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 ")
Friday, August 24, 2012
Dial M for Mortification
An eye doc once told me I was legally blind, and I'll take his word for it. Fortunately, modern science has allowed me a normal life of sight thanks to high prescription contact lenses! That said, it's always been vital that I have my eyes checked once a year, and those check-ups often include something I don't enjoy: DILATION.
Eye dilation, as defined by this Illustration major with no medical background, is when they put stingy drops in your eyes and your pupils enlarge as if you're in a dark room. This allows the eye doctor to thoroughly check for any problems. This also allows for even the tiniest bit of light to make you feel as though you're staring into the center of a solar eclipse...
Now let's talk about my mom's old car (I promise it's relevant). It was an '86 cornflower blue Volvo with no air conditioning. The only two things it had going for it were A. I was allowed to drive it free of charge and B. It had a working radio. Well, "B" soon became obsolete when the radio antenna was snapped off in a freak carwash accident. But at least I could still drive it...
Several years passed, and my mom began moving up in the world. She felt that the time had come to treat herself to a new [used] car, and she began a thorough search that involved lots of phone calls and frequent test drives. When she would discuss makes and models with me, I would offer up my one and only requirement: that it have a radio. It became a joke between us: "Does it have a radio?" It's amazing how one day a joke can turn into pretty much your most embarrassing moment ever...
One summer Saturday while I was home from college, my mom sweetly volunteered to take me to my annual eye exam. After the doctor dilated my eyes, I once again remembered what I forgot before every visit: how uncomfortable it was! My contacts weren't in, so I was wearing my coke bottles and had forgotten any form of sun protection.
When we got out to the car, the discomfort from the light was unbearable. My mom rummaged through the trunk and offered me the only help she could find, my little brother's foam little league hat that was two sizes too small and had a giant "Y" (for Yankees!) on it. I could not have cared less. I put the awkward thing onto my disheveled head and dealt with the remaining sunlight by doing this eye-squint head-bob combination that apparently eased the pain. And then my mom asked if we could go look at cars.
Now, the LAST place you should go after getting your eyes dilated is a car lot on a sunny day. There is literally light bouncing off of EVERY surface in EVERY direction. But I did not realize this until we got there.
A cute salesman in his mid-twenties greeted us and began to talk details with my mom. I noticed that he smiled in my direction, yet avoided making eye contact with me. I did not think much of it. I hung by each car we looked at, boy's little league hat atop my head, giant glasses sliding down my nose each time I squinted and bobbed. I decided an inside joke could only make the situation better, so I interrupted my mom with:
"Hey Mom! Hey Mom! Does it have a radio??"
The salesman nearly knocked my mom to the side as he ran over to me and opened the passenger side door.
"YEEESSS! It DOES have a radio! Would YOU like to hear it?"
His sudden burst of enthusiasm confused me. "Um... sure?" I replied, and slid into the passenger seat. The salesman turned on some random mariachi station and smiled a little too largely.
"Can we check out that one over there?" my mom asked, her nose in some pamphlet. She began to head over to the next vehicle, and the salesman ran to her side. He leaned over and said:
"Uh... is... is she okay in there by herself?"
My mom looked at him blankly for a moment as she wondered why he would be concerned about a twenty-year-old girl sitting in a car ten feet away. And then it hit her. The squinting. The head bobbing. The obsession with radios. She realized what the salesman was thinking and put it into less-than-tactful words.
"What? NO!! My daughter's not retarded!"
I sprang from the car, also realizing the confusion. I poured out my life story, and the circumstances that led to me looking and acting this way. Mortification does not begin to describe it. Of course, in the big picture, there's nothing wrong with being mentally challenged... but a young girl who's NOT mentally challenged (depending on who you ask) still doesn't want people thinking she is!
We politely left the car lot and my mother eventually found the car of her dreams: a '92 Beamer. And, yes, it had a radio.
")
Eye dilation, as defined by this Illustration major with no medical background, is when they put stingy drops in your eyes and your pupils enlarge as if you're in a dark room. This allows the eye doctor to thoroughly check for any problems. This also allows for even the tiniest bit of light to make you feel as though you're staring into the center of a solar eclipse...
Now let's talk about my mom's old car (I promise it's relevant). It was an '86 cornflower blue Volvo with no air conditioning. The only two things it had going for it were A. I was allowed to drive it free of charge and B. It had a working radio. Well, "B" soon became obsolete when the radio antenna was snapped off in a freak carwash accident. But at least I could still drive it...
