I was having my house painted once when again my accent betrayed me and I was asked where I was from. "New York," I answered.
"New York," the painter said, "Isn't that where all the nasty people are from?"
My first instinct was sarcasm. "Yes," I wanted to say, "All the nasty people are from New York. The ones you meet in the Midwest are imported."
The Brooklynite in me wanted to ask him if he knew how stupid that question was.
I opted instead to try to give an explanation, realizing that a "nasty" answer would only confirm his "nasty" stereotype. (Plus, let's face it - the guy was painting my house. I had a personal interest in not insulting him.) I put forth my argument.
You see, it's not that New Yorkers are rude. We are just in a hurry. If it took you an hour and a half to drive 15 miles, you would be a little tense too. We don't always have time to tell every person we come into contact with to "Have a Nice Day!" And when you ride the subway, you don't even want to make eye contact, never mind smiling and wishing people well.
There's an unwritten law to keep things moving. When I was working in Manhattan, there was a coffee cart on the corner of my building that I visited each morning on the way to work. After three days, the man who worked the cart began handing me my coffee - light and sweet - before I had even ordered. I'd hand him the money, we'd both say thank you and then we got on with our lives.
Did he say, "There you go Ma'am. Just the way you like it. Lots of cream and three sugars. Have a great day!" No, he didn't. Did that make him rude? I don't think so. He wasn't my new best friend - he was the coffee cart man.
To tell you the truth, I think politeness can sometimes go to far. While driving with a friend in Dayton, we sat behind a car in the left turn lane after the green arrow lit.
"Beep," I said.
"No, I can't," he replied.
"Beep! He's not even looking!"
"I don't want to startle him."
We sat through the green light, then through another red all in the name of politeness. I thought a little friendly beep would've helped the guy out. A lot of beeping goes on in New York. You beep someone, they'll beep you right back. Generally, people don't beep here. I like that. I'm used to it now. But every now and then it wouldn't hurt.
After twleve years I'm also used to and engage in the "Have a nice days" and polite chit chat too. When we're in New York and drive over the Verrazano Bridge and pay a seven dollar toll and are greeted with little more than a blank stare - it bugs me a little. It's not always that way though. And guess what - everyone in the Midwest is not always polite.
Some people think they are always polite because they talk in happy sing-songy voices. I was having a disagreement with a woman one time and I knew she was telling me off even though she didn't actually say the words or raise her voice. Underneath all the , "Well, gee Mrs. Viskup, I'm very sorry that I can't help you..." I heard a familiar "Screw you lady!" though those words never passed her lips. Tricky huh?
Then there's a subtle rudeness - like breaking the rules. Take for example the parents who let their thirteen -year- olds jump in the ball pit at the fast food place. The fact that no one complains about it doesn't make it OK. Other people are too worried about being rude or confrontational to mention the height restriction to the parent or the kid. Incidentally, I'm not worried about that. I threw three kids out of there last week! For the record, if your child's voice is changing or has breasts, that child does not belong in the ball pit with my 4 year-old. And that is exactly what I told the parents.
It's my experience that the people who perpetuate these stereotypes about people and places have no first hand knowledge of what they are talking about, but I do. So here's the deal - Are there more rude people in New York? Maybe. There's probably more nice people in New York too. You see, there's just more people in New York, so it stands to reason.
Could it be possible that people are people wherever they are? Can New Yorkers be warm and friendly as well as brash and bold? Is Dayton a place for the street wise and sophisticated and nice country folk? Why don't we all start taking people at face value and find out?
"OK Mrs. Viskup," said the painter. "Now what color did you want the trim?"
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Wash Day
When I was a newlywed, I lived in a small apartment complex. To do our laundry, we had to go to the basement of the building next door and use coin-operated machines (of which there were only two). This wasn't terribly inconvenient, but for some reason I just hated it.
My husband and I were both working long hours, so we could only do laundry at night or on the weekends. I found the basement to be a little creepy. I also found that I never seemed to have all the quarters I needed. Other times, I would be prepared, but one of my lovely neighbors would use both machines and leave the clothes in the washers for hours! There were times when I was desperate and removed their clothes for them. You haven't lived until you've handled one of your neighbor's wet thongs. Wait. That didn't sound right. I hope you know what I mean.
Anyway, I seemed to always find myself doing seven loads of laundry on Saturday. My husband was home, it was daylight, we had access to change - I just felt better about it. On the other hand, it took all day. Occasionally someone would ring the doorbell.
"You don't have to answer it," my husband would say.
"But they'll see out car..."
"So what? This is what doors are for. We're on this side; they're on that side. Don't answer it!"
I started talking my laundry visiting with us. Dinner at Mom and Dad's? Throw in a load of whites there. Weekend at the in-laws? May as well take those sheets off the bed!
My mother had a suggestion. "Fill your laundry basket with a load of clothes each night. Put the detergent and the change right there in the basket. Leave the basket by the front door. The next day when you come home from work, don't even take off your coat. Just grab the basket and go to the laundry room and do it!"
Practical. Logical. I ignored her.
I think perhaps was rebelling against my mother. Growing up in my parents' house, everyday was washday. I'm not saying my mother was obsessed with the wash...well...actually... I am saying that. She was obsessed. Every morning, before coffee, before the newspaper, before her children's breakfasts, my mother would sleepwalk to the basement and start a load of clothes. She says she this way she felt as if she were doing two things at once. With four kids I suppose this was necessary, but now it's just her and my dad she still does it.
I can recall times when she was trying to fill a basket to put in the machine. She would walk into the living room, spy our feet and inquire, "Are you done with those socks?" I ask you dear reader - Is this normal?
Now that her children are all married and on their own, you would think she would enjoy her well-earned break. Not so. She cannot seem to baby-sit or visit without fluffing and folding. We all love and appreciate her doing this, but we can't help but wonder: Does she really love us that much, or does she need counseling?
Recently, my parents returned home from a weeklong visit to my house. My sister called to find my mother doing a load of wash.
"You have dirty clothes from the trip?' my sister wondered.
"No," my mother replied, "I did our clothes there. I'm changing the sheets."
"You're changing the sheets? The sheets you haven't slept on all week? You're nuts!"
My mother just laughs.
Doing the wash is not work to my mother. You see, she knows what it is to live in an apartment on the third floor of a building where there was no washer and dryer. She knows what it is to cart dirty clothes to the Laundromat and then cart them back to hang them on the line. ("Tops by their bottoms, bottoms by their tops!") So doing laundry in her own home, at her convenience, with machines that she owns is like child's play!
