Life is a series of choices. Someone, although I can't recall who, said that you are defined by who you are and the choices you make. Of course making those choices comes down to weighing different options and making that ultimate decision.
In the last few months I have had to come to terms with the old age of my first baby, Bonnette. I have had her since she was 8 weeks old. How I got her and why are not even relevant to the story but it helps to clarify that our teamwork together to get through a relationship is what makes our bond even stronger. She is 16 years and 4 months old today. Luckily I have had friendships that have lasted as long as (and even longer than) my relationship with her. I am blessed to know true enduring friendship (both human and canine). It is a considerable amount of time to love something/someone. Let's be real here, most marriages don't last that long. And oddly, Bonnette has been in my life longer than my husband and he and I have been together for a long time. This detail is really to put this all into perspective.
People don't understand why some people love their pets as much as they do. That's not me - and not just because I'm a pet owner. I have never been one to dress Bonnette up and prance her around the neighborhood. I have simply enjoyed her company, her love, her spunkiness - what makes her Bonnette - over all these years. Am not entirely sure why I have accepted so many of her quirks and idiosyncrasies when in a person I wouldn't tolerate half of it. There is an innate relationship between human and dog that they accept you for you and you reciprocate without it even being spoken or barked. I suppose that is where the bond is formed.
Maybe the bond is formed in the exuberance of their mood when they see you first thing in the morning and when you come home after a long day at work. They don't care how your day went because the most important part of their day is that you are finally home. They know when you are sick and how to nurse you to good health. They seek you out and want to cuddle even if you don't know that's what you need. They share their small span of time with you in the sole hopes that you will drop some table scraps in their direction.
In these last few days I have had to grapple with the injustice of their short life spans. Why can't she be here with me for as long as I am here on this earth? Why has all the joy I've experienced with her come to so much pain and sadness? So much of it is due to not having spent more time with her up to this point due to work, school and other committments. So much more of it is due to knowing I have very little time left with her. It is these moments of eventual loss when our priorities become crystal clear but I don't know why they aren't more evident beforehand.
With all this comes the overwhelming guilt that I will ultimately have to decide when she goes onto puppy heaven. Although I might not do the actual work, it is my command that will be followed. This is the one command that I truly hope you, Bonnette, will not obey (and you have been quite defiant, by the way and I still love you sometimes even more because of it) but I doubt it. I love you so much wiggle pickle and don't want to see you suffer anymore. I wish I could bring you the same comfort that you have brought to me all these years. But I wish I could bring it to you in life and not in death.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Passing Notes
I believe that people don't really evolve very much after high school. I am fairly certain that I have even discussed this in earlier blog entries but I digress. So many of the behaviors and actions that are prevalent in high school might be muted as adults but the tendencies are always there.
One aspect of those bygone days is note passing. Let's really think about this for a moment. Isn't texting just another form of note passing? You want to talk to someone or you want to talk about someone to someone else then you send a text. Instead of secretly passing a paper through the aisles, you pick up your device, fingers move quickly to express thought and voila...note sent.
But again, I digress. The reason that prompted this entry is due to some incidents in the past few months that I have encountered in the work place. Sadly these incidents all revolve around women so I can't begin one of my sociological experiments but hear me out nonetheless.
In many meetings a colleague or a senior manager will take a pen and write a note to me either directly in my notebook or on a piece of paper and pass it to me. I find this behavior to be very peculiar because as a sometimes teacher, I would immediately notice this comportment in a classroom. I find it hard to believe others would not but it is the teacher in me to look for these transgressions.
What I also find odd in this note passing/writing is that it is often accompanied with an explanation in a whisper of what the note means. I ask myself when this happens "Then why write or send the note anyway when you are going to explain it to me? Just say what you need to say!" I usually nod and try to get back to paying attention to the meeting or to continuing to present the meeting materials.
And here's where the difference is between high school, I don't remember this accompanying explanation. There was just a note and you understood or you didn't. If you didn't, then you'd meet up with the person in the hallway between classes or call that person after class. Perhaps I am forgetting what it really was like because I have such a distance from those times. Occasionally there was the ever covert hand cupping against the other person's ear maneuver to explain. Mostly this was used in urgent situations such as in "that person likes you" or "can I copy your homework"? Rarely was it used to annoy you while you are trying to do something serious - like pay attention in a meeting.
Perhaps I'm waxing nostalgic and should take a time machine back to those days and see myself during those moments of surreptitious communication. I doubt that even if I did, I would notice behavior that's evolved much over time.
