Miss Communication

I often wonder why no one in any auto parts store seems to have any idea what I'm talking about.  Same goes for any home improvement store.  It's like I walk into Menard's and suddenly I'm speaking another language, one that is completely unintelligible to everyone else.  Okay, okay, I don't exactly know the technical name of the do bobber that I'm talking about, but c'mon, you seriously have no idea what part I'm talking about?  You're not even willing to make a guess?

I realize that men and women see the world in different ways.  But do we really process it THAT differently?

Yes.

Last night Other Half and I stared at a package containing a curtain rod and it's hardware and hemmed and hawed over whether or not we should put it up.  To be fair, it was around 11:30 when I proposed this project and Other Half was, justifiably, not as excited about as I was.

Holding the package Other Half suddenly giggled, Ha, so this thing comes with a gear?, pointing to the picture.

Gear?  Gear?  What do you mean, gear?  I stared at the picture having no idea what he was talking about.  Do you mean like accessories?  Does it come with a cute little carrying case or something?  Why does it even have a carrying case, isn't it fastened to the wall?

These thoughts ran through my head as I stood there, presumably looking like a complete idiot.  I may have even drooled a bit.

I finally had to ask, What do you mean, gear?

Like a bike.

Huh?

The gears on a bike...  Doesn't this look like the gears on a bike?

Um.  Oh yeah, it kind of does.

That would just have, never in a million years, been my first thought.  And probably not my second or third either.

It's true, we really do see the world in different ways.  Men see bike gears; women see purses.

Thinking Of You, Molly Mae

There was a time in life when I wanted nothing more than to be punk.

Pink hair, black eyes, piercings, wristbands, star shaped accessories.  Punk rock in what I perceived to be all it's glory around the year 2000 or so.

Problem was that I had (in my mind) an overbearing father who obstinately refused to let me dye my hair and pierce my face. I told myself that I just didn't dare defy him. But let's be honest, if given consent, I'm still not sure I would've pulled the trigger.

I've also never looked good in eyeliner which means that the heavily lined eyes I yearned for made me look like a six year old dressed up like a raccoon; and one can't possibly leave the house looking like that.

My lion's mane of hair refused to stay stick straight like Avril Lavigne's and an hour of straightening time just wasn't worth the fifteen minutes of good looks I got out of it.

And that's if there was absolutely zero humidity.

Baggy pants and skater shoes just never looked right on me.

But then again, do they ever really look right on anyone?

I'll admit that this particular phase was relatively short lived.  But the desire to look more exciting than I really do most certainly was not.

I used to resent my so called "classic style". Aka, I don't go out on a limb because I'm always afraid I'll look ridiculous. Which is a good thing because when I go out on a limb I usually do. Now I can appreciate that when I look back at pictures of myself in earlier times I've never gone too far in any direction. I tried a few things here and there, and there is for sure an Emily Look, but I never went totally punk. Or totally homeless as I longed to do in my Phish following days.

But there's something about youth that makes us want to dress up.

Maybe it was the insecurity. Not really knowing who I was or where I fit in that caused a desire to look like someone else. But no matter how long I acted, I never felt like the character I played. I just felt like me acting and no one can live that way for any length of time. I admire those that can fully become the character they've developed. They have dedication that I will never know.

Oh the weight of age.

We get older and learn that while the world is still a stage, there should be no spotlight on you as you hurry through Target to pick up some pads.

There's nothing wrong with standing out in a crowd, in fact it's great when applying for a job. But there's something not right about spending that much time on yourself.

I look at people now who, at one time, would have been an idol of mine if only for their dedication to a certain style, but now I can only think of how unfulfilled their lives must be. Have they really no social or professional obligations that require naturally colored hair?  Ever?  How do they find the time to try that hard to look like they didn't try at all? I'm not fooled. You didn't just wake up in those layers of tattered skirts over worn leggings and wool socks with boots.  I know how much those boots cost and you really aren't as poor as you make yourself look. Which is just fine.

But why are you trying so hard?  Doesn't that get exhausting?

I'm not saying that everyone needs to be so consumed with their daily life that they never take the time to consider what they look like. Some personal vanity is necessary, but there's a time and a place for everything. But at a certain point life does become consuming, and things like complicated clothing and accessory combinations just fall by the wayside.

Moderation in all things...

