I think we've all been there. Someone you're with has lipstick on her teeth, toilet paper on her shoe, or food between her teeth. It's a dilemma. Do you know (or like) the person enough to be able to tell her about it? Should you just wait for someone else to let her know? Who is obligated to inform her--a best friend, a spouse, an acquaintance? Should you give her a hint by picking at your own teeth for a while? It happens to most of us, at one time or another.
When I slip off to the ladies' room and discover my body or wardrobe indiscretions, I'm often hurt that my friends, or worse even, my husband didn't fill me in on those very fixable situations.
On one occasion, though, I have been the perpetrator of ignoring a person's humiliating moment. This isn't something I say with pride. Rather, I am admitting, maybe even confessing, that I just didn't have the guts to say something about it.
I was at a ladies only luncheon, and this woman I barely knew was wearing a very fashionable short dress with a slit up the back. The slit found it's way up a bit too far that day, and (thank goodness, really) she had big white granny panties on. It seemed that every time I got near her, there was a conversation I didn't want to interrupt, or I had a mouth full of food, and I never had the nerve to tell her.
I'm not quite sure who must have told her about it, but I did see her in a long sweater, probably lent to her by a kinder and more considerate person than I. So someone did the right thing. But I'll always look back and regret my not telling her.
Since then, I'm glad to say, I've never waited to tell someone about the spinach in her teeth, the shirt tucked into underwear, or the blond hairs all over the back of a black sweater. If someone has bad breath, I try to offer mints or gum. I hope that others will do the same for me, but just to be safe, I don't think I will be wearing any short dresses with slits up the back...
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
How long can you hold your breath?
My friends and I used to play all kinds of games at the neighborhood pool. We would have "tea parties" underwater as our hair floated around our faces and we poured each other's drinks. I know I could sometimes do three backwards somersaults, but my foreword somersaults were always crooked because I had to plug my nose or I would swallow water. I loved playing follow the leader off of the diving board. I will never forget the times I completely smacked my stomach, trying to do a swan dive.
My kids spent many summers, diving for pennies at the bottom of the pool, playing "Marco Polo," and "Sharks and Minnows" at the Lake Shore Pool in Erie, Pennsylvania. Some of their best childhood memories are either of times in the water, or ordering something sweet, salty or greasy from the snack bar.
I spent yesterday at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. My son-in-law is a Marine. He is on his way overseas. Along with over 1,000 of his peers, he will represent our country in an effort that he hopes will make our world a better place. I am not a very political person. I don't look at this as a foreign policy issue. This is my daughter's sweetheart and my very good friends' son. He takes my kids to Dairy Queen and knows just the right time to crack a joke or offer a hug. He is everything anyone could ever want in a son-in-law. I am going to miss having him around for the next seven months.
Yesterday, I caught myself doing something I did 35 years ago at Sizerville pool on sunny summer days with my childhood friends. I was holding my breath. I think a lot of the people in the parking lot, in and around the barracks, and under the trees in the common areas were holding their breath. I kept thinking "Just how long can I hold my breath like this?" Certainly, 7 months will be a long time for me, for Anna, for all of those parents, spouses, children, friends and family to hold their breath. But that seems to me what if feels like a little bit.
The Marines I saw yesterday were so much like many other 18, 20, 26, and 32 year olds living here at home. They have families who love them, they like to have some fun, and they are thinking about what they plan to do with the rest of their lives. They might not want to be away from America for seven months, but they have trained hard to prepare for their duties overseas. They know they might not have too many showers. They won't be texting their friends or logging on to Facebook. They won't be eating home cooked meals or hitting the snooze buttons on their alarms for an extra 30 minutes of sleep. They will spend a lot of time, thinking about what really matters to them and looking forward to enjoying the things that make their life in America so worth coming home to.