One aspect of those bygone days is note passing. Let's really think about this for a moment. Isn't texting just another form of note passing? You want to talk to someone or you want to talk about someone to someone else then you send a text. Instead of secretly passing a paper through the aisles, you pick up your device, fingers move quickly to express thought and voila...note sent.
But again, I digress. The reason that prompted this entry is due to some incidents in the past few months that I have encountered in the work place. Sadly these incidents all revolve around women so I can't begin one of my sociological experiments but hear me out nonetheless.
In many meetings a colleague or a senior manager will take a pen and write a note to me either directly in my notebook or on a piece of paper and pass it to me. I find this behavior to be very peculiar because as a sometimes teacher, I would immediately notice this comportment in a classroom. I find it hard to believe others would not but it is the teacher in me to look for these transgressions.
What I also find odd in this note passing/writing is that it is often accompanied with an explanation in a whisper of what the note means. I ask myself when this happens "Then why write or send the note anyway when you are going to explain it to me? Just say what you need to say!" I usually nod and try to get back to paying attention to the meeting or to continuing to present the meeting materials.
And here's where the difference is between high school, I don't remember this accompanying explanation. There was just a note and you understood or you didn't. If you didn't, then you'd meet up with the person in the hallway between classes or call that person after class. Perhaps I am forgetting what it really was like because I have such a distance from those times. Occasionally there was the ever covert hand cupping against the other person's ear maneuver to explain. Mostly this was used in urgent situations such as in "that person likes you" or "can I copy your homework"? Rarely was it used to annoy you while you are trying to do something serious - like pay attention in a meeting.
Perhaps I'm waxing nostalgic and should take a time machine back to those days and see myself during those moments of surreptitious communication. I doubt that even if I did, I would notice behavior that's evolved much over time.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
The Hawk
There are always people who know nothing more than to be in other people's business. They always want to know what other people are doing and need to be a nuisance. The description of this person fits my mom pretty well. Now, I love my mom, I really do. However, there are things that she does that make my kettle boil tremendously. One of those things is how she insists that my daughter eat at all hours of the day.
My mom grew up during the Second World War. Food was scarce to the point where she and her brothers often had to split one meal or one glass of milk between the four of them. Babies in her time were scrawny and often did not live very long after birth. When I was growing up, I was constantly reminded of how the children in Africa didn't have any food or how she barely had food growing up. I was supposed to be thankful for all the food I had and eat it all off my plate. This logic was faulty in many ways.
It led me to have a strange relationship with food. I did not always see food as fuel but as either a way to gain praise from my mom or to avoid being on one of those commercials on tv where the kids had extended stomachs and flies circling all over them. I often ate more than I really wanted and never understood when I was satisfied. The feeling of not knowing when my stomach had enough was not something I wanted to pass down to my children. So I didn't.
My daughter knows when she's hungry. She tells me when she's hungry or goes and gets something to eat herself. She nibbles (not devours, like her mom) as much as she needs and no more. She has a better idea of portion control than I do. I do not force her to eat because I did not like being forced myself. I see her grazing through the day - a banana here, a yogurt there etc. She's healthy and active and eats to keep herself satisfied.
But don't show my mom this picture of independent grazing or tell her that her granddaughter noshes when necessary. She thinks my daughter is thin. She should be a super fat child like I was. One of my mom's main tactics in getting my daughter to 'mangia' (eat) is to consistently poke food or a cup of milk towards her face. One thing my mom does not lack is persistence. At any given moment if the crew from 'Wild Kingdom' were to eavesdrop on a room with my mom and daughter, they would hear the word 'mangia' at least 70 times.
Regardless of how many times my sister or I tell my mom 'stop it' with the food, it never really settles in. Even my daughter's insistence and repetition of 'no Nonna' doesn't seem to make a dent in my mom's fortitude of food forcing. In spite of my mom's ceaselessness, my daughter often will refuse to eat in front of her. We can sit at the table together and if my mom is watching her, my daughter will show the food on her plate no attention whatsoever. This just raises the stakes. My mother will insist even more and my daughter will walk away from her plate (Score one baby). My mom will attempt to win her over to the food in any way possible and my daughter will ignore her (score two baby).
It's so bad that on two separate occasions my daughter showed her defiant nature. We were eating spaghetti with clams one night and my mom was not in her line of vision. A few weeks later the meal was the same but the seating arrangements has changed. My mom stared at my daughter like she was going in for the kill, my daughter refused to eat a single piece of spaghetti in front of her. Once my mom left though, she ate a nice portion of the meal.
What this entry is trying subtly to express is that I get a supreme thrill when my daughter sticks it to my mom. I'm pretty proud of her for being able to know what she wants at such a young age. I'm also happy she knows how to do it in her own special way.