And even when it was more work, back when my parents lived in that apartment with three kids and one on the way - I know that when she pulled her sheets in off the line she put them up to her face to breath in their fresh smell and she smiled. Why? Because she was grateful for what she had. Because God gave her a beautiful day to hang out her clothes. Because my mother just loves to do the wash.
I'd tell you more, but my dryer just buzzed.
My husband and I were both working long hours, so we could only do laundry at night or on the weekends. I found the basement to be a little creepy. I also found that I never seemed to have all the quarters I needed. Other times, I would be prepared, but one of my lovely neighbors would use both machines and leave the clothes in the washers for hours! There were times when I was desperate and removed their clothes for them. You haven't lived until you've handled one of your neighbor's wet thongs. Wait. That didn't sound right. I hope you know what I mean.
Anyway, I seemed to always find myself doing seven loads of laundry on Saturday. My husband was home, it was daylight, we had access to change - I just felt better about it. On the other hand, it took all day. Occasionally someone would ring the doorbell.
"You don't have to answer it," my husband would say.
"But they'll see out car..."
"So what? This is what doors are for. We're on this side; they're on that side. Don't answer it!"
I started talking my laundry visiting with us. Dinner at Mom and Dad's? Throw in a load of whites there. Weekend at the in-laws? May as well take those sheets off the bed!
My mother had a suggestion. "Fill your laundry basket with a load of clothes each night. Put the detergent and the change right there in the basket. Leave the basket by the front door. The next day when you come home from work, don't even take off your coat. Just grab the basket and go to the laundry room and do it!"
Practical. Logical. I ignored her.
I think perhaps was rebelling against my mother. Growing up in my parents' house, everyday was washday. I'm not saying my mother was obsessed with the wash...well...actually... I am saying that. She was obsessed. Every morning, before coffee, before the newspaper, before her children's breakfasts, my mother would sleepwalk to the basement and start a load of clothes. She says she this way she felt as if she were doing two things at once. With four kids I suppose this was necessary, but now it's just her and my dad she still does it.
I can recall times when she was trying to fill a basket to put in the machine. She would walk into the living room, spy our feet and inquire, "Are you done with those socks?" I ask you dear reader - Is this normal?
Now that her children are all married and on their own, you would think she would enjoy her well-earned break. Not so. She cannot seem to baby-sit or visit without fluffing and folding. We all love and appreciate her doing this, but we can't help but wonder: Does she really love us that much, or does she need counseling?
Recently, my parents returned home from a weeklong visit to my house. My sister called to find my mother doing a load of wash.
"You have dirty clothes from the trip?' my sister wondered.
"No," my mother replied, "I did our clothes there. I'm changing the sheets."
"You're changing the sheets? The sheets you haven't slept on all week? You're nuts!"
My mother just laughs.
Doing the wash is not work to my mother. You see, she knows what it is to live in an apartment on the third floor of a building where there was no washer and dryer. She knows what it is to cart dirty clothes to the Laundromat and then cart them back to hang them on the line. ("Tops by their bottoms, bottoms by their tops!") So doing laundry in her own home, at her convenience, with machines that she owns is like child's play!
And even when it was more work, back when my parents lived in that apartment with three kids and one on the way - I know that when she pulled her sheets in off the line she put them up to her face to breath in their fresh smell and she smiled. Why? Because she was grateful for what she had. Because God gave her a beautiful day to hang out her clothes. Because my mother just loves to do the wash.
I'd tell you more, but my dryer just buzzed.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
With Friends Like These....
It's time we stopped kidding ourselves ladies. When we primp and pose in front of the mirror, conceal (as in dark under eye circles) and control (as in control top panty hose) we are not doing it to please men. We are doing it because we fear other women.
Admit it. You've never worried than Bob from Accounting would scoff at your purse not matching your shoes. The dads at the preschool are not noticing that you need a manicure. And in my fifteen years of marriage my husband has never once remarked that my eyebrows were begging to be tweezed. It's the women we are worried about. The women who are watching. The women who are waiting to rake us over the coals.
Take this recent conversation with a friend of mine for example...
"So what did you think of Barbara?"
"The mother of six with the Masters Degrees in Education and Child Psychology? That Barbara?"
"That would be her."
"I couldn't get past her mustache."
"I thought I was the only one."
"Honestly, I couldn't hear a word she said."
"I know, I know."
"I realize that waxing hurts, but there's a cream...Dab it on, wait 8 minutes, wipe it off."
"I find the whole thing baffling!"
" I understand she's busy, but it only takes 8 minutes!"
Then there was the discussion of the mutual acquaintance that got her figure back 4 weeks after giving birth. Actually she got Cindy Crawford's figure back...
"Have you seen Veronica?"
"Unbelievable isn't it? She looks great! I'm still blaming these thighs on my son and he's 9."
"Well, the thing about her is...she's a beautiful girl. I mean, she's always beautiful. No makeup. Sweat pants. Beautiful. But sometimes, she does her face, and curls her hair a certain way and she just looks absolutely gorgeous. And I'm thinking - If you could look gorgeous all the time like that, why wouldn't you?"
And I'm thinking - These are my friends??? You can't even get away with being beautiful around these people. What on earth do the teachers think when I pick up my son wearing a wool hat, looking like a cat burglar because I haven't had time to shower?
This is why I make it a habit of making fun of myself. If I'm talking about having to pick my rear up off the curb by the time I'm 40, or how the veins on my legs are actually a handy map of the tri-state area I accomplish a couple of things. I save the girls some time and trouble and we can all have a good laugh together.
Seriously though, sometimes I think there is an epidemic among women. We are always comparing and contrasting. We feel better when someone falls short.
If Mary Sue has a great job, we like to wonder, "Well, who is home with the kids?" If Betty Jean can stay home with her kids, we tell ourselves that her husband's never home. And on it goes...
Great house? Lousy husband.
Great body? A little on the stupid side.
Pretty face? Bad hair.
Gorgeous hair? Dresses like a bag lady.
Enough already girls! Let's give each other a break!
Except if you are a beautiful size 5 PH.D with a great marriage, designer wardrobe, perfect hair in a center-hall colonial. Then you are on your own my friend. You are on your own.
Admit it. You've never worried than Bob from Accounting would scoff at your purse not matching your shoes. The dads at the preschool are not noticing that you need a manicure. And in my fifteen years of marriage my husband has never once remarked that my eyebrows were begging to be tweezed. It's the women we are worried about. The women who are watching. The women who are waiting to rake us over the coals.