In seven months, most of the same people will be gathering around to welcome our marines home. Parents may be grayer. A few Marines will meet their babies for the first time. Refrigerators will be stocked with favorite foods. Beds will be made and flags will be flying. Anna hopes to have her apartment furnished and decorated for a great summer with the love of her life. Brad's parents will probably be throwing more than one party to welcome our hero home. That will definitely be worth seven months of holding my breath!!!
My kids spent many summers, diving for pennies at the bottom of the pool, playing "Marco Polo," and "Sharks and Minnows" at the Lake Shore Pool in Erie, Pennsylvania. Some of their best childhood memories are either of times in the water, or ordering something sweet, salty or greasy from the snack bar.
I spent yesterday at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. My son-in-law is a Marine. He is on his way overseas. Along with over 1,000 of his peers, he will represent our country in an effort that he hopes will make our world a better place. I am not a very political person. I don't look at this as a foreign policy issue. This is my daughter's sweetheart and my very good friends' son. He takes my kids to Dairy Queen and knows just the right time to crack a joke or offer a hug. He is everything anyone could ever want in a son-in-law. I am going to miss having him around for the next seven months.
Yesterday, I caught myself doing something I did 35 years ago at Sizerville pool on sunny summer days with my childhood friends. I was holding my breath. I think a lot of the people in the parking lot, in and around the barracks, and under the trees in the common areas were holding their breath. I kept thinking "Just how long can I hold my breath like this?" Certainly, 7 months will be a long time for me, for Anna, for all of those parents, spouses, children, friends and family to hold their breath. But that seems to me what if feels like a little bit.
The Marines I saw yesterday were so much like many other 18, 20, 26, and 32 year olds living here at home. They have families who love them, they like to have some fun, and they are thinking about what they plan to do with the rest of their lives. They might not want to be away from America for seven months, but they have trained hard to prepare for their duties overseas. They know they might not have too many showers. They won't be texting their friends or logging on to Facebook. They won't be eating home cooked meals or hitting the snooze buttons on their alarms for an extra 30 minutes of sleep. They will spend a lot of time, thinking about what really matters to them and looking forward to enjoying the things that make their life in America so worth coming home to.
In seven months, most of the same people will be gathering around to welcome our marines home. Parents may be grayer. A few Marines will meet their babies for the first time. Refrigerators will be stocked with favorite foods. Beds will be made and flags will be flying. Anna hopes to have her apartment furnished and decorated for a great summer with the love of her life. Brad's parents will probably be throwing more than one party to welcome our hero home. That will definitely be worth seven months of holding my breath!!!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
What might happen if you get your cartilage pierced...
I wasn't allowed to have my ears pierced when I was growing up. Somebody said "you already have enough holes in your head..." I don't consider myself a jealous person, but I did envy my fancy, pierced-ear friends . I also envied my friends who had Barbie dolls--another thing forbidden for me. I'm glad to say that I actually did survive not having Barbie dolls--they were highly overrated, and I think my parents were ahead of the times with that one. I did very well without those extra holes in my head, too. (At 21, a few months before my wedding, I had them pierced so I could wear pearls on my special day.) I probably wear earrings a few times a month at best, so I guess you could say I'm not one bit damaged by being "deprived" as a kid.
All that said, there was a part of me that wanted to prove that owning Barbies and wearing earrings weren't all that bad for a growing girl. My three girls were allowed to have Barbies and they each had their ears pierced by the time they were in middle school. My girls never even liked Barbies, they were much more the American Girl type. My guess is that maybe one or two of my three girls is wearing earrings today, and they could probably live with or without them. We're just not that into accessorizing.
But, just like me, my daughters try to push the envelope sometimes. I wouldn't say they are jealous types, either, but it's natural to look at your friends and think about things they have that you just might like. When we were living in England a few years ago, my 17 year old daughter wanted her cartilage pierced. I really, really didn't want her to do it, but decided that it probably was one of those battles not worth fighting.
