It’s funny, the things you hold on to; the things you save because they remind you of a particular time, a particular place, a particular person.
Or, maybe, a particular version of yourself.
Trinkets. Tickets. Trifles. Things that would be meaningless to anyone else, but that hold so much weight in your own hand, you can barely stand to touch them.
I once had a plain wooden box, chosen specifically to belie the importance of its contents. I filled it with a thousand different words, as much of my soul as I could spill on to paper.
I filled it with things.
Into this box went a dried flower, a tiny key on a blue string, a thin silver key ring, the pink empty shell of what was once a balloon, a seashell, a napkin with quick, hasty words scribbled across it. Things that would look like trash to anyone else.
But to me, they were things to hold on to, to touch, to open up and remove and say, “Remember when?”
Now I am grown.
Now I sit, alone, on the edge of my bed.
In my hand lies a tiny pink heart-shaped box, made for me by my 7 year old for Mother’s Day, with the word MOM written in blue marker.
I run my fingers across the top, skipping along the tiny beads so meticulously glued on.
There is no box large enough to hold what I’m trying to put away this time. There is only the physical evidence we have left behind: this house, these children, this life.
These rings.
I'm surprised by the sound they make, the reality of their weight, as I plunk first one (my hand is stretched out against the steering wheel, the sun bouncing off of this new diamond ring, throwing light in a thousand different directions, a thousand different possibilities for this life we're about to start), and then the other (take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity) into the tiny box. I put the top on quickly, afraid they might jump back out at me, grow teeth, and sink themselves deep into my flesh, cutting so deep as to never stop bleeding, never scar over, never heal.
And then I push the box into the back of my drawer, buried under bathing suits and sports bras.
As if they can be hidden.
As if I will forget that they are there. As if, every time I open that drawer, I won’t feel my heart race just knowing they exist, knowing that I could reach my hand in and pull the box out and open the lid and face the sadness that threatens to swallow me whole, face it straight on.
Look it in the eyes. Stare it down. Break under it. Conquer it.
But I will do none of these things.
Instead, I will leave the box buried beneath the bathing suits and sports bras.
I will walk out of my empty bedroom.
And then, quietly, I will close the door behind me.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Kidsports (omg,shootmenow)
There are a lot of things my kids say that make me cringe. Things like, "What are those bumps on your chest called again?" or, "I think I'm going to throw up" (which does not, by the way, mean 'perhaps you should direct me to the nearest, most convenient spot to do so'. Rather, it means 'throw up is currently coming out of my mouth and onto the floor, my clothes, my shoes, your shoes, and somehow, thanks to physics, your hair')
Another would be: "Can we go to Kidsports?"
Kidsports is an indoor playground where you can bring your kids on a rainy/cold/snowy day so they can run around and let out some energy. Get some exercise. Blow off some steam. To those without children, it probably seems like a brilliant idea.
And, as you prepare for your first visit one rainy Saturday in late November, you think so, too.
Of course, so does every other parent of every other child between the ages of 3 and 12 within a 30 mile radius.
The problem with sticking 439 children into a playspace meant to contain 70 children, is that kids in this setting tend to get JUST A LITTLE FUCKING INSANE. Maybe, perhaps, just a little bit louder/crazier/lethal than they might otherwise.
And that loud/crazy/lethal shit multiplies faster than Gremlins in a hot tub.
Now, because you are a good American, you will have hit the local Dunkin' Donuts on your way and purchased yourself the largest coffee they are legally allowed to sell you, only to open the door to Kidsports and be accosted not only with the overpowering smell of feet, but a front desk attendant who tells you, "Ummm, sorry? No outside food or drink allowed? Ummmm? We sell coffee at the snack bar?"
That's right, you must buy their sucky coffee. Coffee that tastes like it was brewed, burnt, and reheated sometime during the Clinton Administration and that could, quite possibly, even contain ground-up bits of an old Clinton cigar.
It's really bad coffee.
Not to be outdone by the coffee, there is also the prerequisite shitty pizza. I'm pretty sure this is part of the business model: you must have x-number of bathrooms and sprinklers, require a minimum of 8,200 tickets for a 'prize' that was dipped in lead paint while being made in an asbestos factory by 10 year olds in a country 92% of high school seniors can't find on a map, and, oh yeah, you MUST follow our recipe for Shitty Pizza That Kids Will Eat Because They'll Eat Anything That You Call Pizza.
