Imagine being 50 minutes away from your house, perhaps at work, when you get a phone call like this: "You have to come home. The house is on fire!"
This was the nightmare that plagued me Tuesday. I heard my name paged over the intercom at work and found Maverick on the other end, telling me that lightening hit the house, he ran upstairs and saw thick, black smoke, grabbed my daughter and called 911.
I threw myself into my car, flicked my cell phone into the passenger seat, turned off the radio and DROVE! Thank you, BMW, thank you, BMW, played over and over in my mind as I raced home, fearing the worst. I drove like a well-trained race car driver. I've made the commute from my office hundreds of times...I'm used to the long drive. But this time was different...the drive was taking twice as long.
I got home in record-time to find five fire trucks in my driveway and a water hose snaked into my upstairs window. It seemed as if fifty people were milling about and everything around me slowed down as my brain processed what was going on around me.
First, I found my family and hugged them. Mental check off the 'ole list that they were fine. My second thought went back to that hose. Fear set in that the firemen were going to douse the upstairs of my home with water to tame a flame. All I kept thinking about were my photo albums. All the time and loving care I've taken to document my entire existence...up in flames, I panicked.
As it turned out, luck was on the Fives family side. During a typical summer thundershower, a bolt of lightening struck the roof of my house. The electricity made its way into the attic and raced down the air conditioning duct. It popped out my daughter's bedroom ceiling and smoked some insulation on the way out but that was it. No burning embers, no attic fire, no lost power or computers. Just a stinky mess.
You never know how your brain is going to comprehend such a disaster. Maverick was in complete control. He was directing people this way and that. Once the firemen left, he had roofers plugging up the hole and an emergency clean up crew washing down walls and covering the black mess in Camryn's ceiling.
I on the other hand, did not fare as well...I just didn't know what to do with myself. I walked around the house, useless, in a fog and devoid of being able to make a single decision. My brain turned off...I wasn't ready to deal with the scare. So I picked up the toys on the playroom floor and wiped down counters. A friend came by to hug me and I asked her for a raincheck. I was afraid to cry right then because I didn't yet know what all of the damage was nor how lucky we truly were. People asked me a thousand questions and needed answers I couldn't give. I was in shock and I knew it. Finally, the stress was too overwhelming so I left Maverick to deal with the post-lightening mess and I hid at the neighbors.
Eventually, as the dust settled and the smoke cleared, so did my brain. I was able to once again put two and two together. I made sleeping arrangements for us, got our things together and began to put our life and home back together. I'm very thankful for all of my friends who rallied around us. I'm thankful that the damage to our home was contained and in the scheme of things, manageable. I'm thankful that my photo albums are not ruined. And tonight, after almost a week, I'm thankful to be sleeping in my own bed again.
So if you wondering why I haven't blogged in a while, consider yourself up to speed.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Just because it's a convenient time to call...
I'm in a mood right now, so bear with me. I have a simple statement to make about the phone and it goes a little something like this: Just because it's a convenient time for you to call, doesn't mean it's a convenient time for me to answer.
I get such shit from my friends because I'm terrible with the phone. That's me. Accept me, please, warts and all. I commute two hours a day and that's my phone time. Maverick will tell ya my cell phone bill is through the roof and I could support my shoe habit if I only laid off the cell.
I love to talk on the phone, really, but only between the hours of getting to work and driving home from work. So if you can't catch me then...try texting me.
Yes, sometimes I do hear you on my answering machine, calling out for me: "Tray, I know you're there; pick up the phone." But you have to understand that by the time I walk in door after being gone for almost twelve hours, walked into the insanity that exists with two screaming kids who are thrilled to see me, I've got to go to the bathroom, I've got to get these kids to bed, I'm starving; I'm tired; Mavrick's probably complaining about something I had forgotten to do that day; there's mail to read, previously a dog to walk and feed, and well, the last thing I feel like doing is talking on the phone.
That would require me to stop all of those things above and sit down to listen to what you have to say. And I want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to give you the "uh huh, uh huh" because what kind of friend would that be?
Sometimes I do answer the phone, even when I'm busy because I feel guilty; then I rush you off in sixty seconds anyway with a plea that I'll have to call you later...So what's the point of that?
Also, there's nothing more annoying than when I do sit down to talk and I've got to listen to your screaming kids in the background. So, there's another thing: please don't call me if you can't control your kids.