Damn that Louise for having grown up during The Depression and preaching her scorn for all that's wasted in life.

Wasted time preening in the bathroom. Wasted money on clothes you'll hate in six months. Wasted energy consumed by self absorption.

As for me I choose to save my energy for the things that really matter. Things like peeling the glow in the dark silly putty off the lamp in the living room when I mistakenly said "sounds great!" to Lou as she yelled something incoherent as I tried to pee amidst the chaos of my house with a radio that had somehow been turned up way too loud in the mere moments I had been disposed in the bathroom.

Point is that I need all the energy I can gather. So I no longer want to look punk. Or homeless. Or really anything other than moderately put together.

Style is fine, just keep mine simple.

November Snowstorm

Have we truly no blankets warmer than these?

Is this really the day that  I'm destined to freeze?

My nose is running, I'm ready to sneeze.

But can't get a kleenex from the bathroom I can't see.


For all is dark and black today.

With the storm all our power was carried away.

It's been rather dark and it's been getting colder.

Each night, with sleeping on the bed, Gidget gets bolder.


She snuggles between us, a thing never done.

Usually, the slightest move puts her on the run.

But tonight it is cold so we all snuggle in

And pray that soon the power comes in.


But until that glorious day, I'm left here to say:

Are these really all the blankets we own here today?

Fall Paranoia 2010

With Lou's recent revolt against nap time, bedtime has become considerably more simple.  Suddenly, Other Half and I have more evening free time than we probably know what to do with.

Actually, we have plenty to do, there's always something.

Anyways, we have some free time and the weather's been great so we've been making a point of doing nothing but sitting outside and enjoying the night.

We can hardly see our closest neighbor and the backyard opens up into a field.  So while we can't hear cars or people in the dark we can hear plenty: owls, coyotes, geese, ducks, loons, and rogue racoons to name a few.  And then last night we heard someone walking through the field.

Who was that?

Oh my God, is there someone walking out by The Shed?

Is there someone by the garage?

Who the hell are all of these people?  Where are they coming from?  What are they doing?!?

Ha. Nothing.  There's no one there.

We heard the sound of leaves falling in record numbers.

There's nothing to compare to country living and while there are many benefits, there may be a few drawbacks too.  The isolation can make you a strange and paranoid individual...

Burrs

(Sung to the tune of "Oh My Darlin")

Burrs on the blankets
Burrs on the pillows
Burrs on the bathroom rug

The dogs bring burrs in
And I must clean then
Oh my life is so much fun!

Repeat

It's Amazing What A Minivan Can Do

Especially for your social status at preschool.

Last year, wedding ring less and rusty carred, I was the Quasimodo of preschool.  Sure, I had a kid there, but to the other parents, I was absolutely not an equal.

Well we just got a minivan, and, surprise surprise, I'm a star!  Suddenly I'm everyone's best friend. 

This year I can apparently be trusted with play dates, aka a Watch My Kids for a Few Hours date.  I'm cool enough to be part of the gossip at pick up time.  Did you hear about so and so?  No?  Oh that's right, you DON'T have a minivan...  People wave goodbye when we leave and everyone actually acknowledges my Other Half these days.

Sure there are other benefits to having a minivan if your primary cargo is children; namely the space, comfort, and safety.  But honestly, what good are these things if no one will talk to you?  I'm not sure if minivans are cool to preschool parents because of these things or if minivan makers made them with these features due to the minivan's popularity with this crowd.  Classic chicken or egg question.

Either way, I've certainly gotten a hell of a lot cooler since I got this car. 

Who knew that popularity is as simple as an upgrade?  Let me tell you, I should've done this sooner.

Three Year Old Manipulation

I never ceased to be amazed at the details that Lou picks up and the way she's able to use this knowledge to get her way.

When Auntie A was in town in August, Lou joined in on snack time with Little Man.  Auntie A was trying to get Lou to finish her banana, and Lou was trying her damnedest to get out of eating it.

Hey, Auntie A, do you want to finish this banana?

Oh, no thanks Lou, that's for you,

Well, you know, it has pacalcium in it, and you look like you need some.

Potassium, calcium, who cares?  It all sounds the same to her.  Remind me to never try to convince Lou to eat by telling her about all of the good things in her food.  She'll just use it against me or another unsuspecting victim.