That's the legit name of the recipe.
So why in God's name would a grown, sane, stable woman ever chose to go to such a place?
Because my kids love that shitty pizza. And they come flying down the giant slide laughing so hard they can't catch their breath. And they jump in the bouncy house until they're ready to puke. They leave sweaty and happy.
And tired.
Translation? Easy bedtime.
Which makes it almost worth the really bad coffee.
Almost.
Another would be: "Can we go to Kidsports?"
Kidsports is an indoor playground where you can bring your kids on a rainy/cold/snowy day so they can run around and let out some energy. Get some exercise. Blow off some steam. To those without children, it probably seems like a brilliant idea.
And, as you prepare for your first visit one rainy Saturday in late November, you think so, too.
Of course, so does every other parent of every other child between the ages of 3 and 12 within a 30 mile radius.
The problem with sticking 439 children into a playspace meant to contain 70 children, is that kids in this setting tend to get JUST A LITTLE FUCKING INSANE. Maybe, perhaps, just a little bit louder/crazier/lethal than they might otherwise.
And that loud/crazy/lethal shit multiplies faster than Gremlins in a hot tub.
Now, because you are a good American, you will have hit the local Dunkin' Donuts on your way and purchased yourself the largest coffee they are legally allowed to sell you, only to open the door to Kidsports and be accosted not only with the overpowering smell of feet, but a front desk attendant who tells you, "Ummm, sorry? No outside food or drink allowed? Ummmm? We sell coffee at the snack bar?"
That's right, you must buy their sucky coffee. Coffee that tastes like it was brewed, burnt, and reheated sometime during the Clinton Administration and that could, quite possibly, even contain ground-up bits of an old Clinton cigar.
It's really bad coffee.
Not to be outdone by the coffee, there is also the prerequisite shitty pizza. I'm pretty sure this is part of the business model: you must have x-number of bathrooms and sprinklers, require a minimum of 8,200 tickets for a 'prize' that was dipped in lead paint while being made in an asbestos factory by 10 year olds in a country 92% of high school seniors can't find on a map, and, oh yeah, you MUST follow our recipe for Shitty Pizza That Kids Will Eat Because They'll Eat Anything That You Call Pizza.
That's the legit name of the recipe.
So why in God's name would a grown, sane, stable woman ever chose to go to such a place?
Because my kids love that shitty pizza. And they come flying down the giant slide laughing so hard they can't catch their breath. And they jump in the bouncy house until they're ready to puke. They leave sweaty and happy.
And tired.
Translation? Easy bedtime.
Which makes it almost worth the really bad coffee.
Almost.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
In loving memory of my Grandmother
When I was a little girl, I remember sleeping over at my grandparent's house. There would be fluffernutter sandwiches, chocolate milk, my grandfather's big bowl of Corn Flakes with a banana in the morning.
One night I slept in the big bed with my grandmother. I was tired; I wanted to snuggle up to her and go to sleep. I asked her to turn out the light.
But she was praying the rosary and she said I needed to be patient. Because this was important. She showed me the beads, she recited the prayers for me, she slipped an arm around me and kept praying as I drifted off to sleep.
I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
When I was around 12 or 13, I was in her kitchen for Thanksgiving. This year was different from others; I wasn't running around, bouncing on the beds, playing with my cousins or trying to steal a piece of fudge from the dining room without being caught. This year, I was with the women in the kitchen. My grandmother opened the drawer where she kept her aprons (to the left of the sink), pulled one out, and gave it to me to wear. I slipped it on.
I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
When I was 21, nearing the end of college, I lived with one of my aunts while I finished school. My grandparents lived nearby. They suddenly had a much closer view of the person I was becoming within my family.
They did not like what they saw.
And my grandmother told me so. She took pen to paper and wrote me a letter. I wanted to pretend that that letter never existed, that it's words were untrue, that the person my grandmother was disappointed in was someone else. But I knew she was right. I knew there was more to me than what she saw, but that I could not deny the things she said.
I found myself, again, at my grandmother's kitchen table. I was terrified to sit there, before my grandparents, but I was ready to apologize and to hear the things they had to say. I was ashamed and afraid as my grandmother poured me a cup of tea.
The first thing she said to me was that she was proud of me for coming to the table to have this conversation.