I don't mind the occasional "Dear, please put your dishes in the sink after you finish your snack". I'm talking about the girlfriends who can't finish a sentence or let me get my thought out before she interrupts sixteen times to reprimand a child who's grabbing the phone out of her hand or are such out-of-control lunatics that I just can't hear you on the other end.
Seriously, whatever you called about most likely isn't that important right that minute! Can't it just wait until 7am the next morning, while I'm on my way to Starbucks?
I get such shit from my friends because I'm terrible with the phone. That's me. Accept me, please, warts and all. I commute two hours a day and that's my phone time. Maverick will tell ya my cell phone bill is through the roof and I could support my shoe habit if I only laid off the cell.
I love to talk on the phone, really, but only between the hours of getting to work and driving home from work. So if you can't catch me then...try texting me.
Yes, sometimes I do hear you on my answering machine, calling out for me: "Tray, I know you're there; pick up the phone." But you have to understand that by the time I walk in door after being gone for almost twelve hours, walked into the insanity that exists with two screaming kids who are thrilled to see me, I've got to go to the bathroom, I've got to get these kids to bed, I'm starving; I'm tired; Mavrick's probably complaining about something I had forgotten to do that day; there's mail to read, previously a dog to walk and feed, and well, the last thing I feel like doing is talking on the phone.
That would require me to stop all of those things above and sit down to listen to what you have to say. And I want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to give you the "uh huh, uh huh" because what kind of friend would that be?
Sometimes I do answer the phone, even when I'm busy because I feel guilty; then I rush you off in sixty seconds anyway with a plea that I'll have to call you later...So what's the point of that?
Also, there's nothing more annoying than when I do sit down to talk and I've got to listen to your screaming kids in the background. So, there's another thing: please don't call me if you can't control your kids.
I don't mind the occasional "Dear, please put your dishes in the sink after you finish your snack". I'm talking about the girlfriends who can't finish a sentence or let me get my thought out before she interrupts sixteen times to reprimand a child who's grabbing the phone out of her hand or are such out-of-control lunatics that I just can't hear you on the other end.
Seriously, whatever you called about most likely isn't that important right that minute! Can't it just wait until 7am the next morning, while I'm on my way to Starbucks?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A Philosophical Question about Blogging
I’ve been questioned quite a bit on why I’m blogging and what’s the point. I’m not sure I truly have the answer. But for now it’s a personal experiment, a creative outlet, a voice in the blogsphere. All I know is that I have these thoughts rattling around in my head; and finally, I wanted a forum to share them with a larger audience. This is the stuff I usually save to entertain my girlfriends.
Jackie and I can pour a glass of Chard after the we put the kids to bed, throw some cheese and crackers on a plate, turn on the tunes, pull up a chair at the patio table, light a candle, and instantly create our own happy hour. About halfway through the bottle, Jackie shoulders begin to ease down from her ears. The weekday stresses start to melt away. She releases an audible sigh. She's finally relaxed. Wine does that to her.
On the flip side, there's me. I get fired up. The blood flows and my muscles get warm. Synapses begin to fire and the gears spin. My mind starts to process a thousand thoughts at once. I can go in two directions now. One is tear off on a tangent about some idea I've been tossing around. Or I can zero in on Jackie, and begin to question her about some random topic until I have her squirming in her chair, begging me to leave her alone and stop making her answer so many questions!
If you're my friend, I know you're laughing right now. Loudly and you should be. I know you've been victim to the entertainment factor of my tirades. Now, I just want to try it to a broader audience, and just maybe have a dialog about it.
At least blogging is something to do until I can write that children's story and make millions like my mother has been bugging me to do. Anyone have a idea about a plot?
Jackie and I can pour a glass of Chard after the we put the kids to bed, throw some cheese and crackers on a plate, turn on the tunes, pull up a chair at the patio table, light a candle, and instantly create our own happy hour. About halfway through the bottle, Jackie shoulders begin to ease down from her ears. The weekday stresses start to melt away. She releases an audible sigh. She's finally relaxed. Wine does that to her.
On the flip side, there's me. I get fired up. The blood flows and my muscles get warm. Synapses begin to fire and the gears spin. My mind starts to process a thousand thoughts at once. I can go in two directions now. One is tear off on a tangent about some idea I've been tossing around. Or I can zero in on Jackie, and begin to question her about some random topic until I have her squirming in her chair, begging me to leave her alone and stop making her answer so many questions!