Take this recent conversation with a friend of mine for example...
"So what did you think of Barbara?"
"The mother of six with the Masters Degrees in Education and Child Psychology? That Barbara?"
"That would be her."
"I couldn't get past her mustache."
"I thought I was the only one."
"Honestly, I couldn't hear a word she said."
"I know, I know."
"I realize that waxing hurts, but there's a cream...Dab it on, wait 8 minutes, wipe it off."
"I find the whole thing baffling!"
" I understand she's busy, but it only takes 8 minutes!"
Then there was the discussion of the mutual acquaintance that got her figure back 4 weeks after giving birth. Actually she got Cindy Crawford's figure back...
"Have you seen Veronica?"
"Unbelievable isn't it? She looks great! I'm still blaming these thighs on my son and he's 9."
"Well, the thing about her is...she's a beautiful girl. I mean, she's always beautiful. No makeup. Sweat pants. Beautiful. But sometimes, she does her face, and curls her hair a certain way and she just looks absolutely gorgeous. And I'm thinking - If you could look gorgeous all the time like that, why wouldn't you?"
And I'm thinking - These are my friends??? You can't even get away with being beautiful around these people. What on earth do the teachers think when I pick up my son wearing a wool hat, looking like a cat burglar because I haven't had time to shower?
This is why I make it a habit of making fun of myself. If I'm talking about having to pick my rear up off the curb by the time I'm 40, or how the veins on my legs are actually a handy map of the tri-state area I accomplish a couple of things. I save the girls some time and trouble and we can all have a good laugh together.
Seriously though, sometimes I think there is an epidemic among women. We are always comparing and contrasting. We feel better when someone falls short.
If Mary Sue has a great job, we like to wonder, "Well, who is home with the kids?" If Betty Jean can stay home with her kids, we tell ourselves that her husband's never home. And on it goes...
Great house? Lousy husband.
Great body? A little on the stupid side.
Pretty face? Bad hair.
Gorgeous hair? Dresses like a bag lady.
Enough already girls! Let's give each other a break!
Except if you are a beautiful size 5 PH.D with a great marriage, designer wardrobe, perfect hair in a center-hall colonial. Then you are on your own my friend. You are on your own.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Coffee Talk
When I tell stories about my family back in New York, my friends here in Dayton usually say the same thing. "I'd like to have dinner with your family just once. I'll bet it's an experience." Dinner? Dessert and coffee is an experience!
It's a Sunday at my parent's house. We all gather around the table after dinner. The coffee is done. I should say, over done. At this point it has already boiled, spilled over, been wiped up and placed back on the stove. Now that the crisis has passed, my mother pours the coffee in our cups while it is literally still perking. My mother likes her coffee strong and hot. (My Grandfather used to say, "I like my coffee strong and my women weak!") Cream and sugar are passed. My sister takes a sip. Dramatically and hastily putting her cup down she proclaims, "Liquid fire!" We all laugh. Not just because Audrey is funny (though she is), and not because we're surprised by what she has said. Not at all. We were expecting it. The coffee always boils over, my mother rarely lets it settle, and Audrey always says the same thing. That is why we laugh.
Here's another coffee story. My mother has a 20 cup coffee pot. Not an urn, a pot. This pot is shaped like a two or four cup pot, only it's HUGE! It looks like it took steroids. It is unnatural. My brother Paul has named it "The Paul Bunyan Coffee Pot." Every holiday when the coffee is served from this pot Paul says, "Mom, what's the matter with you? You knew you were having company! Why didn't you make the big pot?" This is said every time the pot is used and is always funny (to us anyway), but especially effective if some of our extended family is visiting and they have never seen The Paul Bunyan Coffee Pot before.
Now, picture a beautiful chocolate pudding pie with fresh whipped cream on top. Just one of the items on the Christmas dessert menu. As my sister-in law slices it, she realizes the pie hasn't spent enough time in the refrigerator. Every time Andrea cuts a piece, the pudding slides and fills in the gap. She is mortified. We all reassure her and tell her not to worry, it's delicious. Suddenly, my brother Louis dead pans, "Would you pour me a slice of that pie please?" Uproarious laughter. He's been saying this each Christmas ever since. (Whether Andrea makes the pie or not!)
A gathering at Paul and Andrea's leads me - master baker extraordinaire - to make Rice Krispie treats. As everyone settles in front of their cups, they see that my attempts to cut the squares have failed. I am sawing at them with a serrated knife. The "treats" are way too thick and way too dry - biting into them could be dangerous. I am so embarrassed. How do you screw up Rice Krispie Treats?
"It's OK," Paul says, "Let me have one. I really want one... I have some rough spots on my elbows and heels. I think it would help!"
It then became a contest for the most creative uses for my "dessert." Doorstop. Insulation. Sanding block. You gotta love my family.
It's the same story at my in-laws house. Dinner is serious business, but as we linger over espresso, fresh fruit and pastries...ahh...Jokes and stories are told and laughter ensues - as sweet as a cream puff or homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Maybe it's because we are Italian that so much happens over food. Maybe is because we're New Yorkers that the edgy humor flows as easily as the coffee into our cups. Or maybe, just maybe, we're the only ones who think this is funny.
It's a Sunday at my parent's house. We all gather around the table after dinner. The coffee is done. I should say, over done. At this point it has already boiled, spilled over, been wiped up and placed back on the stove. Now that the crisis has passed, my mother pours the coffee in our cups while it is literally still perking. My mother likes her coffee strong and hot. (My Grandfather used to say, "I like my coffee strong and my women weak!") Cream and sugar are passed. My sister takes a sip. Dramatically and hastily putting her cup down she proclaims, "Liquid fire!" We all laugh. Not just because Audrey is funny (though she is), and not because we're surprised by what she has said. Not at all. We were expecting it. The coffee always boils over, my mother rarely lets it settle, and Audrey always says the same thing. That is why we laugh.
Here's another coffee story. My mother has a 20 cup coffee pot. Not an urn, a pot. This pot is shaped like a two or four cup pot, only it's HUGE! It looks like it took steroids. It is unnatural. My brother Paul has named it "The Paul Bunyan Coffee Pot." Every holiday when the coffee is served from this pot Paul says, "Mom, what's the matter with you? You knew you were having company! Why didn't you make the big pot?" This is said every time the pot is used and is always funny (to us anyway), but especially effective if some of our extended family is visiting and they have never seen The Paul Bunyan Coffee Pot before.