And, immediately, I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
When my first son was born, my relationship with my grandmother changed. Suddenly, we had a new connection, as mothers. She talked about potty training, she talked about being a stay at home mother, she talked about the resilience of little ones as I worried about everything little thing under the sun (prompting her to finally say, having grown impatient with my never ending list of Things I Felt I Was Doing Wrong, 'You know, you really have to go out of your way to break him'.)
My second son was born. My boys grew.
And then my father, her firstborn, got sick.
He was 3,000 miles away. Neither of us could easily get to him to see him, to know he was alright, to take him in with our own eyes, to hug him the way we wanted to. When he was finally well enough to visit, just 3 short weeks ago, my grandmother and I talked about how relieved we were to see him for ourselves.
"But the goodbye," she said, with tears in her eyes. "It's going to be a very hard goodbye."
"Yes," I agreed. "It is."
I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
And my Grandma, who slipped from this world this past Thursday, was so very right.
It's a very hard goodbye.
One night I slept in the big bed with my grandmother. I was tired; I wanted to snuggle up to her and go to sleep. I asked her to turn out the light.
But she was praying the rosary and she said I needed to be patient. Because this was important. She showed me the beads, she recited the prayers for me, she slipped an arm around me and kept praying as I drifted off to sleep.
I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
When I was around 12 or 13, I was in her kitchen for Thanksgiving. This year was different from others; I wasn't running around, bouncing on the beds, playing with my cousins or trying to steal a piece of fudge from the dining room without being caught. This year, I was with the women in the kitchen. My grandmother opened the drawer where she kept her aprons (to the left of the sink), pulled one out, and gave it to me to wear. I slipped it on.
I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
When I was 21, nearing the end of college, I lived with one of my aunts while I finished school. My grandparents lived nearby. They suddenly had a much closer view of the person I was becoming within my family.
They did not like what they saw.
And my grandmother told me so. She took pen to paper and wrote me a letter. I wanted to pretend that that letter never existed, that it's words were untrue, that the person my grandmother was disappointed in was someone else. But I knew she was right. I knew there was more to me than what she saw, but that I could not deny the things she said.
I found myself, again, at my grandmother's kitchen table. I was terrified to sit there, before my grandparents, but I was ready to apologize and to hear the things they had to say. I was ashamed and afraid as my grandmother poured me a cup of tea.
The first thing she said to me was that she was proud of me for coming to the table to have this conversation.
And, immediately, I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
When my first son was born, my relationship with my grandmother changed. Suddenly, we had a new connection, as mothers. She talked about potty training, she talked about being a stay at home mother, she talked about the resilience of little ones as I worried about everything little thing under the sun (prompting her to finally say, having grown impatient with my never ending list of Things I Felt I Was Doing Wrong, 'You know, you really have to go out of your way to break him'.)
My second son was born. My boys grew.
And then my father, her firstborn, got sick.
He was 3,000 miles away. Neither of us could easily get to him to see him, to know he was alright, to take him in with our own eyes, to hug him the way we wanted to. When he was finally well enough to visit, just 3 short weeks ago, my grandmother and I talked about how relieved we were to see him for ourselves.
"But the goodbye," she said, with tears in her eyes. "It's going to be a very hard goodbye."
"Yes," I agreed. "It is."
I felt as though I belonged in her life. And she belonged in mine.
And my Grandma, who slipped from this world this past Thursday, was so very right.
It's a very hard goodbye.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Facebook: I just can't quit you.
What's so great about Facebook anyway?
Um, besides, EVERYTHING.
(Here's where I admit to having an unhealthy love for Facebook. Whatever, being a stay-at-home mom can be really boring sometimes. Seriously, do you know how hard it is to lose at Connect Four? And how many pairs of Superman underwear can I fold in a day anyway?)
Here are a few of my favorite things about the Book of Faces:
1) I am ALWAYS up on current events.
Anything major that happens in the world, I know my news feed will light up like a Christmas tree with post after post about it. Did *YOU* know that Osama bin Laden is dead? Oh yeah, he totally is. Not only was I able to rely on my Facebook newsfeed for this information, but I was able to enjoy relevant quotes from Martin Luther King Jr. and Mark Twain, each of whom had the foresight to offer his wisdom on this very event long ago. Now that's some good PR.
2) I NEVER need to watch the weather.