If you're my friend, I know you're laughing right now. Loudly and you should be. I know you've been victim to the entertainment factor of my tirades. Now, I just want to try it to a broader audience, and just maybe have a dialog about it.
At least blogging is something to do until I can write that children's story and make millions like my mother has been bugging me to do. Anyone have a idea about a plot?
The sucky fact of being a woman
I wish just once, a man would have to use a tampon. Not all day, that would just drive him completely over the edge of insanity. Just one tampon, rammed up his butt, just once. Of course, it would have to be one of those half-way dry days when you question whether you should use one at all. Men can’t even begin to imagine how getting your period is truly one thing that sucks about being a woman.
I didn't mind my period until I decided to stop being a reproducing human-being. We should be able to shut off the hose once the pool is filled. Instead, I have to live with my perfectly-tuned every-28-day cycle for another 10-to-15 year prison sentence. I'm tired of the cramps, the tears, the moodiness, the Doritos, the endless trips to the bathroom, and those damned tampons! Plus, as Maverick would agree in no uncertain terms, I become a bitch.
Furthermore, it sucks to be of the womanly-age that requires a mammogram. Talk about the cold chicken cutlet boobs! For those who have never enjoyed the delight of a mammogram, get ready for the panini press! Yes, girls, having your breasts checked for little bumps and lumps that harbour evil little cancer cells can be equated to watching a fat Italian man smashing up your tits on a hot panini press. Un cappuchino to go with that, senora?
Well that’s probably enough for now. I could fill this blog with so many other reasons but I think I’ll save them for a different post. I’m sure I’ve scared you young ‘uns away with that graphic description. You'll awaken with nightmares of the Italian guy chasing you with his George Forman grill. (Sorry girls. It’s the cold, hard facts about mammograms and someone’s gotta be honest.)
In the meanwhile, you tell me what one thing absolutely sucks about being a woman. Go ahead. I really want to know. Share. Let it out. It feels good!
Here's one from me: one good reason why being a woman is not sucky. It's the fact that we women have a wonderful ability to understand our own feelings, rationalize the "why" behind it, and create an action plan to solve it. Then we discuss it with our three closest friends. Modify based on their input. Vent it aloud. Afterwards, we feel better and say, “Yes, that feels good!” I’m glad I got that off my chest.
6-year-old Smart Ass
I think I must have missed the chapter in the mothering handbook entitled, "Six years old equals smart ass." It was probably an oversight that happened somewhere between reading "What to expect when you're expecting" and "How to discipline a spirited child." I must have convinced myself I had this parenting thing under control.
Then my daughter turned 6 and all hell broke loose. She transformed from a sweet, inquisitive five year old into a Miss I Know It All, Prove It To Me Smart Ass. And yes, the capital letters are intended for emphasis.
I heard about this stage from my friends with kids older than mine, but I thought, no, that couldn't happen to my precious child. I'm a great mother. It must be some deficiency in my girlfriends' parenting style. I've got my kids whipped into perfect shape.
Ha ha! Laughs my six-year-old. She knows better. That prim behavior was so last year. Now, I've got my little shadow questioning me, quizzing me, challenging me. Nothing I say is ever taken for granted anymore. I now must prove myself.
Such as today, when I received an email from her camp counselor informing me that tomorrow would be "Super Hero Day" and Maya should wear her favorite superhero costume. Maya insisted I show her the email. She wouldn't take my word for it. I puffed out my chest in a childish response and told her she'd just have to trust me. Maya crinkled up her nose as she processed this idea. Then she promptly responded that she'd just have to pack the costume in her backpack "just in case".
I thought part of the fun with parenting would be to actually teach your child about life. Imagine that at six, she's fully in control of all her faculties that goes into living it. There's nothing I can say to Maya anymore that she doesn't already know. Her favorite sayings are "I know that already!" or "Daddy already told me!" or "That's not true!" She gets annoyed when I try to show her anything because she can figure it out on her own whether it be the TV remote, a new game, tying her shoes and such. Even when it's quite obvious she can't, her response is that she doesn't want to. (As in, I CAN do it if I WANT to but I don't WANT to.)
Add to the smart-ass frustration the fact that now I have yet another person living in my house who is quick to pick up and pick on all my flaws too. "Mommy, you ate six cookies already!" or "Mommy, that makes your butt look big." I especially enjoyed her observation of my Saturday night outfit that "It doesn't look very good on you." (Of course, I was just thinking the same thing but do you think I want a six year old criticizing me about it?)