Now, picture a beautiful chocolate pudding pie with fresh whipped cream on top. Just one of the items on the Christmas dessert menu. As my sister-in law slices it, she realizes the pie hasn't spent enough time in the refrigerator. Every time Andrea cuts a piece, the pudding slides and fills in the gap. She is mortified. We all reassure her and tell her not to worry, it's delicious. Suddenly, my brother Louis dead pans, "Would you pour me a slice of that pie please?" Uproarious laughter. He's been saying this each Christmas ever since. (Whether Andrea makes the pie or not!)
A gathering at Paul and Andrea's leads me - master baker extraordinaire - to make Rice Krispie treats. As everyone settles in front of their cups, they see that my attempts to cut the squares have failed. I am sawing at them with a serrated knife. The "treats" are way too thick and way too dry - biting into them could be dangerous. I am so embarrassed. How do you screw up Rice Krispie Treats?
"It's OK," Paul says, "Let me have one. I really want one... I have some rough spots on my elbows and heels. I think it would help!"
It then became a contest for the most creative uses for my "dessert." Doorstop. Insulation. Sanding block. You gotta love my family.
It's the same story at my in-laws house. Dinner is serious business, but as we linger over espresso, fresh fruit and pastries...ahh...Jokes and stories are told and laughter ensues - as sweet as a cream puff or homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Maybe it's because we are Italian that so much happens over food. Maybe is because we're New Yorkers that the edgy humor flows as easily as the coffee into our cups. Or maybe, just maybe, we're the only ones who think this is funny.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
The Shape I'm In
We hear so much about being in “good shape” or “bad shape” when it comes to health and weight. What I want to know is – where does “pear shape” fit into this scenario?
To be honest, I'm not really pear shaped. Hourglass may be more accurate. An hourglass with a little more sand in the bottom. An hourglass whose middle is a little wider than it used to be because it had children. OK hourglasses don’t have children, but you see where I’m going with this. Is this a gooI shape or a bad shape? Am I an hourglass and time is running out?
Perhaps it’s not about the actual shape, but more about how one feels. How do I feel? Let’s see…I feel fat whenever a size 5 walks by, that’s how I feel. Maybe fat is a harsh word. Let’s say I feel fluffy. Fluffy and a little jiggly.
I have dreams of being a hard body. I close my eyes and see myself running down the street in spandex, a jog bra, and a serious look on my face. I’m not sure why I picture myself this way. Even when I was size a 5 I was not a hard body. I recently unearthed an old love letter that described me as “soft and curvey.” This has always been true and I have always thought that was a compliment. Perhaps now I am just softer and curvier. I can accept that. It’s lumpy that I’m having a problem with.
Sometimes I think the problem is that I just never got big enough. If I had gained a hundred pounds and then went down to my present weight, no one could say a word about these 20 pounds. I’d be a daytime talk show “Before and After!”
The truth is that the average American woman is a size 12, not a size 2. (And who are these people wearing the blouses marked XS – someone please tell me. Small is not good enough? They are Extra Small?) It’s time for me to be a little more forgiving of myself.
The other day I was attempting “crunches” with my legs up in the air, and my son entered the room and wanted to know what I was doing.
“Exercising,” I told him.
“Why?” he inquired.
“Because Mommy wants to be healthy. And do you see this?” I said, grabbing a chunk of thigh, “Mommy wants to get rid of this.”
“I like that,” said my son, petting my leg.
“You do? Why?” I asked.
“Because that’s the way God made you,” he answered.
True enough. And with a boy like that, I guess I’m in pretty good shape after all.
To be honest, I'm not really pear shaped. Hourglass may be more accurate. An hourglass with a little more sand in the bottom. An hourglass whose middle is a little wider than it used to be because it had children. OK hourglasses don’t have children, but you see where I’m going with this. Is this a gooI shape or a bad shape? Am I an hourglass and time is running out?
Perhaps it’s not about the actual shape, but more about how one feels. How do I feel? Let’s see…I feel fat whenever a size 5 walks by, that’s how I feel. Maybe fat is a harsh word. Let’s say I feel fluffy. Fluffy and a little jiggly.
I have dreams of being a hard body. I close my eyes and see myself running down the street in spandex, a jog bra, and a serious look on my face. I’m not sure why I picture myself this way. Even when I was size a 5 I was not a hard body. I recently unearthed an old love letter that described me as “soft and curvey.” This has always been true and I have always thought that was a compliment. Perhaps now I am just softer and curvier. I can accept that. It’s lumpy that I’m having a problem with.
Sometimes I think the problem is that I just never got big enough. If I had gained a hundred pounds and then went down to my present weight, no one could say a word about these 20 pounds. I’d be a daytime talk show “Before and After!”
The truth is that the average American woman is a size 12, not a size 2. (And who are these people wearing the blouses marked XS – someone please tell me. Small is not good enough? They are Extra Small?) It’s time for me to be a little more forgiving of myself.
The other day I was attempting “crunches” with my legs up in the air, and my son entered the room and wanted to know what I was doing.
“Exercising,” I told him.
“Why?” he inquired.
“Because Mommy wants to be healthy. And do you see this?” I said, grabbing a chunk of thigh, “Mommy wants to get rid of this.”
“I like that,” said my son, petting my leg.
“You do? Why?” I asked.
“Because that’s the way God made you,” he answered.
True enough. And with a boy like that, I guess I’m in pretty good shape after all.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
The Unmade Bed
I have uncovered the true enemy of the orderly home. It lurks, mocking us from high atop its frame – the evil source of all things unorganized and unfinished. It is The Unmade Bed.
It seems innocent enough. “You’re in a hurry,” It says. “You don’t have to make me. Close the door. Who’s to know?” Beware. The Unmade Bed breeds chaos.
The Unmade Bed leads to the Clothes Piled Next to the Bed. You know these clothes. They never make it to the hamper. They get thrown down the stairs and put directly into the wash. In a downward spiral of madness and mayhem, you will find that these clothes never make it back into their drawers. The family begins to get dressed out of the laundry basket and sometimes…gasp!…the dryer itself.
While you are getting dressed you notice another phenomenon in the world of housework – The Odd Sock. Remember those Clothes Piled Next to the Bed? Some of them have slipped under the bed leaving many socks mate less. Par for the course in the continuing havoc that The Unmade Bed reeks is the Rule of The Odd Sock which states: Two days after you give up and discard The Odd Sock, its partner will be unearthed.