Want to know what the weather's like? Don't sit and wait for weather.com's page to load. CHECK FACEBOOK. Guaranteed that 17% of your friends are commenting about the weather. It's hot/it's cold/it's windy/it's raining/it's hailing or sleeting (bet your bottom dollar I know the difference), oh my God it's a FUCKING RAINBOW (wait for obligatory comment about finding the pot of gold). This past winter, I rarely watched the weather because I always had Facebook to let me know that IT'S GOING TO SNOW 17 FEET OF SNOW, WAY MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE ANYWHERE WILL EVER UNDERSTAND, AND WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. Thank you, Facebook. Now I can go buy my milk and bread and eggs as required by law.
3) The hearts.
Oh, you know. <3 See, means nothing here. In fact, you probably think I just made some boobies. Facebook takes the boobies and turns them into hearts, just like I prayed would happen when I was 12. HOW AWESOME IS THAT?
4) The STALKING.
Now, maybe dudes are normal and they don't do stuff like this. But girls know that the reason Facebook exists is so you can look up your ex-boyfriends, call your best friend, and tear him to pieces. EVEN IF HE'S A FRIGGIN' DOCTOR AND HIS WIFE LOOKS LIKE A MODEL. 165 pictures of your honeymoon? Don't mind if I do. Wow, his wife REALLY needs to put on some weight. And, HELLO, if God had meant for our eyebrows to be plucked out and then drawn in with pencils, he would have adorned our hands with tweezers instead of fingers. It's important to note here that you MUST keep your own Facebook page on total and complete lock-down so that no one can ever do this back to you. Besides, you're perfect and wonderful and wasn't it his loss anyway, so what-the-eff-ever.
5) The blatant misuse of the exclamation point.
Confession time: my opinion of you diminishes 10 points for every cluster of exclamation points you post. I will begrudgingly admit that there are times when A SINGLE EXCLAMATION POINT is warranted. But this: !!!!!!! is just absurd. Let's cut that shit out. And, while we're on it, it's 'are', not 'r'. If typing the two extra letters really wastes that much of your time, you MIGHT want to take some typing lessons.
6) The STATUS UPDATES.
I love me some status updates. I love reading them, I love writing them, I love commenting on them. I. LOVE. THEM. I have learned more about people in high school over two years of status updates than I did sitting next to them in the cafeteria for 4 years. I know who votes democrat, who votes republican, and who couldn't tell you the difference between the two. The very best of the status updates are the uber-dramatic ones. You know, "So-and-so JUST IS." It's the Facebook equivalent of sulking into a room, dropping into a chair, and sighing as loudly as you can. It's passive-aggressiveness at it's very best. AND I LOVE IT.
Now, the OCD side of me is greatly disturbed by the thought of ending a list at six items rather than 10, and I would have more to say, except, well...
I have this totally awesome status update to post...
pst...Check out the doo-hickey on the right to take you to the Playing House Facebook page where you can become a fan and follow my totally awesome status updates.
Um, besides, EVERYTHING.
(Here's where I admit to having an unhealthy love for Facebook. Whatever, being a stay-at-home mom can be really boring sometimes. Seriously, do you know how hard it is to lose at Connect Four? And how many pairs of Superman underwear can I fold in a day anyway?)
Here are a few of my favorite things about the Book of Faces:
1) I am ALWAYS up on current events.
Anything major that happens in the world, I know my news feed will light up like a Christmas tree with post after post about it. Did *YOU* know that Osama bin Laden is dead? Oh yeah, he totally is. Not only was I able to rely on my Facebook newsfeed for this information, but I was able to enjoy relevant quotes from Martin Luther King Jr. and Mark Twain, each of whom had the foresight to offer his wisdom on this very event long ago. Now that's some good PR.
2) I NEVER need to watch the weather.
Want to know what the weather's like? Don't sit and wait for weather.com's page to load. CHECK FACEBOOK. Guaranteed that 17% of your friends are commenting about the weather. It's hot/it's cold/it's windy/it's raining/it's hailing or sleeting (bet your bottom dollar I know the difference), oh my God it's a FUCKING RAINBOW (wait for obligatory comment about finding the pot of gold). This past winter, I rarely watched the weather because I always had Facebook to let me know that IT'S GOING TO SNOW 17 FEET OF SNOW, WAY MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE ANYWHERE WILL EVER UNDERSTAND, AND WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. Thank you, Facebook. Now I can go buy my milk and bread and eggs as required by law.
3) The hearts.
