brief period of adjusting to the idea of having even more Matchbox cars to trip over, I began to get excited. A baby's a baby, and they're all wonderful. And besides, someday I would have a baby and it would be a girl and everything would be fine. Because that's how life works, in case you didn't know.
Once I knew that sonograms existed, I assumed that EVERYONE knew what they were having before they went into labor. I can admit it now, but I was once nearly horrified to find out that there were people out there who CHOSE to wait until their baby was actually born to see if it was a boy or a girl (this was before I began to adopt a "To each his own" attitude about life, which I'm still working on).
With my first pregnancy, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to know what I was having. I had a strong, inexplicable feeling it was a boy (despite growing up believing that I would have a girl first). The day my husband and I had that 20 week sonogram was one of the most exciting days of my life, and I loved walking around with a name for the baby and telling everyone. I also had a moment of, "Oh my GAWD. I don't know how to raise a boy!! What if he does crazy things like get arrested or fly off to the Dominican Republic without telling me?! (Random examples, of course... my brothers NEVER did anything like that... AHEM). So I bought a book with the cheesiest, early 90's fabulous cover called "Raising Boys." That ought to do it, right? My son was born almost two years ago, and, in case you didn't know, he is the absolute greatest joy of my life.
I'm pregnant again and due in early February. After hearing some friends talk about being surprised with their children and how great it was, I started thinking maybe we could try that this time around and compare it with the experience of knowing ahead of time. My husband loved the idea, and he has much better willpower than me so I knew he could hold me to it when I'm at my breaking point (think Jack Black in Tropic Thunder).
Now, when I was pregnant the first time, I encountered MANY people who waited to find out. This time around, I might as well be telling everyone that I plan to give birth at a martini bar. I get this, "Why on earth would you do that?!" look, and I can't complain: it used to be the same look that I gave "those people."
I guess this is just a roundabout way of saying that we're going to "try" and wait to find out if we're having a boy or a girl, and I completely understand if this quasi-horrifies people. I just don't want to challenge the medical authority of a doctor or nurse if they don't give me the answer I want...
And, besides, I all but know it's another boy. It's my DESTINY. But, c'mon, healthy baby = win win.
")
P.S. I should mention that, though I mostly accepted that my baby bro was a boy, I still (sorry, mom) dressed him up occasionally in girls clothes and maaaaaay have tested some makeup techniques on his little face. But I'm pretty sure he's still grown into a mature, fine young man. At least that's what his parole officer tells me...
P.P.S Kidding about that very last part, of course ")
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)