Maya now has a running commentary of critiques and smart-ass questions such as: whether her homemade pancakes are fluffy enough; why didn't I finish folding the laundry?; what's the matter with the first six outfits I just tried on, why did you forget to wash my camp shirt; why are you yelling at Daddy?; why do you always need to suntan?, your panties up your butt is gross; how could you not have bread for my PB&Js?; why are so tired?
Pair that with the "It's Not Fair"...that I get to stay up late, I sleep in the bed with Daddy, I get to go out for dinner with my friends, I get a new lipgloss....you get the point. It's not so much what she says but the perfectly pitched whiny/annoying voice that goes along with it.
I try to chalk this all up to the fact that she's a smart cookie. And she is. Sometimes I just wish it wasn't so smart-assed.
Then my daughter turned 6 and all hell broke loose. She transformed from a sweet, inquisitive five year old into a Miss I Know It All, Prove It To Me Smart Ass. And yes, the capital letters are intended for emphasis.
I heard about this stage from my friends with kids older than mine, but I thought, no, that couldn't happen to my precious child. I'm a great mother. It must be some deficiency in my girlfriends' parenting style. I've got my kids whipped into perfect shape.
Ha ha! Laughs my six-year-old. She knows better. That prim behavior was so last year. Now, I've got my little shadow questioning me, quizzing me, challenging me. Nothing I say is ever taken for granted anymore. I now must prove myself.
Such as today, when I received an email from her camp counselor informing me that tomorrow would be "Super Hero Day" and Maya should wear her favorite superhero costume. Maya insisted I show her the email. She wouldn't take my word for it. I puffed out my chest in a childish response and told her she'd just have to trust me. Maya crinkled up her nose as she processed this idea. Then she promptly responded that she'd just have to pack the costume in her backpack "just in case".
I thought part of the fun with parenting would be to actually teach your child about life. Imagine that at six, she's fully in control of all her faculties that goes into living it. There's nothing I can say to Maya anymore that she doesn't already know. Her favorite sayings are "I know that already!" or "Daddy already told me!" or "That's not true!" She gets annoyed when I try to show her anything because she can figure it out on her own whether it be the TV remote, a new game, tying her shoes and such. Even when it's quite obvious she can't, her response is that she doesn't want to. (As in, I CAN do it if I WANT to but I don't WANT to.)
Add to the smart-ass frustration the fact that now I have yet another person living in my house who is quick to pick up and pick on all my flaws too. "Mommy, you ate six cookies already!" or "Mommy, that makes your butt look big." I especially enjoyed her observation of my Saturday night outfit that "It doesn't look very good on you." (Of course, I was just thinking the same thing but do you think I want a six year old criticizing me about it?)
Maya now has a running commentary of critiques and smart-ass questions such as: whether her homemade pancakes are fluffy enough; why didn't I finish folding the laundry?; what's the matter with the first six outfits I just tried on, why did you forget to wash my camp shirt; why are you yelling at Daddy?; why do you always need to suntan?, your panties up your butt is gross; how could you not have bread for my PB&Js?; why are so tired?
Pair that with the "It's Not Fair"...that I get to stay up late, I sleep in the bed with Daddy, I get to go out for dinner with my friends, I get a new lipgloss....you get the point. It's not so much what she says but the perfectly pitched whiny/annoying voice that goes along with it.
I try to chalk this all up to the fact that she's a smart cookie. And she is. Sometimes I just wish it wasn't so smart-assed.
More pea-brained features for you!
First, I'd like to thank my beta-testers for all of the great feedback I've received. I've been enjoying hearing from you as I try out this space. As I get more adept at this blogging thing, your experience will improve as well.
I know a few of you have tried before to add comments, but apparently I had the site settings incorrect. I have since fixed the problem, so comment away! I want to know if you like/hate the posts, think I'm posting often enough, what you have to add to the insanity from your own perspective, what you ate for dinner...whatever you'd like to share. You can easily add a comment by clicking the comment button and you can post anonymously, if you so choose.
The second bit of good news is that you can now subscribe to my blog. Just add your email address at the right and you'll automatically be informed whenever I update! It's easier than ever to get fully updated on all the thoughts spilling out of my brain. (Enter if you will...). Feel free to share the love and pass along my blog URL to your friends.