Soon The Unmade Bed begins to infect other rooms. The children stop making their beds for obvious reasons as apathy runs rampant. Can the Towel on the Bathroom Floor be far behind? The Unmade Bed whispers, “Why bother?” as you move through the house. The vacuum collects cobwebs (on the outside, not the inside), and the mop is missing in action.
Fear and shame invade your social life. You cannot invite friends over. The doorbell goes unanswered.
Is there a way out of this chasm of hopelessness and despair? I am happy to say there is. You see, whether you make your bed or not, you still have to lay in it. Eventually, you are going to have to change those sheets. If you are going through all the trouble of changing the sheets, you will return the bedspread to its rightful place. With the bed now made, the clothes get thrown in the hamper and The Unmade Bed’s grip on your house loosens. Before you know it, the vacuum is humming; the mop has come out of hiding, and …hey! Is that a pie in the oven?
How long this process takes depends on your DSTL – that’s your Dirty Sheet Tolerance Level. A week for some, up to a month for others. Longer than that may require intervention.
It doesn’t have to be this way. A daily five-minute ritual can help you avoid waging this all out war against this horror of housework. Remain steadfast. Fight the good fight. Make your bed!
It seems innocent enough. “You’re in a hurry,” It says. “You don’t have to make me. Close the door. Who’s to know?” Beware. The Unmade Bed breeds chaos.
The Unmade Bed leads to the Clothes Piled Next to the Bed. You know these clothes. They never make it to the hamper. They get thrown down the stairs and put directly into the wash. In a downward spiral of madness and mayhem, you will find that these clothes never make it back into their drawers. The family begins to get dressed out of the laundry basket and sometimes…gasp!…the dryer itself.
While you are getting dressed you notice another phenomenon in the world of housework – The Odd Sock. Remember those Clothes Piled Next to the Bed? Some of them have slipped under the bed leaving many socks mate less. Par for the course in the continuing havoc that The Unmade Bed reeks is the Rule of The Odd Sock which states: Two days after you give up and discard The Odd Sock, its partner will be unearthed.
Soon The Unmade Bed begins to infect other rooms. The children stop making their beds for obvious reasons as apathy runs rampant. Can the Towel on the Bathroom Floor be far behind? The Unmade Bed whispers, “Why bother?” as you move through the house. The vacuum collects cobwebs (on the outside, not the inside), and the mop is missing in action.
Fear and shame invade your social life. You cannot invite friends over. The doorbell goes unanswered.
Is there a way out of this chasm of hopelessness and despair? I am happy to say there is. You see, whether you make your bed or not, you still have to lay in it. Eventually, you are going to have to change those sheets. If you are going through all the trouble of changing the sheets, you will return the bedspread to its rightful place. With the bed now made, the clothes get thrown in the hamper and The Unmade Bed’s grip on your house loosens. Before you know it, the vacuum is humming; the mop has come out of hiding, and …hey! Is that a pie in the oven?
How long this process takes depends on your DSTL – that’s your Dirty Sheet Tolerance Level. A week for some, up to a month for others. Longer than that may require intervention.
It doesn’t have to be this way. A daily five-minute ritual can help you avoid waging this all out war against this horror of housework. Remain steadfast. Fight the good fight. Make your bed!
Thursday, December 08, 2005
I Remember
The following was written 5 years ago....
So often you hear the parents of young children says things like, “I don’t know what we talked about before we had kids,” or “I can’t remember what life what like before little Johnny was born.” Well, I’m a parent, but my son can’t fool me. I know there was life before children. I remember it.
I remember going to the movies. Grown up movies. First run movies. Movies without talking animals.
I remember going out to restaurants that did not give away toys with meals.
I remember sleeping late on Saturday mornings without two cold little feet pressed against my back.
I have vague recollections of my old body.
I remember vacations that did not involve cartoon rodents or amusement park rides.
I remember when the only rear end I had to wipe was my own.
I can recall conversations when my husband and I didn’t have to spell out any words. We actually discussed politics now and again without having to explain the Electoral College to a four year old.
I remember other conversations too. They were conversations about children – how many we wanted to have, how we were going to raise them, how wonderful it was going to be.
I remember when we thought we weren’t going to be able to have children.
I remember the emptiness in my heart and a longing so strong that it brought me to my knees in prayer.
I have memories of jobs that left me feeling unfulfilled and still searching for a purpose. I can remember finding that purpose in my son’s eyes.
I remember my happy marriage – it’s true what they say, things do change with kids.
You see, I remember how much I loved my husband before we had our son – and I know how much more I love him
now.
I remember that I used to wake up to an alarm clock instead of “Good morning Mommy!”
Yes, I remember life before I had a child. Do you suppose this is why I’m having another one?\
So often you hear the parents of young children says things like, “I don’t know what we talked about before we had kids,” or “I can’t remember what life what like before little Johnny was born.” Well, I’m a parent, but my son can’t fool me. I know there was life before children. I remember it.
I remember going to the movies. Grown up movies. First run movies. Movies without talking animals.
I remember going out to restaurants that did not give away toys with meals.
I remember sleeping late on Saturday mornings without two cold little feet pressed against my back.
I have vague recollections of my old body.
I remember vacations that did not involve cartoon rodents or amusement park rides.
I remember when the only rear end I had to wipe was my own.
I can recall conversations when my husband and I didn’t have to spell out any words. We actually discussed politics now and again without having to explain the Electoral College to a four year old.
I remember other conversations too. They were conversations about children – how many we wanted to have, how we were going to raise them, how wonderful it was going to be.
I remember when we thought we weren’t going to be able to have children.
I remember the emptiness in my heart and a longing so strong that it brought me to my knees in prayer.
I have memories of jobs that left me feeling unfulfilled and still searching for a purpose. I can remember finding that purpose in my son’s eyes.
I remember my happy marriage – it’s true what they say, things do change with kids.
You see, I remember how much I loved my husband before we had our son – and I know how much more I love him
now.
I remember that I used to wake up to an alarm clock instead of “Good morning Mommy!”
Yes, I remember life before I had a child. Do you suppose this is why I’m having another one?\
Trading Faces
The other day I had a personal beauty consultation. It was wonderful. We took a good look at my skin and considered its good features and its problem areas. We determined what sort of “system” I needed to take proper care of my skin. The steps involved were demonstrated: Cleanse, tone, exfoliate, moisturize. (We also came to the conclusion that I could use a little extra help around the eyes.) Within a week of using these products my skin improved. I believe in the products, I’ve seen the products work – my point is not to mock the products. My point is this – I can’t believe that it now costs me $100 to wash my face.