My mom grew up during the Second World War. Food was scarce to the point where she and her brothers often had to split one meal or one glass of milk between the four of them. Babies in her time were scrawny and often did not live very long after birth. When I was growing up, I was constantly reminded of how the children in Africa didn't have any food or how she barely had food growing up. I was supposed to be thankful for all the food I had and eat it all off my plate. This logic was faulty in many ways.
It led me to have a strange relationship with food. I did not always see food as fuel but as either a way to gain praise from my mom or to avoid being on one of those commercials on tv where the kids had extended stomachs and flies circling all over them. I often ate more than I really wanted and never understood when I was satisfied. The feeling of not knowing when my stomach had enough was not something I wanted to pass down to my children. So I didn't.
My daughter knows when she's hungry. She tells me when she's hungry or goes and gets something to eat herself. She nibbles (not devours, like her mom) as much as she needs and no more. She has a better idea of portion control than I do. I do not force her to eat because I did not like being forced myself. I see her grazing through the day - a banana here, a yogurt there etc. She's healthy and active and eats to keep herself satisfied.
But don't show my mom this picture of independent grazing or tell her that her granddaughter noshes when necessary. She thinks my daughter is thin. She should be a super fat child like I was. One of my mom's main tactics in getting my daughter to 'mangia' (eat) is to consistently poke food or a cup of milk towards her face. One thing my mom does not lack is persistence. At any given moment if the crew from 'Wild Kingdom' were to eavesdrop on a room with my mom and daughter, they would hear the word 'mangia' at least 70 times.
Regardless of how many times my sister or I tell my mom 'stop it' with the food, it never really settles in. Even my daughter's insistence and repetition of 'no Nonna' doesn't seem to make a dent in my mom's fortitude of food forcing. In spite of my mom's ceaselessness, my daughter often will refuse to eat in front of her. We can sit at the table together and if my mom is watching her, my daughter will show the food on her plate no attention whatsoever. This just raises the stakes. My mother will insist even more and my daughter will walk away from her plate (Score one baby). My mom will attempt to win her over to the food in any way possible and my daughter will ignore her (score two baby).
It's so bad that on two separate occasions my daughter showed her defiant nature. We were eating spaghetti with clams one night and my mom was not in her line of vision. A few weeks later the meal was the same but the seating arrangements has changed. My mom stared at my daughter like she was going in for the kill, my daughter refused to eat a single piece of spaghetti in front of her. Once my mom left though, she ate a nice portion of the meal.
What this entry is trying subtly to express is that I get a supreme thrill when my daughter sticks it to my mom. I'm pretty proud of her for being able to know what she wants at such a young age. I'm also happy she knows how to do it in her own special way.
Monday, February 23, 2015
The Grass is Greener
A number of months ago I made a job change. Most of the people who know me are aware of this change - the fact that it happened at least. It was prompted after being at a company for many years and not advancing very far despite having stellar reviews year after year. After numerous other factors began to influence my overall well being, I decided to make the move.
Most of my elation was due to the job location being back in New York City. This would make my commute easier and I could get to the gym again- two factors that were incredibly high on my list. On top of those criteria, I was going to get a salary bump and a title upgrade as well. Things seemed great! Until about a month in when they weren't. A month was a very quick amount of time to observe and realize that things were not rosy or green on the other side of the fence.
I will not get into the details of what led me to wake up to the corporate caffeine. Let's just say that a couple of things reared their head such as too much work, no plan to hire additional people to keep up with the workload, and no work-life balance.
I, then, went on a much needed vacation and had a very relaxing time with family and quality time with my daughter. When I came back to the office, it was even clearer as to how unsustainable the model would be if I didn't take more frequent breaks. However the amount of work consistently piled up to the point that a break would not be feasible without incurring double, even triple, the work in the time off. Something was completely wrong. Danger! DANGER!
I am not one to keep my mouth shut about inefficiencies or wasted time. I definitely voiced my thoughts, but as has been so often the case, no one was listening - too many people just expected the job to get done no matter what. Any one else smell this catch-22 here?
Needless to say, idioms such as 'the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence' are truths we say. It often comes to that moment in time when you realize that you often need to be grateful for what you have before you go looking elsewhere for satisfaction. And here's another one for you 'too little, too late.'
Most of my elation was due to the job location being back in New York City. This would make my commute easier and I could get to the gym again- two factors that were incredibly high on my list. On top of those criteria, I was going to get a salary bump and a title upgrade as well. Things seemed great! Until about a month in when they weren't. A month was a very quick amount of time to observe and realize that things were not rosy or green on the other side of the fence.