I know a few of you have tried before to add comments, but apparently I had the site settings incorrect. I have since fixed the problem, so comment away! I want to know if you like/hate the posts, think I'm posting often enough, what you have to add to the insanity from your own perspective, what you ate for dinner...whatever you'd like to share. You can easily add a comment by clicking the comment button and you can post anonymously, if you so choose.
The second bit of good news is that you can now subscribe to my blog. Just add your email address at the right and you'll automatically be informed whenever I update! It's easier than ever to get fully updated on all the thoughts spilling out of my brain. (Enter if you will...). Feel free to share the love and pass along my blog URL to your friends.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Baby Shop: Closed for Business
I'm supposed to be creating baby shower invitations tonight but every time I sit down at the computer and start to think of cutesy wording to introduce the proud momma-to-be, I gag. I can't believe how far removed I feel from baby showers and all that goes along with it. The adorable diaper towers, the "how big is her belly?" toilet paper game, the forced "ohhs and ahhs" that must accompany each tiny outfit as its passed around the group. Seriously, gag me.
Right after the birth of my second, I was so positive I was over it, I closed up my own personal baby-making shop and burned it to the ground so it would never see the light of day. I wanted to ensure that no small egg would dare ever even try to covertly sneak its way down my fallopian tube towards my fertile uterus in search of the forbidden fruit. Two human beings calling me Mother was enough. I couldn't bear the thought of gaining another fifty pounds again. (My god, I had already put on enough weight to create a whole other person between the two and my stretch marks can prove it!)
No way, no how. No thank you.
My girlfriend, Callie, had a baby some months ago. I've held the baby once or twice, just to see what it would feel like again. I wondered if it would conjure back warm memories of my own two daughters whom I had each breastfed for almost a year. Or perhaps I'd associate that delicious baby smell with the early months of bonding with my girls. But it didn't.
Actually it had quite the opposite effect of been there, done that. It reinforced the fact that I'm so happy I do not have little babies anymore. The other day, a woman ten years my senior told me she would happily adopt a baby to save him or her from the perils of a depraved life in some third-world country. I thought she was stark-raving mad. I can't imagine starting over. Yes, I'd love to save all the starving, homeless children of the world, but I'd rather send my check to "save the children." I couldn't imagine the dirty diapers, the spitting up, the lack of sleep, the sopping wet breast pads, the nipple cream, the butt cream, the nasty diaper pail, did I mention the sleepless nights?
Some women are actually surprised by my somewhat vehement shudder of horror I uncontrollably exude when asked that infamous question of whether I'm going to have more kids. Maybe there's a short circuit in my motherly wiring, but I like having one hand for each kid and not being out numbered. I like having a life again.
Having babies was a joyful period in my life that is thankfully now over. I shut the door on the "Mom is a human pacifier" chapter. I don't want to relieve it nearly as much as I enjoyed reliving the salad days at my 20 year high school reunion. Not to mention the permanent wounds left on the landscape of my body. It's not a pretty sight...I lost the battle and the war with stretch marks and deflated boobs that looked like cold chicken cutlets. Whenever I get out of the shower and dismally see this body reflecting back at me, I thank the marvels of modern medicine that enabled me to ensure any more damage of this kind can never be inflicted again.
Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and am thrilled to be a mom. I just don't miss the first nine months of being pregnant along with the first six months of the newborn stage. I know some are horrified when they hear my diatribe. But for how many other women do I speak their deep-seeded truth? It doesn't make us any less of a woman to concede that one or two, or even no children at all are quite enough for any one of us.
So stop looking at me like I have two heads.
Right after the birth of my second, I was so positive I was over it, I closed up my own personal baby-making shop and burned it to the ground so it would never see the light of day. I wanted to ensure that no small egg would dare ever even try to covertly sneak its way down my fallopian tube towards my fertile uterus in search of the forbidden fruit. Two human beings calling me Mother was enough. I couldn't bear the thought of gaining another fifty pounds again. (My god, I had already put on enough weight to create a whole other person between the two and my stretch marks can prove it!)
No way, no how. No thank you.
My girlfriend, Callie, had a baby some months ago. I've held the baby once or twice, just to see what it would feel like again. I wondered if it would conjure back warm memories of my own two daughters whom I had each breastfed for almost a year. Or perhaps I'd associate that delicious baby smell with the early months of bonding with my girls. But it didn't.