Several years passed, and my mom began moving up in the world. She felt that the time had come to treat herself to a new [used] car, and she began a thorough search that involved lots of phone calls and frequent test drives. When she would discuss makes and models with me, I would offer up my one and only requirement: that it have a radio. It became a joke between us: "Does it have a radio?" It's amazing how one day a joke can turn into pretty much your most embarrassing moment ever...
One summer Saturday while I was home from college, my mom sweetly volunteered to take me to my annual eye exam. After the doctor dilated my eyes, I once again remembered what I forgot before every visit: how uncomfortable it was! My contacts weren't in, so I was wearing my coke bottles and had forgotten any form of sun protection.
When we got out to the car, the discomfort from the light was unbearable. My mom rummaged through the trunk and offered me the only help she could find, my little brother's foam little league hat that was two sizes too small and had a giant "Y" (for Yankees!) on it. I could not have cared less. I put the awkward thing onto my disheveled head and dealt with the remaining sunlight by doing this eye-squint head-bob combination that apparently eased the pain. And then my mom asked if we could go look at cars.
Now, the LAST place you should go after getting your eyes dilated is a car lot on a sunny day. There is literally light bouncing off of EVERY surface in EVERY direction. But I did not realize this until we got there.
A cute salesman in his mid-twenties greeted us and began to talk details with my mom. I noticed that he smiled in my direction, yet avoided making eye contact with me. I did not think much of it. I hung by each car we looked at, boy's little league hat atop my head, giant glasses sliding down my nose each time I squinted and bobbed. I decided an inside joke could only make the situation better, so I interrupted my mom with:
"Hey Mom! Hey Mom! Does it have a radio??"
The salesman nearly knocked my mom to the side as he ran over to me and opened the passenger side door.
"YEEESSS! It DOES have a radio! Would YOU like to hear it?"
His sudden burst of enthusiasm confused me. "Um... sure?" I replied, and slid into the passenger seat. The salesman turned on some random mariachi station and smiled a little too largely.
"Can we check out that one over there?" my mom asked, her nose in some pamphlet. She began to head over to the next vehicle, and the salesman ran to her side. He leaned over and said:
"Uh... is... is she okay in there by herself?"
My mom looked at him blankly for a moment as she wondered why he would be concerned about a twenty-year-old girl sitting in a car ten feet away. And then it hit her. The squinting. The head bobbing. The obsession with radios. She realized what the salesman was thinking and put it into less-than-tactful words.
"What? NO!! My daughter's not retarded!"
I sprang from the car, also realizing the confusion. I poured out my life story, and the circumstances that led to me looking and acting this way. Mortification does not begin to describe it. Of course, in the big picture, there's nothing wrong with being mentally challenged... but a young girl who's NOT mentally challenged (depending on who you ask) still doesn't want people thinking she is!
We politely left the car lot and my mother eventually found the car of her dreams: a '92 Beamer. And, yes, it had a radio.
")
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Of All the Pizza Joints...
I've said it once, and I'll say it again! This blog is just becoming a collection of my awkward life moments involving men, boys, and your run-of-the-mill weirdos. Ah well!
Let's journey back to '07, shall we? I had a summer job as a nanny with an incredible family in Arlington, MA who I'd gotten to know during my job as an after-school teacher. This family lived in a duplex, and I cared for their sweet little cupcake-cheeked crystal blue-eyed baby girl and their older daughter, a witty and hilarious nine-year-old who I adored working with during the school year.
The duplex was owned by the people who lived next door: a family from Syria consisting of a handsome, friendly dad; beautiful-but-aloof wife; and three smiley children under the age of six. The kids would often be out in the yard, so the girls and I would play with them. Sometimes they even came running out if they saw us; we were one big happy Sound-of-Music-eque gang playing together in the summer sun.
The father of the children, "Sal," would come outside and make small talk, probably not wanting me to think that he was dumping his kids on me. Throughout numerous short conversations, I learned that he owned a popular pizza place in town. When I told him that I was an illustrator, he asked about my website and said he wanted to buy some prints. Because if there's anything a middle-aged male business owner has at the forefront of his busy schedule, it's purchasing local art from the babysitter next door...
Sal asked if I wanted to come by the pizza place some evening for a meal on the house. Now you may think that as a successful after-school art teacher and part-time babysitter that I was above a free meal, but you'd be surprised. I decided to invite the older of the two girls to with me (free dinner!), but oddly enough her father (the one I actually worked for) seemed opposed to the idea and politely declined. That's funny... he trusted me with his daughters, but didn't want me taking one down the street for pizza? What was I missing...