Oh, you know. <3 See, means nothing here. In fact, you probably think I just made some boobies. Facebook takes the boobies and turns them into hearts, just like I prayed would happen when I was 12. HOW AWESOME IS THAT?
4) The STALKING.
Now, maybe dudes are normal and they don't do stuff like this. But girls know that the reason Facebook exists is so you can look up your ex-boyfriends, call your best friend, and tear him to pieces. EVEN IF HE'S A FRIGGIN' DOCTOR AND HIS WIFE LOOKS LIKE A MODEL. 165 pictures of your honeymoon? Don't mind if I do. Wow, his wife REALLY needs to put on some weight. And, HELLO, if God had meant for our eyebrows to be plucked out and then drawn in with pencils, he would have adorned our hands with tweezers instead of fingers. It's important to note here that you MUST keep your own Facebook page on total and complete lock-down so that no one can ever do this back to you. Besides, you're perfect and wonderful and wasn't it his loss anyway, so what-the-eff-ever.
5) The blatant misuse of the exclamation point.
Confession time: my opinion of you diminishes 10 points for every cluster of exclamation points you post. I will begrudgingly admit that there are times when A SINGLE EXCLAMATION POINT is warranted. But this: !!!!!!! is just absurd. Let's cut that shit out. And, while we're on it, it's 'are', not 'r'. If typing the two extra letters really wastes that much of your time, you MIGHT want to take some typing lessons.
6) The STATUS UPDATES.
I love me some status updates. I love reading them, I love writing them, I love commenting on them. I. LOVE. THEM. I have learned more about people in high school over two years of status updates than I did sitting next to them in the cafeteria for 4 years. I know who votes democrat, who votes republican, and who couldn't tell you the difference between the two. The very best of the status updates are the uber-dramatic ones. You know, "So-and-so JUST IS." It's the Facebook equivalent of sulking into a room, dropping into a chair, and sighing as loudly as you can. It's passive-aggressiveness at it's very best. AND I LOVE IT.
Now, the OCD side of me is greatly disturbed by the thought of ending a list at six items rather than 10, and I would have more to say, except, well...
I have this totally awesome status update to post...
pst...Check out the doo-hickey on the right to take you to the Playing House Facebook page where you can become a fan and follow my totally awesome status updates.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Dave Does Easter
Wouldn't it be funny if the first Easter fell on April 1st?
Jesus would be all like, "Hey, it's me, Jesus. I'm back."
And everyone would stop biting the heads off of their chocolate bunnies and be all like, "OMG! Jesus, you totally rose from the dead! Awesome!"
And then he'd be all like, "April Fools! Hahahaha, I gotcha. Hahahaha, you should see your faces, you TOTALLY thought I was Jesus!"
And the people would be like, "Wait. WAIT. You mean, you're not the Lord our Savior? This isn't a miracle?"
And he'd be all like, "Yeah, no. Sorry, man. I'm Dave. I get the whole 'Did anyone ever tell you you look like Jesus?' thing a lot, so I thought it'd be funny to just...you know..."
And then there would this weird, uncomfortable silence.
And then Dave would be like, "Ummm, yeah. So, I think I'm gonna go."
Then there would be an angry mob and everyone would be PISSED at Dave, so pissed in fact that they would gather all the Easter eggs for the Easter egg hunt and throw them all at Dave.
And then the Easter egg hunt would have to be cancelled and that would NOT be funny at all. So I guess it's good that the first Easter didn't actually fall on April Fool's Day.
Jesus would be all like, "Hey, it's me, Jesus. I'm back."
And everyone would stop biting the heads off of their chocolate bunnies and be all like, "OMG! Jesus, you totally rose from the dead! Awesome!"
And then he'd be all like, "April Fools! Hahahaha, I gotcha. Hahahaha, you should see your faces, you TOTALLY thought I was Jesus!"
And the people would be like, "Wait. WAIT. You mean, you're not the Lord our Savior? This isn't a miracle?"
And he'd be all like, "Yeah, no. Sorry, man. I'm Dave. I get the whole 'Did anyone ever tell you you look like Jesus?' thing a lot, so I thought it'd be funny to just...you know..."
And then there would this weird, uncomfortable silence.
And then Dave would be like, "Ummm, yeah. So, I think I'm gonna go."
Then there would be an angry mob and everyone would be PISSED at Dave, so pissed in fact that they would gather all the Easter eggs for the Easter egg hunt and throw them all at Dave.
