life

Out of Touch

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Last night I was perfectly content sitting on my couch and NOT multitasking. I was doing one thing and one thing only. Watching Seinfeld re-runs. I was not on the phone or the laptop Facebooking, Twittering or blogging. I was just sitting there—like a tree stump dressed in grey sweatpants and a weathered In & Out Burger t-shirt—and it was glorious.

It was at this point that I saw a commercial for the newest ipad. The commercial showed a woman about my age, in the Apple store, looking at the shiny new gadget the salesman had just presented to her. She cautiously grasped the ipad like it was the Holy Grail and the moment it was in her hands, she was immediately transported to all of these exotic locales.

She traveled to remote sun-washed beaches, gourmet, five-star restaurants, rockin’ night clubs, casinos and both National and International landmarks. And all the while, she never looked up from that damn ipad. Apple’s selling point being that this device can go with you wherever, whenever and you can stay connected.

WTF?!?! Helloooo!!! You're in P-A-R-A-D-I-S-E. LOOK AROUND!!!

I’m sorry, am I the only one who has the desire to visit remote and exotic sun-washed beaches, gourmet, five-star restaurants, rockin’ night clubs, casinos and both National and International landmarks for the sole purposes of getting away from AND staying OUT of touch with the world? I mean, there’s a reason that the freakin’ screen savers and wallpapers on these things have pictures of Fiji and Mt. Kilimanjaro on them. Duh.

Though perhaps that is the final irony here… The place in which we’ve arrived on the evolutionary ladder of man vs. technology… If you’re toiling at your desk… you dream of Fiji or of standing in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. But if you’re actually IN Fiji or standing in the shadow of Kilimanjaro… you want to be at the office?!

I don’t know about you, but if I had the time and resources to travel to far-flung corners of the globe and visit the types of exclusive destinations that this chick was inhabiting in the ipad commercial… I would take that flat, wireless, super-sleek, state-of-the-art, hi-speed, touch-screen piece of crap capable of keeping me “connected” 24/7… and fling it as far as it would go.

Mornin’ Sunshine

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Yesterday morning I got stuck behind this ridiculously-slow-moving truck on the way to work and was so frustrated I could spit nails. I HATE slow-moving traffic. I LOATHE slow-moving traffic. I have no patience and no tolerance for it. In fact, one day it is probably going to cause me to stroke out behind the wheel. OK, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get my point.

I know I’ve said it before, but I firmly believe that anyone who is going to drive under the legally posted speed limit should restrict their travel to between midnight and 4 a.m. That way they are less likely to interfere with people who ACTUALLY HAVE TO BE SOMEWHERE… And quite frankly they will annoy fewer people. If they cannot adhere to the midnight and 4 a.m. rule, then the absolute least they could do is not travel between the hours of 5 a.m.- 9 a.m. Is this too much to ask?

However, since these restrictions are not yet LAWS… there is little I can do about it except complain, fume, roll my eyes, slam my hands against the steering wheel and call the driver of said slow-moving vehicle all sorts of nasty names while performing obscene hand gestures beneath the dashboard 1. so as not to incite road rage and/or get myself killed and 2. because I haven’t got the balls to do this above the dashboard where the offending motorist might actually see and identify me. But yesterday morning was a little bit of a different story.

Because of the aforementioned ridiculously-slow-moving-truck, I had the opportunity to meet the sunrise. While trapped behind the giant snail, I began to notice the tops of the brightly-lit, green trees and golden-tassled corn. My surroundings on the road down below were all a greenish-grey… but higher up on the horizon everything was brilliant blue, green and gold. And since I now had the time to watch this lovely scene unfold in front of me… thanks to Pokey-The-Passive-Pick-Up-Driver (jerk)… I decided to enjoy it.

Gradually, as the sun rose higher and higher in the East, the color spread down through the trees, illuminating more and more of the landscape. It was like being on the inside of a blank canvas while it was being washed with color. At one point it felt like I was driving through a glowing green tunnel as tall, mature maples guarded both sides of the highway. It was stunning. Little by little everything sprang to life as a promising new day began!

And before I knew it, I had stopped screaming, put both hands back on the wheel and forgotten ALL about the sluggish vehicle in front of me—probably because by now I had run it off the road and it was lying upside down in a ditch, wheels still spinning—but that’s another story for another day.

So, I would just like to close by saying: I guess there really IS some validity to the statement: “Take time to enjoy the scenery.” I would just prefer to enjoy the scenery… while traveling at least 65 miles per hour.