We went to Claire's boutique--those stores are everywhere. The young man who filled out her paperwork seemed very, very thorough and attentive. Each step of the way, he consulted with his supervisor. This made for a pretty long ordeal, but there's nothing like good customer service. We definitely didn't feel rushed that day. When he was finally ready to pierce her cartilage, I positioned myself between racks of earrings and barrettes and held my breath. I am certain that I felt every bit of the pain that Anna felt that afternoon.
As we were finishing up the piercing routine, collecting the requisite ear cleaning solution and being offered some sort of extra warranty, the piercer dude proudly mentioned that Anna was his first ever cartilage customer. My stomach sank. That's probably not a club you want to be a charter member of. The back of her earring was sort of sticking out toward the front, but she had won her right to have just one more hole in her head....
All that said, there was a part of me that wanted to prove that owning Barbies and wearing earrings weren't all that bad for a growing girl. My three girls were allowed to have Barbies and they each had their ears pierced by the time they were in middle school. My girls never even liked Barbies, they were much more the American Girl type. My guess is that maybe one or two of my three girls is wearing earrings today, and they could probably live with or without them. We're just not that into accessorizing.
But, just like me, my daughters try to push the envelope sometimes. I wouldn't say they are jealous types, either, but it's natural to look at your friends and think about things they have that you just might like. When we were living in England a few years ago, my 17 year old daughter wanted her cartilage pierced. I really, really didn't want her to do it, but decided that it probably was one of those battles not worth fighting.
We went to Claire's boutique--those stores are everywhere. The young man who filled out her paperwork seemed very, very thorough and attentive. Each step of the way, he consulted with his supervisor. This made for a pretty long ordeal, but there's nothing like good customer service. We definitely didn't feel rushed that day. When he was finally ready to pierce her cartilage, I positioned myself between racks of earrings and barrettes and held my breath. I am certain that I felt every bit of the pain that Anna felt that afternoon.
As we were finishing up the piercing routine, collecting the requisite ear cleaning solution and being offered some sort of extra warranty, the piercer dude proudly mentioned that Anna was his first ever cartilage customer. My stomach sank. That's probably not a club you want to be a charter member of. The back of her earring was sort of sticking out toward the front, but she had won her right to have just one more hole in her head....
Monday, October 19, 2009
where DID you get your perm?
Every once in a while, when I have my hair done, I get a compliment or two. I have a feeling people see that someone actually spent more than five minutes with a blow dryer on my tresses, and it shows. I think it's funny sometimes when people comment on how good I look, because they are probably just noticing the contrast from the days when I have done absolutely nothing more than wash my face, brush me teeth and brush my hair. I think men have it lucky for the most part in that sense.
When Ed and I were first married, we worked hard at spending as little as possible so we could save for our first house and get ourselves situated in life. We did our grocery shopping at Erie County Farms, where we needed to wrestle our way through the line to get the 8 pound bags of chicken thighs for 29 cents a pound. I still remember being 8 months pregnant with Anna, and having some little old lady nearly knock me over for her bag of chicken when the butcher came out with a shopping cart filled with budget poultry.
Beyond cheap chicken, I also found a place that offered hair cuts for six dollars and perms for six dollars. Maybe the perms were twelve dollars, because I recall paying eighteen dollars for my perm that day. I can't imagine I would have even given a six dollar tip. My memory is sometimes blurred, but most of that day is still very clear in my mind. In the eighties, perms were very much in style, and I wanted big hair just as much as the next girl. After nearly three hours of waiting in line, being shuffled from a shampoo lady to a perm lady to a hair cut lady, I looked in the mirror and realized my hair wasn't permed--it was incinerated. I was afraid to touch it because I was certain it would crumble in my fingers. I quickly fled the mall, careful not to bump into the doors with my extra wide hair berth, and rushed home to dive onto the requisite newlywed plaid sofa in our family room. I remember the sofa, because I must have let Ed take a picture of me in a moment of weakness that day.
Ed is usually very sweet (savvy, too I guess) and tells me I'm looking good even when I'm not. But if you ask him about my perm that day, after he stops laughing, he'll tell you how truly terrible it was. You might call it a hair raising experience for me. But the last laugh came a few weeks into my "what not to hair" experience. I was dropping our dog off at the groomers, and who do you think was grooming a darling little cocker spaniel.....