And then the Easter egg hunt would have to be cancelled and that would NOT be funny at all. So I guess it's good that the first Easter didn't actually fall on April Fool's Day.
Monday, April 4, 2011
GAAAH! Nature!
I don't do nature.
Wait...
Scratch that.
I do pretty nature. Like sunsets and sunrises and moons and stars and trees and flowers and beaches and oceans and mountains and stuff.
And weather.
I LOVE WEATHER.
I DO NOT, however, do gross, icky nature.
I'm talking dirt, bugs, camping, fungi (I'm looking at you, mushrooms), and, with all due respect to the ones that could eat me (which I believe to be many; like, way, WAY more than other people assume), most animals.
That's right, I said it.
I'm NOT an animal girl.
I was never the little girl with the horse/puppy/kitten folder in her Trapper Keeper. My folders were blue. Or red. Or green. MAYBE with a rainbow here or there.
But no butterflies. No bunnies. No unicorns.
NEVER unicorns.
It's not like I've never TRIED to like animals. I have.
There was my friend Matt's cat, who was pretty okay. Except that Matt would regularly stop our phone conversations to announce that the cat was staring at his neck and was probably plotting to kill him.
And then there was the night the cat brought a mouse into the house and left it at our feet.
ALL SET WITH THE CATS, THANKS.
There was also my friend Sascha's dog, Bert. I kinda dug Bert. He was all big and sweet and tried really hard to be protective. We'd come in and she'd tell him, "Go check the house, Bert!" and Bert would proudly trot from the back door to the front to give us the all-clear.
Bert and I had a sort of understanding. It went like this:
Me: Bert, you're stinky. It's not your fault; it's just because you're a dog and sometimes dogs smell like dogs. No judgement. Please don't eat me.
Bert: We're cool. I will not lick you, or jump on you, or eat you. Now give me a french fry.
In fact, my relationship with Bert reached a really great place. I realized this one night when Sascha and I were leaving her house. Always the gentleman, Bert saw us to the door.
"Bye, Bert," Sascha called to him. "I love ya!"
"Bye, Bert," I said, and then I paused. I felt like I should say something more. But I didn't love Bert, and I couldn't bring myself to lie to him by saying that I did.
"I don't love you, Bert," I admitted. "But I like you a lot."
I like to think that Bert respected my honesty, my refusal to lead him on and let him think I cared for him more than I actually did. He played it cool; he trotted happily away to go do whatever it is dogs do on a Saturday night.
But Bert was the exception to the rule. And that was years ago.
Now I have my own home, free of pet hair. And pet smells. And pet bills.
I have kids. POTTY TRAINED KIDS.
Kids who, thankfully, are happy with fish.
Even if all of our fish are now dead. Flushed back to the ocean. Back to nature.
WHERE THEY BELONG.
Wait...
Scratch that.
I do pretty nature. Like sunsets and sunrises and moons and stars and trees and flowers and beaches and oceans and mountains and stuff.
And weather.
I LOVE WEATHER.
I DO NOT, however, do gross, icky nature.
I'm talking dirt, bugs, camping, fungi (I'm looking at you, mushrooms), and, with all due respect to the ones that could eat me (which I believe to be many; like, way, WAY more than other people assume), most animals.
That's right, I said it.
I'm NOT an animal girl.
I was never the little girl with the horse/puppy/kitten folder in her Trapper Keeper. My folders were blue. Or red. Or green. MAYBE with a rainbow here or there.
But no butterflies. No bunnies. No unicorns.
NEVER unicorns.
It's not like I've never TRIED to like animals. I have.
There was my friend Matt's cat, who was pretty okay. Except that Matt would regularly stop our phone conversations to announce that the cat was staring at his neck and was probably plotting to kill him.
And then there was the night the cat brought a mouse into the house and left it at our feet.
ALL SET WITH THE CATS, THANKS.
There was also my friend Sascha's dog, Bert. I kinda dug Bert. He was all big and sweet and tried really hard to be protective. We'd come in and she'd tell him, "Go check the house, Bert!" and Bert would proudly trot from the back door to the front to give us the all-clear.
Bert and I had a sort of understanding. It went like this:
Me: Bert, you're stinky. It's not your fault; it's just because you're a dog and sometimes dogs smell like dogs. No judgement. Please don't eat me.
Bert: We're cool. I will not lick you, or jump on you, or eat you. Now give me a french fry.