One evening (it was still very light out I feel the need to mention!) I sauntered into the pizza place, expecting to get a quick nod from Sal and a free meal. I was caught a bit off-guard when Sal was not behind the counter, but at a table for two that he had set aside for us. Now even writing this it seems completely obvious what was going on, but please believe that at the time I was still clueless or else I would have run out the door with the footsteps/car-starting/car driving away sound sequence that they use on the Simpson's whenever Homer's in trouble.
I'll try to summarize: in very thinly veiled but increasingly obvious ways, Sal let me know that he was interested in me for more than art. Maybe it was the part when he said his wife didn't like it when he spoke to me so he had to meet me somewhere else, or perhaps it was when he spoke of the many properties he owned and offered me a place to live. Not sure. But after 20+ minutes and declining an offer to get a drink at a nearby bar, I got the FLIP out of there (still carrying my leftover food because, seriously, free pizza!). I ignored many follow-up e-mails until finally having the guts to reply, in a semi-respectful way, "You're a creep, leave me alone." I never heard from him again and, on an unrelated whim, packed up and moved to NYC at the end of that summer.
Fast forward to A WEEK AGO. I was visting my family and staying in Chelmsford, a town 30+ minutes away from Arlington. My father had to work and my husband had a class, so I had the afternoon to kill with Grant. One of our favorite places, Chelmsford House of Pizza had closed (single tear) and I decided to try the place that had opened across the street. I wheeled Grant in his stroller and ordered some pizza and salad from the friendly man behind the counter. Just as I was thinking about how nice he was, I heard that DUN DUN DUN sound in my head as I noticed he was wearing the shirt of that OTHER pizza place.
Though the name was different on the outside, I shuddered at the thought that Sal owned this place too. But, at the same time, I was hungry and, again, it's pizza. Besides, just because Sal MAYBE had a part in this new operation didn't mean I was going to... OH NO! THERE HE IS!! Just as I had sat down with Grant to eat, I saw Sal from across the room.
A stronger woman would have walked out immediately. Instead, I bowed my head and shoveled pizza into my mouth, PRAYING he wouldn't see me and if he DID, not think I had gotten fat because I was just pregnant but didn't want to go into that with him. Because, ethics aside, heaven forbid anyone thinks I've gained weight...
Thankfully, he never noticed me. And I didn't exactly tap him on the shoulder to say hello. And, to be honest, the pizza was sub-par. There, I said it. Take that, SAL.
")
Let's journey back to '07, shall we? I had a summer job as a nanny with an incredible family in Arlington, MA who I'd gotten to know during my job as an after-school teacher. This family lived in a duplex, and I cared for their sweet little cupcake-cheeked crystal blue-eyed baby girl and their older daughter, a witty and hilarious nine-year-old who I adored working with during the school year.
The duplex was owned by the people who lived next door: a family from Syria consisting of a handsome, friendly dad; beautiful-but-aloof wife; and three smiley children under the age of six. The kids would often be out in the yard, so the girls and I would play with them. Sometimes they even came running out if they saw us; we were one big happy Sound-of-Music-eque gang playing together in the summer sun.
The father of the children, "Sal," would come outside and make small talk, probably not wanting me to think that he was dumping his kids on me. Throughout numerous short conversations, I learned that he owned a popular pizza place in town. When I told him that I was an illustrator, he asked about my website and said he wanted to buy some prints. Because if there's anything a middle-aged male business owner has at the forefront of his busy schedule, it's purchasing local art from the babysitter next door...
Sal asked if I wanted to come by the pizza place some evening for a meal on the house. Now you may think that as a successful after-school art teacher and part-time babysitter that I was above a free meal, but you'd be surprised. I decided to invite the older of the two girls to with me (free dinner!), but oddly enough her father (the one I actually worked for) seemed opposed to the idea and politely declined. That's funny... he trusted me with his daughters, but didn't want me taking one down the street for pizza? What was I missing...
One evening (it was still very light out I feel the need to mention!) I sauntered into the pizza place, expecting to get a quick nod from Sal and a free meal. I was caught a bit off-guard when Sal was not behind the counter, but at a table for two that he had set aside for us. Now even writing this it seems completely obvious what was going on, but please believe that at the time I was still clueless or else I would have run out the door with the footsteps/car-starting/car driving away sound sequence that they use on the Simpson's whenever Homer's in trouble.