I started thinking about my skin and all we’ve been through together. I was remembering my college days when my skin always looked smooth. I would even receive compliments on it. Now, let me think....What was I using back then that was working so well for me? What was my "regimen"? What was that "system"? Oh yeah – I remember – soap.
Is it fair to compare my 20-year-old face with my 38-year-old face? I’ve heard it said that it is what you put in your body, not what you put on your skin that gives you that healthy glow. What was I feeding my 20-year-old face? Here’s a typical day: bacon-egg-and-cheese on a roll for breakfast, French fries with melted cheese and gravy for lunch (don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it), midday candy, a sensible dinner (prepared by my mother, otherwise it was not sensible at all), cookies, chips, soda…you get the picture. Not only was my skin just fine – so was my body. I didn’t think twice about what I ate and I was in the best shape of my life.
Everyday my 38-year-old face wears a foundation with an SPF 15 to protect it from the sun. I know full well that I was the 20-year-old girl who used to “lay out” with Hawaiian Tropic on my body and peroxide and lemon juice in my hair. Now I’m all about sun block and big straw hats.
So maybe it all has finally caught up with me. The sunburn I got at the beach during my 19th summer has manifested itself as the light brown spot on my forehead (which everyone else insists they don’t notice until I point it out). Maybe the grease from those fries is still causing my occasional blemishes, and all those years of soap and water have done me in and caused those laugh lines. Or maybe I’ve just been laughing a lot the past eighteen years.
My 20-year-old face used to make worry lines as it wondered what the future would hold. What career path would I choose? When would I meet my one true love? Where would the road that I was on lead to?
My 38-year-old face smiles, contributing to the fine lines around my eyes as they see the road that I am on now. It is paved and leads to the end of the cul-de-sac. My once uncertain future is here and they are things that I know for sure. I have married my one true love. My career has gone from fast track to Mommy-track and I feel fulfilled. I have a family and friends who love me, and a boy and a girl that are the lights of my life.
So would I trade faces with my 20-year-old self? Not if it meant trading places. I like it where I am now, thank you very much. I know what’s important; I’m smarter about life, more confident in my self, and happier than ever.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to exfoliate.
I started thinking about my skin and all we’ve been through together. I was remembering my college days when my skin always looked smooth. I would even receive compliments on it. Now, let me think....What was I using back then that was working so well for me? What was my "regimen"? What was that "system"? Oh yeah – I remember – soap.
Is it fair to compare my 20-year-old face with my 38-year-old face? I’ve heard it said that it is what you put in your body, not what you put on your skin that gives you that healthy glow. What was I feeding my 20-year-old face? Here’s a typical day: bacon-egg-and-cheese on a roll for breakfast, French fries with melted cheese and gravy for lunch (don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it), midday candy, a sensible dinner (prepared by my mother, otherwise it was not sensible at all), cookies, chips, soda…you get the picture. Not only was my skin just fine – so was my body. I didn’t think twice about what I ate and I was in the best shape of my life.
Everyday my 38-year-old face wears a foundation with an SPF 15 to protect it from the sun. I know full well that I was the 20-year-old girl who used to “lay out” with Hawaiian Tropic on my body and peroxide and lemon juice in my hair. Now I’m all about sun block and big straw hats.
So maybe it all has finally caught up with me. The sunburn I got at the beach during my 19th summer has manifested itself as the light brown spot on my forehead (which everyone else insists they don’t notice until I point it out). Maybe the grease from those fries is still causing my occasional blemishes, and all those years of soap and water have done me in and caused those laugh lines. Or maybe I’ve just been laughing a lot the past eighteen years.
My 20-year-old face used to make worry lines as it wondered what the future would hold. What career path would I choose? When would I meet my one true love? Where would the road that I was on lead to?
My 38-year-old face smiles, contributing to the fine lines around my eyes as they see the road that I am on now. It is paved and leads to the end of the cul-de-sac. My once uncertain future is here and they are things that I know for sure. I have married my one true love. My career has gone from fast track to Mommy-track and I feel fulfilled. I have a family and friends who love me, and a boy and a girl that are the lights of my life.
So would I trade faces with my 20-year-old self? Not if it meant trading places. I like it where I am now, thank you very much. I know what’s important; I’m smarter about life, more confident in my self, and happier than ever.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to exfoliate.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Wax On, Wax Off
I don’t know if it’s like this for you, but keeping track of my facial hair is starting to feel like a part-time job! Eyebrows, and upper lip were bad enough - now add lower lip, chin, and these crazy neck hairs! By the time I take care of all these areas something else grows and I have to start all over again.
I tweeze, I wax, and I use depilatories. I’ve even tried a device that resembles a nail file. This thing is supposed to “buff” the hair off your face. I was a bit overzealous. I removed the hair but wound up with what looked like rug burns in the corners of my mouth.
Sometimes when I’m watching TV, I gently scan my face with my fingertips looking for strays – tweezers at the ready.
I’ll admit I’m a bit obsessed. I can’t help it. This is how I was raised.
Some girls experience a rite of passage when they start their menstrual cycles or shave their legs. When my mother first heated up her wax pot for me, I knew I was a woman.
“You can’t just bleach it because the hair is still there, “she’d say.
And so it began. Not only did I keep an eye out for my own hairy lip, I began to notice others. Knowing my mother is always on the look out keeps me on the ball. I remember once when I returned home to New York for a visit. My mother said something to me that I’ll always remember. I’m not sure if it was at the gate or the baggage claim…maybe it was in the car on the way to her house. After the big hugs and smiles she turned to me and said, “You have to do your ‘stache.”
To this day, my sister and I will be innocently sitting in my mother’s kitchen – drinking coffee and talking – when Mom will suddenly jump up and exclaim, “Let’s do our mustaches!” She gets out the little pot and puts it on the stove. Sometimes one of my sisters-in-law will be there. “Do you want to do yours?” she asks with a smile like she’s giving out candy.
Mom’s a little too happy about the whole process. We all sit around the table with this brown wax on our upper lips and my mother does her usual Groucho Marx imitation. (“Say the secret word and win a prize!”) This is the easy part. Soon the party moves into the bathroom where Audrey and I take turns sitting on the toilet clutching on to a towel with our eyes closed as our mother yanks the wax and hair off of our faces. She holds wax up to the light and says, “It looks like grass.” Then the really scary part comes. Mom carefully examines our upper lips and nine times out of ten proclaims, It didn’t get it all. We need to do it again.” At this point I start remembering things I’ve done wrong as a kid that maybe I haven’t been forgiven for. Is this a beauty treatment or retribution?