I will not get into the details of what led me to wake up to the corporate caffeine. Let's just say that a couple of things reared their head such as too much work, no plan to hire additional people to keep up with the workload, and no work-life balance.
I, then, went on a much needed vacation and had a very relaxing time with family and quality time with my daughter. When I came back to the office, it was even clearer as to how unsustainable the model would be if I didn't take more frequent breaks. However the amount of work consistently piled up to the point that a break would not be feasible without incurring double, even triple, the work in the time off. Something was completely wrong. Danger! DANGER!
I am not one to keep my mouth shut about inefficiencies or wasted time. I definitely voiced my thoughts, but as has been so often the case, no one was listening - too many people just expected the job to get done no matter what. Any one else smell this catch-22 here?
Needless to say, idioms such as 'the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence' are truths we say. It often comes to that moment in time when you realize that you often need to be grateful for what you have before you go looking elsewhere for satisfaction. And here's another one for you 'too little, too late.'
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Working Mom
Many moms think that the title of this blog entry is an oxymoron because moms are always working - raising, teaching and bringing up their children. This is completely true. What, then, is a good way to represent a mom who has to go to work outside of the home? A non-home working mom? I'm sure there are tons of good titles and representations out there.
However this blog post is about my personal experience of being a non-home-working mom. Actually, for a while I would occasionally be a home working mom except that I wasn't being a mom at the very moment I was home. I was working from home and I was a mom. Even in those brief moments of being home, it was great to see my daughter for a few minutes here and there - when she woke up, having lunch with her or just being able to shut down my computer and spend after work time with her.
In recent months, I have changed jobs and the ability to work from home has been on hold. I often get home from work with just a few minutes to spare to read a few books or spend some time with my daughter before she goes to bed. Honestly, it sucks so tremendously that there are no words to describe that empty feeling of not getting on an earlier subway to enjoy time with my daughter. You take what you can get and you enjoy it. That empty feeling is guilt. The resentment and frustration of having to work for a living and to provide the basics for my daughter. The aggravation of how times have changed so much that many moms can't stay home and raise their kids. The feeling that you will never get that time back no matter what you do. Yes, it's quality over quantity but it stinks when the quantity is spent with a bunch of ridiculous adults who are beyond help in so many ways.
On top of all those emotions is the wish that people in certain industries would understand how important a mom is to a child - their first and primary socialization model. You can 'lean in' all you want but so many women don't have the luxury or option of having a nanny in the office with them. Work needs to get done and deadlines need to be met. So many people don't care how you do it, you just do it.
Like the time a mom had to work an extensive period of 18 hours days working a time zone in another part of the world and their own because the boss wouldn't let the mom have any down time during the day. Even though she was up at 5 in the morning to take calls and up until 11 taking other calls. Not to mention that said mother had a 4 month old baby at home who still wasn't on a fixed sleep schedule. Somehow this bosses' wife got to stay home and raise his children but this mom wasn't allowed to do that. Some people's blinders are amazingly big.
Then you hear talk of how a working mom is paid and respected less than a working dad. Seriously, who carried that baby in the first place? Last time I looked, no man every gave birth to a baby! Why are we still hearing this nonsense? How far have we really come?
I always knew I'd have to work. I always wanted to be a mom. Working has it's pros but a lot more cons. Being a mom is one of the best things that happened to me. Seeing the direct impact I have on my daughter is so rewarding. (Yes, diaper changes and smells are relentless but isn't this the same kind of poop I deal with at work? At least in this manifestation, it comes from something I love dearly.) Very little at work is rewarding because I never see that direct impact. I don't see the value of any of the things I do. I know other mothers don't feel the way I do; it's just my two cents. Being a mom is fantastic while being a working mom is annoying and unrewarding except in a financial sense.
However this blog post is about my personal experience of being a non-home-working mom. Actually, for a while I would occasionally be a home working mom except that I wasn't being a mom at the very moment I was home. I was working from home and I was a mom. Even in those brief moments of being home, it was great to see my daughter for a few minutes here and there - when she woke up, having lunch with her or just being able to shut down my computer and spend after work time with her.
In recent months, I have changed jobs and the ability to work from home has been on hold. I often get home from work with just a few minutes to spare to read a few books or spend some time with my daughter before she goes to bed. Honestly, it sucks so tremendously that there are no words to describe that empty feeling of not getting on an earlier subway to enjoy time with my daughter. You take what you can get and you enjoy it. That empty feeling is guilt. The resentment and frustration of having to work for a living and to provide the basics for my daughter. The aggravation of how times have changed so much that many moms can't stay home and raise their kids. The feeling that you will never get that time back no matter what you do. Yes, it's quality over quantity but it stinks when the quantity is spent with a bunch of ridiculous adults who are beyond help in so many ways.