I'll try to summarize: in very thinly veiled but increasingly obvious ways, Sal let me know that he was interested in me for more than art. Maybe it was the part when he said his wife didn't like it when he spoke to me so he had to meet me somewhere else, or perhaps it was when he spoke of the many properties he owned and offered me a place to live. Not sure. But after 20+ minutes and declining an offer to get a drink at a nearby bar, I got the FLIP out of there (still carrying my leftover food because, seriously, free pizza!). I ignored many follow-up e-mails until finally having the guts to reply, in a semi-respectful way, "You're a creep, leave me alone." I never heard from him again and, on an unrelated whim, packed up and moved to NYC at the end of that summer.
Fast forward to A WEEK AGO. I was visting my family and staying in Chelmsford, a town 30+ minutes away from Arlington. My father had to work and my husband had a class, so I had the afternoon to kill with Grant. One of our favorite places, Chelmsford House of Pizza had closed (single tear) and I decided to try the place that had opened across the street. I wheeled Grant in his stroller and ordered some pizza and salad from the friendly man behind the counter. Just as I was thinking about how nice he was, I heard that DUN DUN DUN sound in my head as I noticed he was wearing the shirt of that OTHER pizza place.
Though the name was different on the outside, I shuddered at the thought that Sal owned this place too. But, at the same time, I was hungry and, again, it's pizza. Besides, just because Sal MAYBE had a part in this new operation didn't mean I was going to... OH NO! THERE HE IS!! Just as I had sat down with Grant to eat, I saw Sal from across the room.
A stronger woman would have walked out immediately. Instead, I bowed my head and shoveled pizza into my mouth, PRAYING he wouldn't see me and if he DID, not think I had gotten fat because I was just pregnant but didn't want to go into that with him. Because, ethics aside, heaven forbid anyone thinks I've gained weight...
Thankfully, he never noticed me. And I didn't exactly tap him on the shoulder to say hello. And, to be honest, the pizza was sub-par. There, I said it. Take that, SAL.
")
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Dammit Fran, I'm An Artist Not a Doctor!
Well, it's a good thing I'm not headed to med school any time soon...
When my son was born almost twenty-one months ago, a sweet nurse told me that all I had to do was kiss his forehead to gauge whether or not he was running a fever. This was a relief to me, because I have bad luck with thermometers. I can never seem to get a correct reading and always end up with a number below what I think sounds normal (though this could explain why I'm always freezing...)
Anyhow, my husband and I were fine with the "kiss test," but of course bought several different thermometers to keep in the house just in case. We tested them on ourselves (orally and ear!) to make sure they worked, and both got readings in the 96 degree range. So that means neither of us can work a thermometer. I'M kind of slow, but my husband enjoys writing computer code, studying algorithms (not that I know what those are), and reading historical non-fiction; so that makes me feel a LITTLE better that he is just as baffled by such a simple device. We're perfect together!
Fast forward to this week: my little angelic ball of dough woke up on Tuesday sweaty and miserable. He had a rough situation in the diaper region, too, and didn't feel like eating or drinking. But the most alarming part was that he was incredibly fatigued, and if you know my son (or any toddler) that's just not normal. BUT I did the "kiss test" and confirmed that he was not running a fever.
I took him to the doctor, and she thought he seemed okay (no fever, ear, nose, or throat issues). She prescribed a special ointment for his "diaper situation" ($60 WITH insurance. I'm assuming it's made of gold leaf... but naturally it's worth every penny if it makes him feel better). We went home, I called out of work, and we spent most of the day curled up together on a Thomas the Tank Engine bender.
Today he seemed a little better, eating and drinking and even playing a little, but I was worried because he was still exhausted. I called the pediatrician's nurse line, which I've always had good experiences with. A woman called me back a couple hours later. I immediately detected that she was an older woman and DEFINITELY from New York, possibly Queens.
From the beginning, she seemed impatient with me. She asked me if Grant had a fever. I tried to explain that I had felt his forehead and it was cool, but I might as well have said, "My psychic believes he's fine." Now to her credit, I probably sounded like a moron. But I can't take Grant's temperature! Besides the fact that I can't work a thermometer, that kid often won't stay still long enough for me to do it. This nurse was appalled. In a high-pitched, Fran-Drescher-like voice, she insisted that I take it immediately and she would "cahwl" me back in ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, Nurse Fran called back and boy did I get it. I felt like my grandmother from Flushing was yelling at me."I just can't seem to get a reading!" I whined back. "He won't stay still!"