TMI… Or, A Tribute to the Over-Sharer

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C’mon, admit it… you have one of those friends/co-workers/relatives that is constantly guilty of the infamous “Over-Share.” It’s too much information and you know it. We all have one or two or more… depending on whether or not you’re attracted to drama. Perhaps YOU are the Over-Sharer. Perhaps I am the Over-Sharer in some of my friends’ lives because I write so much…

Whoever it is, and whatever the case may be, there is one thing that has made life VERY interesting for the Over-Sharer, or the Friend-Of-The-Over-Sharer. It is this new-fangled convention we all can’t seem to live without called Facebook.

I would like to take a minute (or two) to share a few of the ways that I have observed people offering TMI on FB.

NOT KNOWING THE PROPER WHEN AND WHERE: Whether they mean to or not, they use the WALL for private invitations, downright rude or offensive opinions, love notes (at times, fairly detailed love notes… see next point) rather than the private chat or messaging features that FB has to offer.

GET A (CHAT) ROOM: Similar to the first one, this one is, however MUCH MORE SEVERE. This may be TMI on my part, but I think I may have already “witnessed”… how shall I put this delicately?… uhh… well… cyber-sex between a FB friend and someone else… I wanted so badly to interrupt their cyber-love-making with a “Get A (Chat) Room!!” comment but—since it would not have been anonymous—I didn’t have the nerve. Fortunately, someone else did… and it stopped… sort of.

SCIZOPHRENIC RELATIONSHIP-STATUS CHANGE: Let us now discuss the phenomenon that is CONSTANT (and maybe even a wee-bit compulsive) “Relationship Status” change. We all know people whose personal lives are a little, shall we say, colorful? Or perhaps you know someone whose love life is a downright train-wreck. It goes a little something like this: Cindy-Sue is in a relationship. The next day: Cindy-Sue is now single. The following morning: Cindy-Sue is in a Serious Relationship. 2 days later: Cindy-Sue is now engaged. 24 hours later: Cindy-Sue is now married. 1 week later: Cindy Sue is now single. 48 hours later: Cindy Sue is in an Open Relationship. The next morning: Cindy-Sue is now at the police station, filing a restraining order. I think you get the idea, and my apologies to anyone out there who may coincidentally be named Cindy-Sue.

FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS DRINK AND POST: This one really needs no embellishment. It is pretty self-explanatory. But can I provide a little helpful suggestion? If you or your friends are still under the influence of Jack, Johnny, Jim or Jose, you miiiiight not want to post those pictures until you’ve slept it off. The “OMG-this-is-soooooooo-freakin-hilarious” photo you took in the bathroom at the bar the night before, might not be quite as funny to you (or your friends… or your mom… or your boss) in the morning light.

So here’s to all of the “Over-Sharers” out there. Thanks to them and Facebook… life is never dull and always full of surprises. And even if I claim to occasionally become annoyed with TMI… well, it’s kind of like an accident by the side of the road… I may talk about how awful it is, but then again, I just can’t seem to look away.

For One Day

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Maybe for one day…

We will forget the little things that are troubling us.

We will forget to be angry or frustrated when we get stuck behind that awful driver.

We will chill out when we inevitably choose the slowest line at the checkout counter.

We will smile anyway when someone hurts us.

We will extend kindness to a stranger who—for all we know—may be in desperate need of some.

We will forgive the petty arguments we are in the middle of.

We will allow bitterness to loosen its grip on us.

We will hold close the ones we love and tell them how much they mean to us.

We will drop our shoulders
our guards
and our anger.

Miraculously, we did that ten years ago this week. We all stopped and for at least ONE day, we remembered the most important things. We remembered that all we really, truly need is right in front of us… be it family, friends or neighbors. We remembered what a gift it was just to be safe and to be alive. We learned that kindness and goodness will always trump jealousy, selfishness and rage.

This is how we should live each day, even though we don’t. Believe me… I include myself in that I-don’t-do-it-even-though-I-know-I-should category. I worry, I fret, I pace and I wring my hands while obsessing over what I think I need to accomplish that day, over a lack of money, or a lack of time, or a lack of respect I think I deserve, or an awful thing that someone said or did to me.

But perhaps for just ONE day … ten years after we witnessed first hand—through billows of black smoke and piles of ash—what hatred and fear and ignorance are capable of …

We will take a breath and remember.

And rather than dwell on everything that has gone wrong … we will pause and give thanks for everything that is still right.

This waterfall at the site of the 9/11 memorial at ground zero now fills the "void" left behind by one of the fallen towers.

A serviceman kneels at the 9/11 memorial at the Pentagon.