In fact, my relationship with Bert reached a really great place. I realized this one night when Sascha and I were leaving her house. Always the gentleman, Bert saw us to the door.
"Bye, Bert," Sascha called to him. "I love ya!"
"Bye, Bert," I said, and then I paused. I felt like I should say something more. But I didn't love Bert, and I couldn't bring myself to lie to him by saying that I did.
"I don't love you, Bert," I admitted. "But I like you a lot."
I like to think that Bert respected my honesty, my refusal to lead him on and let him think I cared for him more than I actually did. He played it cool; he trotted happily away to go do whatever it is dogs do on a Saturday night.
But Bert was the exception to the rule. And that was years ago.
Now I have my own home, free of pet hair. And pet smells. And pet bills.
I have kids. POTTY TRAINED KIDS.
Kids who, thankfully, are happy with fish.
Even if all of our fish are now dead. Flushed back to the ocean. Back to nature.
WHERE THEY BELONG.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A Tale of Two Annas
Good People of the Internets:
I need your help.
It would appear I've gotten myself in a bit of a situation (not to be confused with THE Situation, which would just be gross and probably require a hefty dose of antibiotics and some sort of antifungal cream).
Here's the problem.
Every week, I go to the grocery store on the same day, at the same time, my super-duper, organized-by-aisle-for-maximum-efficiency list in hand. I play it like a race, trying to be beat my own best time each week. My child-free time is limited and I hate wasting it standing in the produce aisle smelling melons.
SHUT IT.
So a few months ago, I was engaged in my regular race through Stop and Shop when I ran into a woman I know.
Or, at least, I was fairly certain I knew her.
I was about 85% sure she was possibly Anna, one of my Facebook friends, sister of an old, dear friend from high school.
She looked A LOT like Anna, who I haven't seen in person in many years.
At first, it was super casual. Just a smile, a friendly hello.
Then, one day, our relationship escalated to Chit-Chat. This is really difficult when you're only 85% sure you know the person you're trying to chit-chat with.
I tried to keep the conversation to only safe topics: the weather, the holidays, the snow, the weather. But eventually you run out of ways to talk about the snow, even here in New England. So I went with the next safest thing, thinking I could feel this woman out to see if she was Actually Anna.
"So," I began, "How's your family?"
"Great," was all I got. Shit.
I would come home from the supermarket, log in to Facebook, and head to Anna's profile and look at her pictures.
Did I mention she looked A LOT like Actual Anna? I was still about 75% sure that she *was* Anna. But, to be safe, I started to avoid her in the market. I would see her in one aisle and duck down another. I was out of things to say that wouldn't give away the fact that I wasn't sure I even knew who she was.
This worked great for a few weeks.
Until the day that I hurriedly turned the corner down the chips aisle. There was Possibly Anna, talking to 3 other women. I had no choice but to continue down the aisle; there would be hell to pay if I didn't come home with pretzel sticks and I sure as shit wasn't going to jeopardize my record-breaking time just because of a potentially awkward situation. As I made my way past them, I smiled at Possibly Anna.
"Oh, hi!" one of her friends said enthusiastically, in a way that meant one of three things: she was really lonely and eager to meet new people, she was on some seriously kick-ass happy pills, or she thought she knew me.
And while my confidence that Possibly Anna was Actual Anna had dropped to 70%, I was 100% sure that I DID. NOT. KNOW. THIS. WOMAN.
So I gave her a confused 'hi' and scurried away.
Things had clearly taken a drastic turn. It was time to cut the shit and get down to the nitty gritty. But since I couldn't muster the courage to ask her, "Are youa good witch Actual Anna or a bad witch Possibly Anna?", I had to resort to a sneakier tactic.
This week, I sought out Possibly Anna. I watched for her down each aisle, and when I finally found her near the toilet paper, I headed her way and quickly scoped the contents of her cart for my in.
Go-gurt. Bingo.
Four years of preschool pick-ups have left me well-equipped to start any conversation about any child-related topic with any mommy in the whole wide world. I started in.
Me: "Blahblahblah *kids* blahblahblah *crazy* blahblahblah *school*."
Possibly Anna: "I know, right? My daughter's the same way."
Me: "How old is your daughter?"
Possibly Anna: "Second grade."
And it's official.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THIS WOMAN IS.
Actual Anna doesn't have a daughter; she doesn't have a second grader; and she would never give 'SECOND GRADE' as an answer to a question about AGE.