I wonder how much they paid her for that?
When Ed and I were first married, we worked hard at spending as little as possible so we could save for our first house and get ourselves situated in life. We did our grocery shopping at Erie County Farms, where we needed to wrestle our way through the line to get the 8 pound bags of chicken thighs for 29 cents a pound. I still remember being 8 months pregnant with Anna, and having some little old lady nearly knock me over for her bag of chicken when the butcher came out with a shopping cart filled with budget poultry.
Beyond cheap chicken, I also found a place that offered hair cuts for six dollars and perms for six dollars. Maybe the perms were twelve dollars, because I recall paying eighteen dollars for my perm that day. I can't imagine I would have even given a six dollar tip. My memory is sometimes blurred, but most of that day is still very clear in my mind. In the eighties, perms were very much in style, and I wanted big hair just as much as the next girl. After nearly three hours of waiting in line, being shuffled from a shampoo lady to a perm lady to a hair cut lady, I looked in the mirror and realized my hair wasn't permed--it was incinerated. I was afraid to touch it because I was certain it would crumble in my fingers. I quickly fled the mall, careful not to bump into the doors with my extra wide hair berth, and rushed home to dive onto the requisite newlywed plaid sofa in our family room. I remember the sofa, because I must have let Ed take a picture of me in a moment of weakness that day.
Ed is usually very sweet (savvy, too I guess) and tells me I'm looking good even when I'm not. But if you ask him about my perm that day, after he stops laughing, he'll tell you how truly terrible it was. You might call it a hair raising experience for me. But the last laugh came a few weeks into my "what not to hair" experience. I was dropping our dog off at the groomers, and who do you think was grooming a darling little cocker spaniel.....
I wonder how much they paid her for that?
Sunday, October 18, 2009
weird dreams
I love remembering my dreams. I don't really have nightmares, for the most part, which means my dreams just give me something to think about until I think I know why I had them. It's also a pretty good conversation starter if you aren't worried that your dream might reveal something deep and dark inside.
I have had two recurring dreams in my life. They might have been mild nightmares, but they really didn't torment me. The first recurring dream must have happened when I was around 4 years old. I kept dreaming that I went into the basement of my house and found a sort of "fireman's pole" down into another basement. The second basement was wet. Nothing unusual for a basement, but there were alligators in it. The alligators never got me, and I went down to see them every time I had the dream. I was afraid of the alligators, but I guess not afraid enough to stop looking at them. I don't quite know what that dream meant. Maybe I am sort of attracted to things that scare me and I want to confront them. Or maybe one of my brothers had a rubber alligator that found its way into my dreams. Who knows.
In my teens, I dreamt I was in a car with my cousin Ken. I was driving--this was before I had a license--and I didn't know how to stop the car. At the time, the last thing I wanted was my driver's license. In my waking hours, I was terrified to drive. I must have had this dream 20 times or so. Finally, in the dream I decided to drive the car until it ran out of gas. I can still picture that spot in Sizerville State Park where my imaginary drive ended. I no longer had the dream, and I did soon get my license.
In my dream last night, I found myself in a town somewhere between North Carolina and Pennsylvania, knocking at the door of a girl who graduated from my high school a few years before I did. Because she was a few years older than I, my guess is that if she knew I existed, it was because I was the cashier who waited on her at the Market Basket. She was pretty and popular and I think she was probably a really nice person. So there I was, knocking on her door, meeting her son and her daughter. She had a stone house with beautiful landscaping and two really sweet kids. I have no idea where she lives, if she's married and how many kids she has--if she even has any. In my dream, she never said my name, so I'm not sure she even knew who I was. I left her house and got lost on my way home. (I realize this is a bit hard to follow, but it is a dream and I'm trying to glue it together the best I can.)