Families walk amidst endless flags in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

Great Deal or Tiny Torture Device?

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Who doesn’t love a good sale? Better yet, who doesn’t love stumbling across a much-desired item for less than half of its original price?

Such was the case for me last Friday while out doing a little retail therapy. I have been looking—actively looking—for a certain type of brown sandals for over a month now. They’re simple and I saw them everywhere this summer so I figured they wouldn’t be hard to find. More wrong I could not have been.

I made sure to check the shoe department everywhere I went, but no dice. Although, up until 2 weeks ago, I had kept my search somewhat casual. So last weekend, I decided it was time to ratchet it up a notch now that the fall fashions are appearing and the summer sales are in full swing. Still nothing.

So I gave up and bought a cream-colored pair instead. They are cute… just not exactly what I wanted. Then this past Friday while shopping for something else entirely… there they were. The brown sandals. The EXACT brown sandals that I have been coveting for at least 6 weeks now. And they were on clearance. And they were my size. And they were P E R F E C T.

When I returned home, Lee was curious to see what I had purchased, so I showed him. But when I got around to pulling the shoes out of the bag, he just looked at them and said: “Those look like the most uncomfortable shoes in the world. They look like a form of torture.” I told him he had no idea what he was talking about. These sandals were absolutely comfortable and just my size.

That is, until I wore them to work for the very first time.

Let it be known that it is never a good sign if your new shoes are hurting you while on the drive TO work. Also a bad sign might be that the very thought of them on your feet conjures up crazy imaginings of Chinese foot binding. I’m not joking. Poor, little Chinese girls were all I could think about on the drive to work.

I guess strutting around in front of a shoe mirror for 2 seconds in the store because they look exactly like the thing you’ve been searching high and low for … AND they are just your size … AND they are on clearance … doesn’t mean jack to your toes… or your heels… or your ankles.

The harmless-looking, vile offenders. Cute aren't they?

Morning Battle

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It’s raining harder now and I would so much rather stay in bed. This is the kind of morning where nirvana could be achieved by simply pulling the covers over my head and hiding out awhile. The rain is a soaking, cleansing rain. It is as though it has the ability to wash away all of the troubles I took to bed with me the night before.

It is still dark. And as autumn has officially announced its arrival to the world. The air has grown fresh and cool. I’ve left the windows open so that the crispness of the night can float in and settle between the planks of my wooden floors. I hear a distant rumble of thunder and the rain is coming down in big fat drops that make a beautiful noise as they slap against the shingles and the siding. To me, the sound may as well be a lullaby.

But duty calls. Responsibility beckons and pulls on the strings of a tired and over-burdened conscience. No matter how irresistible the thought of staying between the sheets may seem, I have a million things that demand my attention. There’s the 10 hours today that the job requires… The ever-growing heap of laundry begging to be washed… The dust bunnies on the floor taunting me to vacuum… The ring in the tub that isn’t going to remove itself… The empty shelves in the refrigerator, and the way-too-light carton of milk reminding me that a trip to the store is in order.

Oh but the thunder and the darkness make it so tempting to retreat for the day! Instead I rise reluctantly and shower and put on make-up. I rinse the dishes in the sink, trade my slippers for heels, blow dry my hair and put on lipstick. There’s no turning back now. Time to greet The Dreaded Day whether I’m ready for it or not.

The rain is still steadily coming down as I unlatch the door to step outside and face the world. I force open my broken umbrella and hear the click as the door now locks behind me.

The Septuagenarians in Starbucks

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So there I am, on my lunch hour waiting at the Starbuck’s counter inside Barnes & Noble, 2 bargain books in hand for purchase along with my Iced, Venti, fat-free, half-caff, extra-caramel, caramel macchiato.

One of the books perched precariously on my arm was about a Southern Belle who seemingly gets away with killing her high-school sweetheart (for awhile) until it catches up with her years later in modern-day Chicago. And the other is a parodied, How-To sex book chosen as a gag gift for my best friend’s upcoming bachelorette party.

I am almost giddy about my cheap and decadent literary purchases as I anticipate the rush I’m about to feel from all the sugar and caffeine I’ll soon be consuming in my coffee confection.

As I hand my books to the cashier and eloquently—if not poetically—place my order, I become aware of two grey-haired gentlemen approaching from behind. One man, who I’d guess to be about 75, is speaking very loudly to the other about how he has to take his pill very soon. They are eye-balling the menu and scratching their heads when I hear them mumble to one another the ultimate question: How in the HELL do you just order a “regular cup of coffee” in this place?!