I extricated myself from the conversation as seamlessly as I could, finished my shopping, and left.
That was this past Monday. I know I'm going to see her, this Stranger Anna, next Monday.
OMG, WHAT DO I DO NOW?
It feels a little weird to keep faking it with this Stranger Anna.
But I can't really walk up to her now, after all these weeks, and say, "Excuse me, but WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"
And, even more troubling, who in God's name does she think *I* am?
So, lay it on me, dear reader. What's an identity-challenged grocery shopper to do?
I need your help.
It would appear I've gotten myself in a bit of a situation (not to be confused with THE Situation, which would just be gross and probably require a hefty dose of antibiotics and some sort of antifungal cream).
Here's the problem.
Every week, I go to the grocery store on the same day, at the same time, my super-duper, organized-by-aisle-for-maximum-efficiency list in hand. I play it like a race, trying to be beat my own best time each week. My child-free time is limited and I hate wasting it standing in the produce aisle smelling melons.
SHUT IT.
So a few months ago, I was engaged in my regular race through Stop and Shop when I ran into a woman I know.
Or, at least, I was fairly certain I knew her.
I was about 85% sure she was possibly Anna, one of my Facebook friends, sister of an old, dear friend from high school.
She looked A LOT like Anna, who I haven't seen in person in many years.
At first, it was super casual. Just a smile, a friendly hello.
Then, one day, our relationship escalated to Chit-Chat. This is really difficult when you're only 85% sure you know the person you're trying to chit-chat with.
I tried to keep the conversation to only safe topics: the weather, the holidays, the snow, the weather. But eventually you run out of ways to talk about the snow, even here in New England. So I went with the next safest thing, thinking I could feel this woman out to see if she was Actually Anna.
"So," I began, "How's your family?"
"Great," was all I got. Shit.
I would come home from the supermarket, log in to Facebook, and head to Anna's profile and look at her pictures.
Did I mention she looked A LOT like Actual Anna? I was still about 75% sure that she *was* Anna. But, to be safe, I started to avoid her in the market. I would see her in one aisle and duck down another. I was out of things to say that wouldn't give away the fact that I wasn't sure I even knew who she was.
This worked great for a few weeks.
Until the day that I hurriedly turned the corner down the chips aisle. There was Possibly Anna, talking to 3 other women. I had no choice but to continue down the aisle; there would be hell to pay if I didn't come home with pretzel sticks and I sure as shit wasn't going to jeopardize my record-breaking time just because of a potentially awkward situation. As I made my way past them, I smiled at Possibly Anna.
"Oh, hi!" one of her friends said enthusiastically, in a way that meant one of three things: she was really lonely and eager to meet new people, she was on some seriously kick-ass happy pills, or she thought she knew me.
And while my confidence that Possibly Anna was Actual Anna had dropped to 70%, I was 100% sure that I DID. NOT. KNOW. THIS. WOMAN.
So I gave her a confused 'hi' and scurried away.
Things had clearly taken a drastic turn. It was time to cut the shit and get down to the nitty gritty. But since I couldn't muster the courage to ask her, "Are you
This week, I sought out Possibly Anna. I watched for her down each aisle, and when I finally found her near the toilet paper, I headed her way and quickly scoped the contents of her cart for my in.
Go-gurt. Bingo.
Four years of preschool pick-ups have left me well-equipped to start any conversation about any child-related topic with any mommy in the whole wide world. I started in.
Me: "Blahblahblah *kids* blahblahblah *crazy* blahblahblah *school*."
Possibly Anna: "I know, right? My daughter's the same way."
Me: "How old is your daughter?"
Possibly Anna: "Second grade."
And it's official.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHO THIS WOMAN IS.
Actual Anna doesn't have a daughter; she doesn't have a second grader; and she would never give 'SECOND GRADE' as an answer to a question about AGE.
I extricated myself from the conversation as seamlessly as I could, finished my shopping, and left.
That was this past Monday. I know I'm going to see her, this Stranger Anna, next Monday.
OMG, WHAT DO I DO NOW?
It feels a little weird to keep faking it with this Stranger Anna.
But I can't really walk up to her now, after all these weeks, and say, "Excuse me, but WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"
And, even more troubling, who in God's name does she think *I* am?
So, lay it on me, dear reader. What's an identity-challenged grocery shopper to do?
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