Afterward, as I slather on the moisturizer, my mother says, “I can’t believe how red your skin gets!”
Let’s think about this for a minute. We just put hot wax on my skin, left it there to harden a bit and then ripped out my hair by the roots. My skin is now red and tender – Shocker!
Incidentally, the women in my family are all fair skinned with fair hair and blue eyes. In fact we’re not particularly hairy at all. So I guess we’re just nuts. Nuts with smooth upper lips, but nuts all the same
I tweeze, I wax, and I use depilatories. I’ve even tried a device that resembles a nail file. This thing is supposed to “buff” the hair off your face. I was a bit overzealous. I removed the hair but wound up with what looked like rug burns in the corners of my mouth.
Sometimes when I’m watching TV, I gently scan my face with my fingertips looking for strays – tweezers at the ready.
I’ll admit I’m a bit obsessed. I can’t help it. This is how I was raised.
Some girls experience a rite of passage when they start their menstrual cycles or shave their legs. When my mother first heated up her wax pot for me, I knew I was a woman.
“You can’t just bleach it because the hair is still there, “she’d say.
And so it began. Not only did I keep an eye out for my own hairy lip, I began to notice others. Knowing my mother is always on the look out keeps me on the ball. I remember once when I returned home to New York for a visit. My mother said something to me that I’ll always remember. I’m not sure if it was at the gate or the baggage claim…maybe it was in the car on the way to her house. After the big hugs and smiles she turned to me and said, “You have to do your ‘stache.”
To this day, my sister and I will be innocently sitting in my mother’s kitchen – drinking coffee and talking – when Mom will suddenly jump up and exclaim, “Let’s do our mustaches!” She gets out the little pot and puts it on the stove. Sometimes one of my sisters-in-law will be there. “Do you want to do yours?” she asks with a smile like she’s giving out candy.
Mom’s a little too happy about the whole process. We all sit around the table with this brown wax on our upper lips and my mother does her usual Groucho Marx imitation. (“Say the secret word and win a prize!”) This is the easy part. Soon the party moves into the bathroom where Audrey and I take turns sitting on the toilet clutching on to a towel with our eyes closed as our mother yanks the wax and hair off of our faces. She holds wax up to the light and says, “It looks like grass.” Then the really scary part comes. Mom carefully examines our upper lips and nine times out of ten proclaims, It didn’t get it all. We need to do it again.” At this point I start remembering things I’ve done wrong as a kid that maybe I haven’t been forgiven for. Is this a beauty treatment or retribution?
Afterward, as I slather on the moisturizer, my mother says, “I can’t believe how red your skin gets!”
Let’s think about this for a minute. We just put hot wax on my skin, left it there to harden a bit and then ripped out my hair by the roots. My skin is now red and tender – Shocker!
Incidentally, the women in my family are all fair skinned with fair hair and blue eyes. In fact we’re not particularly hairy at all. So I guess we’re just nuts. Nuts with smooth upper lips, but nuts all the same
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Give That Woman A Hand
How many times have you heard this expression, “You’ll have to give me a minute. I’ve only got two hands!”? Your mother said it to you. You say it to your kids.
You know the situation - maybe you’re making meat loaf while you’re on hold with the insurance company and the kids come in and need their snow boots taken off NOW. Although they are looking right at you with your hands covered in ground chuck, raw egg and bread crumbs they just don’t seem to understand. You feel the need to state the obvious.
They are going to have to give you a minute. You’ve only got two hands.
So here’s my question. Why? Why do we only have two hands? God could’ve done anything he wanted with us. Sometimes we feel as if we just don’t have all the tools, or the extremities in this case, to make it through the day.
I guess I could see where more than two hands would be overkill when you are young, but after you become a parent you cannot help but feel short-handed. So, I’ve cooked up this little fantasy where after you have a child you grow an extra hand attached to a smaller, shorter arm. The only problem is where to put it. Having one come out of the middle of your forehead would be very convenient with an infant. Diapering sure would be easier. Two hands to change the diaper, the extra one holding onto a rattle or making sure the baby doesn’t roll off the table. Bathing your child would be a breeze!
On the other hand…maybe the extra hand should be lower. I’ll tell you one thing, if you had an extra hand sticking out of one of your hips or the middle of your backside, trips to the grocery store would be less stressful. You could reach for things on the upper and lower shelves at the same time. You could put your items on the conveyor while you write out your check. If the cashier is a mother too, you’ll be out of there in no time! You could hold your toddler’s hand, push the shopping cart, and get your car keys out without missing a beat. You could unload the bags, close the hatch of the minivan, and open your front door.
People laugh at first, but when they think about it they realize that this is not such a bad idea. Having an extra hand sounds weird, but if everybody had one it wouldn’t be. Anyway, you wouldn’t need it forever. Maybe they would shrivel up and fall off when your kids turn 18. I’ve even had a friend suggest that you grow a new one with each child. Never again would we say of a mother of three, “Boy, I bet she really has her hands full!”
As I come back from this fantasy I can see that God had the right idea. With some of us looking like octopi, we’d be getting in our own way. When we said someone was “sitting on their hands,” they really would be. Sure, the manicure industry would be booming, but what of the fashion world? They would be up in arms – literally.
And of course, there is the inevitable. Somewhere, somehow, a mother of four would be heard saying, “You’ll have to give me a minute. I’ve only got six hands!”
You know the situation - maybe you’re making meat loaf while you’re on hold with the insurance company and the kids come in and need their snow boots taken off NOW. Although they are looking right at you with your hands covered in ground chuck, raw egg and bread crumbs they just don’t seem to understand. You feel the need to state the obvious.
They are going to have to give you a minute. You’ve only got two hands.
So here’s my question. Why? Why do we only have two hands? God could’ve done anything he wanted with us. Sometimes we feel as if we just don’t have all the tools, or the extremities in this case, to make it through the day.
I guess I could see where more than two hands would be overkill when you are young, but after you become a parent you cannot help but feel short-handed. So, I’ve cooked up this little fantasy where after you have a child you grow an extra hand attached to a smaller, shorter arm. The only problem is where to put it. Having one come out of the middle of your forehead would be very convenient with an infant. Diapering sure would be easier. Two hands to change the diaper, the extra one holding onto a rattle or making sure the baby doesn’t roll off the table. Bathing your child would be a breeze!