While I am paying for my purchase, the cute little green-apron-clad barista asks the gentlemen what they would like. One of the men says very clearly to her: “I would like a REGULAR coffee please. None of that special stuff will be necessary. I just want your plain Starbucks coffee.”

The girl in the green apron hesitates slightly and says to the man in a slightly raised voice: “Sir, we have SEVERAL varieties of Starbucks coffee here.” And then she launches into a sermon about light and medium roast blends versus richer, darker blends.

The man tries again, this time attempting to be a bit more adventurous, and trying to meet her in the middle with attempted “coffee-house speak” by ordering a Starbucks “House Blend.”

The barista, exasperated by this man’s total inability to relate to the extensive foreign-language menu hanging ominously on the wall, practically shouts: “Sir!?! We have many, MANY HOUSE blends. Which ONE can I get for you?!?”

He leans across the counter to meet her gaze, agitated, and now aware of the “stir” (pun intended) this exchange is causing and replies: “You know, all I want is a basic coffee, just a BASIC coffee. I don’t know how to read that DAMN menu!” Then unintelligible and frustrated grumbles and mumbles come from both of these poor men.

By this time, the cute little barista in the green apron has transformed into a wild-eyed, cup-wielding, crazed, green-aproned MONSTER as she throws the cups around, heaves heavy sighs, rolls her eyes and begins to fill his cup with something hot and brown… presumably and Lord willing, some type of “basic” coffee.

As I take my receipt and fold it into my purse… concealing my grin the entire time, biting my lip and trying desperately not to laugh at the scene I’ve just witnessed… I see a 70-ish woman behind the men in line say to them in a soothing tone: “Come on guys… just accept it… we’re living in the 20-something century now.”

And I walk away.

Looking back on what that lady said to her fellow septuagenarians was actually quite profound. At first I thought she was referring to the 21st century in which we now live… but she couldn’t remember whether it was the 20th or 21st. However, with our culture’s exponentially-increasing pace, it could ALSO be called “the 20-something century”… because I’m sure that to the 70-somethings, it is the youth—the “20-somethings”— to whom THIS century now belongs.

One Nation, Deeply Divided

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Do you ever feel like running away from it all? I know I do at times. These days all I have to do is turn on the news and a sudden, uncontrollable urge to pack a bag and just disappear washes over me. I would leave my cell phone, computer and all other forms of communication and technology behind.

I would go somewhere where I would not be exposed to the hatred-filled arguments between just about EVERYONE in this country about our current president and whether or not he is a Socialist… or a Communist… or the Anti-Christ.

I wouldn’t have to listen to a polarized nation debate the efficacy of the jobs plan, the necessity and scope of health care reform, education reform, the dwindling budget and rapidly-emptying coffers, anticipated green laws, foreign policy, the continued instability and unrest in Iraq and the war in Afghanistan.

I would quietly slip away to a place where there were no such things as Republicans, Democrats, Conservatives, Ultra-Conservatives, Liberals and Ultra-Liberals, Independents, political pundits, corrupt politicians and loud-mouthed, single-minded individuals pushing their own agendas all under the guise of “productive discussion.” Since when were hatred and fear the key elements in productive discussion anyway?

You see … I am so deeply disappointed in our behavior as citizens of this country. If you are still reading this, do not think me unpatriotic. I am PROUD to be an American. I still get goosebumps every single time I stand and tilt my chin toward the stars and stripes being lifted by the wind while our National Anthem is sung or played. I try to say a sincere “thank-you” to our men and women in uniform whenever I get the chance.

But I can’t help thinking about where we were, who we were and how we treated one another just 10 years ago this week. September 11 is drawing near… again. For the tenth time our nation will stop and gather to remember the tragedy that occurred on that fateful day. Most of us will probably pause to remember where we were, what we were doing, how we heard, what we witnessed and hopefully—more importantly—how we felt.

A horrific thing happened on that Tuesday morning… an unspeakable act that has forever charred the fabric of the American tapestry. But on that day, and in the months and probably even the year that followed, we were united as a country. We had a common enemy: Terrorism and those who perpetuated it. We had a common goal: To restore peace and a sense of safety in our homes and in our communities.

What happened? Have we so quickly forgotten what we were so brutally reminded of on that day? That we are ALL equal? That we are ALL human? That we ALL love… and hurt… and bleed? That we will not live on this earth forever? That we are all in this together whether we like it or not?

Please, PLEASE I ask you to consider these things this week and if only for a little while… I encourage you to look at your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers, fellow classmates and strangers you pass on the street… and remember that we are far more alike than we are different.