Actually it had quite the opposite effect of been there, done that. It reinforced the fact that I'm so happy I do not have little babies anymore. The other day, a woman ten years my senior told me she would happily adopt a baby to save him or her from the perils of a depraved life in some third-world country. I thought she was stark-raving mad. I can't imagine starting over. Yes, I'd love to save all the starving, homeless children of the world, but I'd rather send my check to "save the children." I couldn't imagine the dirty diapers, the spitting up, the lack of sleep, the sopping wet breast pads, the nipple cream, the butt cream, the nasty diaper pail, did I mention the sleepless nights?
Some women are actually surprised by my somewhat vehement shudder of horror I uncontrollably exude when asked that infamous question of whether I'm going to have more kids. Maybe there's a short circuit in my motherly wiring, but I like having one hand for each kid and not being out numbered. I like having a life again.
Having babies was a joyful period in my life that is thankfully now over. I shut the door on the "Mom is a human pacifier" chapter. I don't want to relieve it nearly as much as I enjoyed reliving the salad days at my 20 year high school reunion. Not to mention the permanent wounds left on the landscape of my body. It's not a pretty sight...I lost the battle and the war with stretch marks and deflated boobs that looked like cold chicken cutlets. Whenever I get out of the shower and dismally see this body reflecting back at me, I thank the marvels of modern medicine that enabled me to ensure any more damage of this kind can never be inflicted again.
Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and am thrilled to be a mom. I just don't miss the first nine months of being pregnant along with the first six months of the newborn stage. I know some are horrified when they hear my diatribe. But for how many other women do I speak their deep-seeded truth? It doesn't make us any less of a woman to concede that one or two, or even no children at all are quite enough for any one of us.
So stop looking at me like I have two heads.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Sentimental junk
Every girlfriend holds on to things long past its expiration date. From a favorite pair of skinny jeans tucked away until it fits another day to that tube of pink lipstick we can’t stop wearing, sometimes it’s just so hard to say goodbye.
Okay maybe a lot of things.
My friend Indie is totally on board with this concept. She just spent an entire day, a completely kid-free Saturday (well, okay, she doesn’t have kids yet), a whole afternoon to conduct an archaeological dig in her guest bedroom closet which stores her troves of sentimental “junk”. I am not exaggerating when I use the term “archaeological dig.” Indie could reconstruct her entire past—every old boyfriend, every injury, and travel destination, she had experienced for a major portion of her early adulthood years—through the careful examination of her collection of junk.
And as an avid junk collector and professional archaeologist myself, I enjoyed our long conversation on the guided tour of Indie’s past. It was hilarious and some of the random stuff she had saved from me, I could actually remember it too. It was a trip down Indie’s memory lane.
Every so often, we all seem compelled to clean out our closets. I’m good for a spring cleaning (and full examination, of course) about every two to three years. But it seems we’re all doing that more often now as we start to approach our 40s. Forty isn’t here yet, but I just passed the exit ramp warning sign that read “40—2 miles.” So perhaps it’s that awareness that pushes us to clean out our memory closet, dust off our favorite things and reexamine both what it meant to us then and how it fits us now.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Jinx, buy me a coke! (or not)
During my girls' weekend away, a friend and I were strolling along a boardwalk that connected the Gulf of Mexico to our hotel. Strong afternoon sun, paired with even stronger afternoon cocktails, left us both more-than-slightly tipsy as we chatted along the path back to the hotel pool.
It was a rather hot day, and once we climbed the stairs that raised the boardwalk over the beach and into the lush foliage that lined the boardwalk, we were offered a pleasant reprieve from the sun. As soon as we hit the shady portion, our typically incessant banter slowed and for a few minutes we walked in silence. (Perhaps it was the delightful shade that got us to shut our yaps, or maybe it was the wooziness that accompanied the drinks mixed with the 90 degree temperature--I'm not sure.)
We continued to walk down the path completely alone, lost in our own private thoughts, until a family came upon us from the opposite direction. A young mother was leading her brood towards the beach. She was laden with floating devices and beach toys and other necessities to occupy her small children that were in tow. The older child, perhaps 6 or 7, followed behind her, then the husband (not surprisingly, his hands were empty) and finally bringing up the rear was a barefoot toddler crying.
My friend and I turned to watch as the family passed us by, and the mother called to her husband that the boardwalk was probably too hot to walk upon barefoot. (Ugh, ya think? I commented to my friend, as I stopped at that moment to put on my shoes....a dark wooden, splintery boardwalk that has a sign at the entrance that clearly states: Shoes are Recommended" must have been overlooked by the hapless mother...but I digress and that's not the point of my story....)