"YOU'VE got to make him stay still! You're BIGGAH than him, and he needs to learn! YOU'RE bigg-aaah!"
Oh, really? I'm bigger than my 21-month-old son? Thanks, Nurse Fran. I can take it from here... What is it with strong-accented women pointing out my son's size lately??
Nurse Fran finally gave up, exasperated with my parental ineptitude. She told me to keep taking his temp throughout the day and monitor his eating, drinking, and general behavior. She might as well have told me not to shake him vigorously; she clearly thought I was THAT much of a dunce. I guess I can't really blame her..
BUT... as soon as I hung up, I used all my big-person force and finally held the thermometer under Grant's doughy arm long enough to get a reading. I eagerly brought the thermometer up to my face to read it and discovered that the freakin' thing was in Celsius.
That's it; I'm cancelling my plans for pre-med.
")
P.S. Grant is doing much better this evening, thank goodness.
When my son was born almost twenty-one months ago, a sweet nurse told me that all I had to do was kiss his forehead to gauge whether or not he was running a fever. This was a relief to me, because I have bad luck with thermometers. I can never seem to get a correct reading and always end up with a number below what I think sounds normal (though this could explain why I'm always freezing...)
Anyhow, my husband and I were fine with the "kiss test," but of course bought several different thermometers to keep in the house just in case. We tested them on ourselves (orally and ear!) to make sure they worked, and both got readings in the 96 degree range. So that means neither of us can work a thermometer. I'M kind of slow, but my husband enjoys writing computer code, studying algorithms (not that I know what those are), and reading historical non-fiction; so that makes me feel a LITTLE better that he is just as baffled by such a simple device. We're perfect together!
Fast forward to this week: my little angelic ball of dough woke up on Tuesday sweaty and miserable. He had a rough situation in the diaper region, too, and didn't feel like eating or drinking. But the most alarming part was that he was incredibly fatigued, and if you know my son (or any toddler) that's just not normal. BUT I did the "kiss test" and confirmed that he was not running a fever.
I took him to the doctor, and she thought he seemed okay (no fever, ear, nose, or throat issues). She prescribed a special ointment for his "diaper situation" ($60 WITH insurance. I'm assuming it's made of gold leaf... but naturally it's worth every penny if it makes him feel better). We went home, I called out of work, and we spent most of the day curled up together on a Thomas the Tank Engine bender.
Today he seemed a little better, eating and drinking and even playing a little, but I was worried because he was still exhausted. I called the pediatrician's nurse line, which I've always had good experiences with. A woman called me back a couple hours later. I immediately detected that she was an older woman and DEFINITELY from New York, possibly Queens.
From the beginning, she seemed impatient with me. She asked me if Grant had a fever. I tried to explain that I had felt his forehead and it was cool, but I might as well have said, "My psychic believes he's fine." Now to her credit, I probably sounded like a moron. But I can't take Grant's temperature! Besides the fact that I can't work a thermometer, that kid often won't stay still long enough for me to do it. This nurse was appalled. In a high-pitched, Fran-Drescher-like voice, she insisted that I take it immediately and she would "cahwl" me back in ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, Nurse Fran called back and boy did I get it. I felt like my grandmother from Flushing was yelling at me."I just can't seem to get a reading!" I whined back. "He won't stay still!"
"YOU'VE got to make him stay still! You're BIGGAH than him, and he needs to learn! YOU'RE bigg-aaah!"
Oh, really? I'm bigger than my 21-month-old son? Thanks, Nurse Fran. I can take it from here... What is it with strong-accented women pointing out my son's size lately??
Nurse Fran finally gave up, exasperated with my parental ineptitude. She told me to keep taking his temp throughout the day and monitor his eating, drinking, and general behavior. She might as well have told me not to shake him vigorously; she clearly thought I was THAT much of a dunce. I guess I can't really blame her..
BUT... as soon as I hung up, I used all my big-person force and finally held the thermometer under Grant's doughy arm long enough to get a reading. I eagerly brought the thermometer up to my face to read it and discovered that the freakin' thing was in Celsius.
That's it; I'm cancelling my plans for pre-med.
")
P.S. Grant is doing much better this evening, thank goodness.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Martinis on Me!
Recently my husband and I had a night out in Bath, England, while my in-laws took care of our son. We walked all around, eventually ending up in a pub where a seemingly friendly local began telling us about some places to check out. He then asked us what we "do" back in America. Howard gave a brief description of his job, then told him that I was a "childcare provder." The man laughed condescendingly, looked at me, and said:
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)