10 Reasons Why Its Funner To Be a Kid at the Zoo

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For an animal lover and avid people-watcher, a visit to the zoo never gets old, no matter your age. However at times I find it far more entertaining to watch the children at the zoo, rather than the animals…

For example: I once witnessed a little girl throw an AMAZING tantrum (screaming, wailing, arms flailing… the whole bit) all the way from the Northern Trek down to the African Savanna… and no one even blinked. I have to say, I envied her a little. I mean, let’s be honest people… sometimes it WOULD be nice for it to be OK if you had a total and complete MELT-DOWN like that in front of everyone. No questions asked.

But this little red-faced, siren-sounding, tantrum-throwing child-coming-down-from-an-extreme-sugar-high not only entertained me, she inspired me. My envy of her led me to think of some other reasons why it is WAY better to be a kid at the zoo than it is to be an adult. So here goes…

1. You get to be chauffeured around everywhere in a plush, shaded stroller or fun little red wagon.

2. You can dress up like the animals and people think it’s cute. No one thinks it is “weird” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “wacky” or “deranged.”

3. Everyone moves out of YOUR way so that you can have the best view of the monkeys throwing poo at one another.

4. You will not be made fun of or teased for spilling ketchup and mustard down the front of your shirt and walking around all day sportin’ a stain on your chest.

5. When you talk to the animals no one thinks it is “strange” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “questionable” or “sad.”

6. It’s totally acceptable and not “dirty” to ask questions like: “What is that kangaroo doing to that OTHER kangaroo?”

7. No one yells: “Hey!” or “Get down from there!” or “You’re too heavy!” or “You’ll break it!” if you climb up and sit on the railing to get a better look at the tortoises.

8. If you make random animal noises while standing in line for the bathroom or concessions no one thinks it is “odd” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “curious” or “psycho.”

9. You can be covered in cotton-candy, having the bestest, stickiest, finger-lickingest time of your life and no one looks at you funny. You do NOT have to carry your cotton-candy home in a concealed plastic bag and secretly devour it at 10 p.m. on the couch in your living room, sitting next to your cat while watching re-runs of Seinfeld… with the blinds drawn.

10. And finally… as previously mentioned… You can throw an elephant-sized fit whenever, wherever and whyever you want to and no one thinks it is “scary” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “immature” or “narcissistic.”

Mom Jeans? Never.

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“Tennis shoes?” she asked, disgusted and horrified. “But I feel so old when I wear tennis shoes with shorts. Sneakers look so much cuter with flared jeans.”

“Or bootcut… Bootcut’s OK…” I countered anxiously while trying to reassure the both of us. “… just so long as they’re NOT mom jeans! The key at our age is knowing how to wear tennis shoes, shorts and a trendy fitted tee without looking like we’re trying to be 22 OR one of those hapless, hopeless middle-aged women who wear white Reebok hi-tops and mom jeans with their shirts tucked in!” 

How do we do that?

And that, my friends, is the million-dollar, 30-something question. As the number of candles on our cake creeps ever upward… how do we look attractive and stylish while at the same time age appropriate? And better yet… what the hell IS age appropriate for a woman in her mid-thirties? You know, that time in your life where you’re still in decent shape and you feel young enough to wear the latest trends yet there is this growing awareness that you are no longer 22.

It’s a real dilemma.

My best friend Jan and I are getting together this weekend for the first Ohio State football game of the season. And we are really excited about it. In case you don’t already know, OSU football is a big damn deal around here. However, as someone who works on a college campus—surrounded by young, attractive co-eds whose wrinkle-free parts are still squarely north of the equator—I know what we’re in for at the game this weekend…

… Lots and LOTS of tan, tight, smooth, lean, I-haven’t-a-care-in-the-world 18 to 22 year old girls strutting around in miniature-everything clothing like they’re all auditioning to become the next Football Wives or future Housewives of Franklin County. And then there will be Jan and me… trying desperately to look young and attractive in our (hopefully) adorable-but-age-appropriate attire, firmly in denial about the fact that not that long ago… We were those girls.

Not that she or I need to know this now—because she’s married and I’m in a relationship—but just out of curiosity… Where exactly are you on the meat-market-food-chain when you’re between a rockin-hot college bod and middle-age mom jeans?

God help me if I ever wind up in a pair of acid-washed, high-waisted, tapered-leg denim dungarees! I will NEVER be that woman… the one in the mom jeans… NEVER!! In fact, if you ever see me sporting a pair of them, I give you full permission to rip them from my body during a full-fledged fashion intervention. And Jan does too.

Go Bucks.