At the point at which the family with the shoeless child passed, two conversations were had between my friend and I. You know, it was one of those "Jinx, buy me a Coke" moments when we both turned to each other at the exact, same time to comment on what just happened. Except you usually only buy your friend a Coke when the same thought comes out of each others' mouths. In this case, it was not the same but still of interest to me...follow along.
So my friend's reaction to the family was to wonder what was happening at that very same time with her husband and kids at her home. She started to question if one kid would have a sunburn and if her other kid would be wearing any sunscreen at all. She wondered aloud if her husband would be smart enough to remember to apply a second application of sunscreen after the kids got out of the pool. Blah blah blah.
She essentially STOPPED being on a vacation and allowed herself to slip back into her role she played at home....the leading lady part of "Mother." I betcha if she had her cell phone handy, she would have made a call there and then to ensure the worrisome sunscreen was reapplied.
I, on the other hand, had this immediate and gratifying thought at the very same second within our "jinx, buy me a coke" moment. Here's what crossed my mind with glee: Thank god for girls' trips so I don't have to THINK about that for the next 72 hours!
I laugh at my friend. Why do you think about that now?, I rib her. This is your time, I remind. Truthfully, she's not very good at forgetting, even for a while, and truthfully, I can be very good at forgetting.
Once a year, I go away with my girlfriends and leave the worry, cleaning, shopping, cooking, preparing, planning, chicken nuggets, bathing, laundry, work, husband, stress, responsibilities, appointments, organizing, compromising, kids, and check-lists all home and take off for three days of me.
It's all about me... and sun, and me and drinks, and me and exercising (or not), and me and my friends. It's me, me, me. I smiled as I had that thought of carelessness regarding sunscreen on my kids. I know my husband will take care of it. The kids will be perfectly fine without me for three measly days. So, of course, I torment my poor friend and poke fun at her for not playing along as well as I.
But truthfully, later, soberly, I have to question if it IS okay to turn off my brain for a while. Am I being selfish? Should I call home more often than my once-daily check-in? Am I being a bad mother or wife? Maybe I should have a little guilt. I mean what would all this pleasure be for if not somehow counterbalanced with a little Jewish guilt, right?
Maybe. Maybe not. But not today for me.
It was a rather hot day, and once we climbed the stairs that raised the boardwalk over the beach and into the lush foliage that lined the boardwalk, we were offered a pleasant reprieve from the sun. As soon as we hit the shady portion, our typically incessant banter slowed and for a few minutes we walked in silence. (Perhaps it was the delightful shade that got us to shut our yaps, or maybe it was the wooziness that accompanied the drinks mixed with the 90 degree temperature--I'm not sure.)
We continued to walk down the path completely alone, lost in our own private thoughts, until a family came upon us from the opposite direction. A young mother was leading her brood towards the beach. She was laden with floating devices and beach toys and other necessities to occupy her small children that were in tow. The older child, perhaps 6 or 7, followed behind her, then the husband (not surprisingly, his hands were empty) and finally bringing up the rear was a barefoot toddler crying.
My friend and I turned to watch as the family passed us by, and the mother called to her husband that the boardwalk was probably too hot to walk upon barefoot. (Ugh, ya think? I commented to my friend, as I stopped at that moment to put on my shoes....a dark wooden, splintery boardwalk that has a sign at the entrance that clearly states: Shoes are Recommended" must have been overlooked by the hapless mother...but I digress and that's not the point of my story....)
At the point at which the family with the shoeless child passed, two conversations were had between my friend and I. You know, it was one of those "Jinx, buy me a Coke" moments when we both turned to each other at the exact, same time to comment on what just happened. Except you usually only buy your friend a Coke when the same thought comes out of each others' mouths. In this case, it was not the same but still of interest to me...follow along.
So my friend's reaction to the family was to wonder what was happening at that very same time with her husband and kids at her home. She started to question if one kid would have a sunburn and if her other kid would be wearing any sunscreen at all. She wondered aloud if her husband would be smart enough to remember to apply a second application of sunscreen after the kids got out of the pool. Blah blah blah.
She essentially STOPPED being on a vacation and allowed herself to slip back into her role she played at home....the leading lady part of "Mother." I betcha if she had her cell phone handy, she would have made a call there and then to ensure the worrisome sunscreen was reapplied.