I think my dream last night has everything to do with my efforts to enter the world of blogging. I enjoy writing about myself and the way I look at thing that happen all around me. I need to find a way to make it interesting and perhaps a bit less narcissistic. Three of my favorite books growing up were: Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, and Go Ask Alice. If I can find people like me, who can relate to my every day life, I hope I can keep them coming back for more. And if you have found yourself reading the last sentences in today's blog, I'd like to thank you for entering my world today. I'm really glad you did.
I have had two recurring dreams in my life. They might have been mild nightmares, but they really didn't torment me. The first recurring dream must have happened when I was around 4 years old. I kept dreaming that I went into the basement of my house and found a sort of "fireman's pole" down into another basement. The second basement was wet. Nothing unusual for a basement, but there were alligators in it. The alligators never got me, and I went down to see them every time I had the dream. I was afraid of the alligators, but I guess not afraid enough to stop looking at them. I don't quite know what that dream meant. Maybe I am sort of attracted to things that scare me and I want to confront them. Or maybe one of my brothers had a rubber alligator that found its way into my dreams. Who knows.
In my teens, I dreamt I was in a car with my cousin Ken. I was driving--this was before I had a license--and I didn't know how to stop the car. At the time, the last thing I wanted was my driver's license. In my waking hours, I was terrified to drive. I must have had this dream 20 times or so. Finally, in the dream I decided to drive the car until it ran out of gas. I can still picture that spot in Sizerville State Park where my imaginary drive ended. I no longer had the dream, and I did soon get my license.
In my dream last night, I found myself in a town somewhere between North Carolina and Pennsylvania, knocking at the door of a girl who graduated from my high school a few years before I did. Because she was a few years older than I, my guess is that if she knew I existed, it was because I was the cashier who waited on her at the Market Basket. She was pretty and popular and I think she was probably a really nice person. So there I was, knocking on her door, meeting her son and her daughter. She had a stone house with beautiful landscaping and two really sweet kids. I have no idea where she lives, if she's married and how many kids she has--if she even has any. In my dream, she never said my name, so I'm not sure she even knew who I was. I left her house and got lost on my way home. (I realize this is a bit hard to follow, but it is a dream and I'm trying to glue it together the best I can.)
I think my dream last night has everything to do with my efforts to enter the world of blogging. I enjoy writing about myself and the way I look at thing that happen all around me. I need to find a way to make it interesting and perhaps a bit less narcissistic. Three of my favorite books growing up were: Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, and Go Ask Alice. If I can find people like me, who can relate to my every day life, I hope I can keep them coming back for more. And if you have found yourself reading the last sentences in today's blog, I'd like to thank you for entering my world today. I'm really glad you did.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
watch what you do with that discus
Writing my blog yesterday brought back memories of my high school days. I am sure that I forget most of the bad and remember most of the good. One of my friends commented that I was good at anything I put my mind to. That was really nice, but pretty far from the truth, I'm afraid. I don't think she was on the track team with me.
Track was a "no cut" sport when I was in high school. I was enthusiastic and enjoyed the fact that I was on a team. The way I remember it, I was not really all that bad, just not really all that good. I realized that the best way for me to get a chance at competing was to choose an event that was maybe a little less popular than the others. I could fill a void.
The running workouts were hardest, and as much as I'd like to say I was a real go-getter and went for that, I can't. I chose field events. Shorter runs and a lot of time to hang out and visit with my teammates. I thought I was getting the hang of triple jump. I am pretty sure I even placed a few times. Never first place--I'd remember that--but second or third anyway.
I'm not quite sure what (or who) helped me decide to try the discus. Maybe I was showing promise, so my coach suggested I try the "four step approach." After watching some demonstration, I was happy to be the first volunteer to try this new and exciting throwing technique. I don't exactly remember the full course of events, but my first try at the four step approach was my last. No sooner had the discus left my hand than it rocketed toward another girl's head. To my horror, she was out cold. Flat on the ground, but luckily for me (and her too, really) no teeth out, no broken bones. Unconscious, but at least on the outside, unscathed. I wonder if she remembers the smelling salts that day. I hope her memory is a bit fuzzier than mine...