On the other hand…maybe the extra hand should be lower. I’ll tell you one thing, if you had an extra hand sticking out of one of your hips or the middle of your backside, trips to the grocery store would be less stressful. You could reach for things on the upper and lower shelves at the same time. You could put your items on the conveyor while you write out your check. If the cashier is a mother too, you’ll be out of there in no time! You could hold your toddler’s hand, push the shopping cart, and get your car keys out without missing a beat. You could unload the bags, close the hatch of the minivan, and open your front door.
People laugh at first, but when they think about it they realize that this is not such a bad idea. Having an extra hand sounds weird, but if everybody had one it wouldn’t be. Anyway, you wouldn’t need it forever. Maybe they would shrivel up and fall off when your kids turn 18. I’ve even had a friend suggest that you grow a new one with each child. Never again would we say of a mother of three, “Boy, I bet she really has her hands full!”
As I come back from this fantasy I can see that God had the right idea. With some of us looking like octopi, we’d be getting in our own way. When we said someone was “sitting on their hands,” they really would be. Sure, the manicure industry would be booming, but what of the fashion world? They would be up in arms – literally.
And of course, there is the inevitable. Somewhere, somehow, a mother of four would be heard saying, “You’ll have to give me a minute. I’ve only got six hands!”
You Look Amish! And other compliments...
Recently a friend of mine was surprised to hear me say that I worry about what people think of me. I suppose this is because I freely share stories, offer my opinion, and state my feelings fairly regularly. In other words I talk a lot. Perhaps I come off as a strong person who has no trouble speaking her mind. All this is true, but afterward I sometimes experience regret. I would never want to hurt anyone's feelings or make them think badly of me. There are times I say things which I torture myself over later on. But lately I've decided to give myself a break because people say crazy things to me all the time. I don't get mad. I laugh.
My husband and I are out with another couple. My friend leans in and inquires of my jacket, "Did you just have that dry cleaned?"
"Yes," I reply, "Why do you ask?"
She breathes in deeply. "I can tell. You can smell it."
The following week I am wearing a cotton blouse. My friend comes in close once again and says, "Dry cleaning again, right?"
"No, actually. No," I say.
"Are you wearing perfume?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, offering a wrist.
"That's it! It's your perfume. It smells like dry cleaning!"
Now, what do I do with that? Is she trying to flatter me? Insult me? Why is she sniffing me anyway?
Then there was the time I was going out to dinner with my family. I was wearing a black and white flower print dress, black hose and black t-strap shoes with chunky heels.
"You know," my Aunt says, "with that dress and those shoes you look Amish."
"Thank you," I answer, "Amish is always a compliment."
"What? I didn't say anything wrong!" she exclaims, defending herself.
"Yeah, okay. You meant Amish in the good way, right?"
No offense intended to the Amish. (What am I worried about? If there are Amish on the Internet I'm the least of their worries.)
Stuff like this has been happening to me for years. Once I was sharing a cab from Manhattan to Brooklyn with a friend from work. We talked and talked over the long ride. Suddenly she complained that she was feeling queasy. I asked if she usually got carsick. "No," she said, "I think I'm nauseous because I'm looking at you."
Luckily, I'm smart enough to know what she meant. She needed to watch the road go by or nausea insued.
Last week I was showing my girlfriend the half bath I had painted red. I was feeling a little insecure about it and offered this big explanation about how I didn't take into account that there was no natural light so it was a little darker than I had imagined, and so forth. She emerged from the bathroom and said, "I love that bath! The color is so rich, it feels so decadent..."
And then for reasons I can't explain she added, "...like a brothel!"
"That's great!" I say, "That's the look I was going for, Early Brothel!"
So I laugh with my friend and put her at ease. No reason for her to feel bad about anything she has said. I'm sure it sounded different in her head.
I decide to go easy on myself too. What could I possibly say that is unforgivable? I don't want to always measure my words, and I don't want my friends to do that either. We'll all make mistakes and cut each other some slack.
I'd still like to offer some free advice though: Never ask, "When is the baby due?" unless the woman has told you she is pregnant. Never tell someone that they look "tired", that's code for "awful." And never tell me I look Amish - not even if I'm at a barn raising wearing a bonnet.
My husband and I are out with another couple. My friend leans in and inquires of my jacket, "Did you just have that dry cleaned?"
"Yes," I reply, "Why do you ask?"
She breathes in deeply. "I can tell. You can smell it."
The following week I am wearing a cotton blouse. My friend comes in close once again and says, "Dry cleaning again, right?"
"No, actually. No," I say.
"Are you wearing perfume?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, offering a wrist.
"That's it! It's your perfume. It smells like dry cleaning!"
Now, what do I do with that? Is she trying to flatter me? Insult me? Why is she sniffing me anyway?
Then there was the time I was going out to dinner with my family. I was wearing a black and white flower print dress, black hose and black t-strap shoes with chunky heels.
"You know," my Aunt says, "with that dress and those shoes you look Amish."
"Thank you," I answer, "Amish is always a compliment."
"What? I didn't say anything wrong!" she exclaims, defending herself.
"Yeah, okay. You meant Amish in the good way, right?"
No offense intended to the Amish. (What am I worried about? If there are Amish on the Internet I'm the least of their worries.)
Stuff like this has been happening to me for years. Once I was sharing a cab from Manhattan to Brooklyn with a friend from work. We talked and talked over the long ride. Suddenly she complained that she was feeling queasy. I asked if she usually got carsick. "No," she said, "I think I'm nauseous because I'm looking at you."
Luckily, I'm smart enough to know what she meant. She needed to watch the road go by or nausea insued.
Last week I was showing my girlfriend the half bath I had painted red. I was feeling a little insecure about it and offered this big explanation about how I didn't take into account that there was no natural light so it was a little darker than I had imagined, and so forth. She emerged from the bathroom and said, "I love that bath! The color is so rich, it feels so decadent..."
And then for reasons I can't explain she added, "...like a brothel!"
"That's great!" I say, "That's the look I was going for, Early Brothel!"
So I laugh with my friend and put her at ease. No reason for her to feel bad about anything she has said. I'm sure it sounded different in her head.
I decide to go easy on myself too. What could I possibly say that is unforgivable? I don't want to always measure my words, and I don't want my friends to do that either. We'll all make mistakes and cut each other some slack.
I'd still like to offer some free advice though: Never ask, "When is the baby due?" unless the woman has told you she is pregnant. Never tell someone that they look "tired", that's code for "awful." And never tell me I look Amish - not even if I'm at a barn raising wearing a bonnet.
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