I, on the other hand, had this immediate and gratifying thought at the very same second within our "jinx, buy me a coke" moment. Here's what crossed my mind with glee: Thank god for girls' trips so I don't have to THINK about that for the next 72 hours!
I laugh at my friend. Why do you think about that now?, I rib her. This is your time, I remind. Truthfully, she's not very good at forgetting, even for a while, and truthfully, I can be very good at forgetting.
Once a year, I go away with my girlfriends and leave the worry, cleaning, shopping, cooking, preparing, planning, chicken nuggets, bathing, laundry, work, husband, stress, responsibilities, appointments, organizing, compromising, kids, and check-lists all home and take off for three days of me.
It's all about me... and sun, and me and drinks, and me and exercising (or not), and me and my friends. It's me, me, me. I smiled as I had that thought of carelessness regarding sunscreen on my kids. I know my husband will take care of it. The kids will be perfectly fine without me for three measly days. So, of course, I torment my poor friend and poke fun at her for not playing along as well as I.
But truthfully, later, soberly, I have to question if it IS okay to turn off my brain for a while. Am I being selfish? Should I call home more often than my once-daily check-in? Am I being a bad mother or wife? Maybe I should have a little guilt. I mean what would all this pleasure be for if not somehow counterbalanced with a little Jewish guilt, right?
Maybe. Maybe not. But not today for me.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Zen and the perfect Mojito
Today at a hotel pool bar, I ordered a mojito. A mojito is a tasty blend of freshly crushed mint and lime, mixed with real sugar cane, rum and soda. As I watched the bartender mix my cocktail, I realized I was mesmerized by the hypnotic effect the violent shaking of the mixing glass had upon me. I felt as if I could physically taste the drink already. I couldn't stand it--it was pure pleasure watching the cocktail being prepared and torturous at the same time because I had to wait--seconds even!--to taste it. By the time the concoction was poured into the glass--my mouth had started to froth at the sides in anticipation.
Perhaps it was my excitement paired with a touch of impatience, but I had to dive right into the drink as soon as the bartender brought the drink to me. The ice had barely finished doing its first lap around the glass and I already had the straw to my lips within milliseconds. The mojito was like a drug I had to get coursing through my veins immediately. Do not pass go. Hell, don't even worry about my friends' drinks that needed to be delivered. Get mojito into self as quickly as possible.
And so I did. Just like that. Some went splashing down my arm in my carelessness to feed the need. I took one large, sloppy sip, tilted my head back and exhaled, letting out a perceptible "ahhhh." It was delicious. It tasted as good as it looked watching the bartender make it. I took another sip, much slower, longer, more deliberate. I closed my eyes to enjoy and allowed my tongue time to actually taste the refreshing mix of flavors. I breathed another long sigh. (Silently, this time because I got an odd look from the guy standing next to me the first time!)
I smiled and thought how something as simple as a deliciously cold drink on a brutally hot day at a hotel pool bar could make me feel so internally happy. Maybe my girls trip was not going to provide any sense of enlightenment but surely the zen of the perfect mojito could help me find inner peace through the enjoyment my beverage. Whatever it was--either the zen or the alcohol content--I was on vacation with the girls and I was feeling great. Girls' weekends rule.
Perhaps it was my excitement paired with a touch of impatience, but I had to dive right into the drink as soon as the bartender brought the drink to me. The ice had barely finished doing its first lap around the glass and I already had the straw to my lips within milliseconds. The mojito was like a drug I had to get coursing through my veins immediately. Do not pass go. Hell, don't even worry about my friends' drinks that needed to be delivered. Get mojito into self as quickly as possible.
And so I did. Just like that. Some went splashing down my arm in my carelessness to feed the need. I took one large, sloppy sip, tilted my head back and exhaled, letting out a perceptible "ahhhh." It was delicious. It tasted as good as it looked watching the bartender make it. I took another sip, much slower, longer, more deliberate. I closed my eyes to enjoy and allowed my tongue time to actually taste the refreshing mix of flavors. I breathed another long sigh. (Silently, this time because I got an odd look from the guy standing next to me the first time!)
I smiled and thought how something as simple as a deliciously cold drink on a brutally hot day at a hotel pool bar could make me feel so internally happy. Maybe my girls trip was not going to provide any sense of enlightenment but surely the zen of the perfect mojito could help me find inner peace through the enjoyment my beverage. Whatever it was--either the zen or the alcohol content--I was on vacation with the girls and I was feeling great. Girls' weekends rule.
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