Track was a "no cut" sport when I was in high school. I was enthusiastic and enjoyed the fact that I was on a team. The way I remember it, I was not really all that bad, just not really all that good. I realized that the best way for me to get a chance at competing was to choose an event that was maybe a little less popular than the others. I could fill a void.
The running workouts were hardest, and as much as I'd like to say I was a real go-getter and went for that, I can't. I chose field events. Shorter runs and a lot of time to hang out and visit with my teammates. I thought I was getting the hang of triple jump. I am pretty sure I even placed a few times. Never first place--I'd remember that--but second or third anyway.
I'm not quite sure what (or who) helped me decide to try the discus. Maybe I was showing promise, so my coach suggested I try the "four step approach." After watching some demonstration, I was happy to be the first volunteer to try this new and exciting throwing technique. I don't exactly remember the full course of events, but my first try at the four step approach was my last. No sooner had the discus left my hand than it rocketed toward another girl's head. To my horror, she was out cold. Flat on the ground, but luckily for me (and her too, really) no teeth out, no broken bones. Unconscious, but at least on the outside, unscathed. I wonder if she remembers the smelling salts that day. I hope her memory is a bit fuzzier than mine...
Friday, October 16, 2009
one small town, one big world, and a beautiful sister
I woke up this morning and checked the results in the voting for the Good Mood Gig talent search. In just over two days, my entry has racked up close to 300 votes. I am amazed by the power of Facebook, but even more thrilled that my sister has taken such an active role in helping me get votes.
I entered this contest because I wanted to win a new computer and a $30,000 blogging contract. I have always enjoyed writing--probably because it's another way to talk. I love to talk. I spent an hour or so, writing my entry and enlisted my daughter to take a picture of me and my dog. Maria takes great pictures.
Trying to get votes brought back memories of my running for student council in middle and high school. My friends were cheerleaders and my sister Veronica was a majorette, but the thing I was most successful at was getting elected for student government.
In high school, I had hoped to get a part in the school play, but I needed to keep my job at the Market Basket to save money for college. When my sister, Joyce got a part in the play, I was a little jealous. That all changed when I went to see her in the play. She is a great actress and probably has more skill than she even realizes. (That's just one thing that makes her wonderful.)
We grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. With Facebook, a lot of us have reconnected. Now I can see my friends from Emporium. I see their children and even some grandchildren. Like going to a class reunion, it's fun to take a look into lives of people who shared those early years with me in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
Thanks to Joyce, who lives in Amman, Jordan, and my friends and family from Emporium, I feel like I'm back home again and it feels good. Joyce made a fan club for me, and right now it has 77 members. It's only one day old. I love that.
I entered this contest because I wanted to win a new computer and a $30,000 blogging contract. I have always enjoyed writing--probably because it's another way to talk. I love to talk. I spent an hour or so, writing my entry and enlisted my daughter to take a picture of me and my dog. Maria takes great pictures.
Trying to get votes brought back memories of my running for student council in middle and high school. My friends were cheerleaders and my sister Veronica was a majorette, but the thing I was most successful at was getting elected for student government.
In high school, I had hoped to get a part in the school play, but I needed to keep my job at the Market Basket to save money for college. When my sister, Joyce got a part in the play, I was a little jealous. That all changed when I went to see her in the play. She is a great actress and probably has more skill than she even realizes. (That's just one thing that makes her wonderful.)
We grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. With Facebook, a lot of us have reconnected. Now I can see my friends from Emporium. I see their children and even some grandchildren. Like going to a class reunion, it's fun to take a look into lives of people who shared those early years with me in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
Thanks to Joyce, who lives in Amman, Jordan, and my friends and family from Emporium, I feel like I'm back home again and it feels good. Joyce made a fan club for me, and right now it has 77 members. It's only one day old. I love that.
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