On top of all those emotions is the wish that people in certain industries would understand how important a mom is to a child - their first and primary socialization model. You can 'lean in' all you want but so many women don't have the luxury or option of having a nanny in the office with them. Work needs to get done and deadlines need to be met. So many people don't care how you do it, you just do it.
Like the time a mom had to work an extensive period of 18 hours days working a time zone in another part of the world and their own because the boss wouldn't let the mom have any down time during the day. Even though she was up at 5 in the morning to take calls and up until 11 taking other calls. Not to mention that said mother had a 4 month old baby at home who still wasn't on a fixed sleep schedule. Somehow this bosses' wife got to stay home and raise his children but this mom wasn't allowed to do that. Some people's blinders are amazingly big.
Then you hear talk of how a working mom is paid and respected less than a working dad. Seriously, who carried that baby in the first place? Last time I looked, no man every gave birth to a baby! Why are we still hearing this nonsense? How far have we really come?
I always knew I'd have to work. I always wanted to be a mom. Working has it's pros but a lot more cons. Being a mom is one of the best things that happened to me. Seeing the direct impact I have on my daughter is so rewarding. (Yes, diaper changes and smells are relentless but isn't this the same kind of poop I deal with at work? At least in this manifestation, it comes from something I love dearly.) Very little at work is rewarding because I never see that direct impact. I don't see the value of any of the things I do. I know other mothers don't feel the way I do; it's just my two cents. Being a mom is fantastic while being a working mom is annoying and unrewarding except in a financial sense.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
The Strong Man
When I think of carnival sideshows, I think of the strong man. The humongous man who can single-handedly hold an enormous weight atop his index finger. I've never actually seen a man like this but I know someone who for a couple weeks a few months ago tried very hard to be this character.
Back in April, I was working from home when my husband approached me saying he was not feeling well. I could not say he looked his best so I asked him what he was feeling. He said that he felt a sharp stabbing pain on the right hand side of his stomach. Having had a very similar pain many years ago and based on his description, I began to diagnose. I asked him if the pain radiated towards his back and he said it didn't. He decided to take a nap and a number of hours later, upon awaking, he said he felt better. I wish I could have concurred that he looked better. If seeing a ghost is supposed to make you look blanched, then my husband looked as though he saw a whole family of ghosts.
As the day progressed, he was sweating profusely. I decided to check for a fever and he did have one albeit not too strong. I happened to mention to my husband something a doctor once said to be (in a very similar situations as his), that a sharp pain and a fever are two things you shouldn't take lightly. Despite my saying this to my husband, he went to bed and woke the next day claiming he felt better.
Looking at his face told me otherwise. His stomach also inflated as if he were a few months pregnant. I checked his temperature and it had gone away. His face had taken on a different hue. There were shadows of a mustard appearing in his coloring. That same night, he had a fever again but not as high as the previous night.
I decided not to nag anymore. He was, the last time I checked, an adult and knew his body better than anyone else. I made a couple of threats like "if you get hurt, I'm going to hurt you!" I always found those to be very effective with my parents.
As the days went by, the descriptions of his pain perplexed me. I looked up ever symptom he reported and it completely befuddled me. Finally, he decided to go to the doctor. The doctor was equally perplexed by his symptoms and even more by his blood work results.
After 10 days (yes, ten days!) he went to the emergency room because he just couldn't handle the pain or nagging yucky feeling any longer. The doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. After some time, we discovered that my husband's appendix had ruptured that very first day when he mentioned having a sharp pain. For 10 (yes, ten days!) days his innards were accumulating all the pus and fantastical floating things that one collects around their inner organs when one's appendix breaks. He had to have a small catheter placed into his side to drain all the material that had gathered. It took as many days to drain his stomach area.
Due to the infection that had occurred in his stomach, the doctors couldn't operate to remove the appendix. They had to allow his insides to heal a bit. This past Friday, he finally had his appendix removed and he is recovering.
My husband is not a small man. He's 6'2" and weighs over 200 pounds. He could easily hold a heavy weight in his hands but a circus strong man he is not. His mind might be stubborn enough to refuse to see a doctor but it's not strong enough to bear almost 2 weeks of pain. Most people can't really tolerate much pain but to literally not listen to your gut can only get you so far. If he'd only listened to his wife, he would have gotten attention a lot sooner too.
Back in April, I was working from home when my husband approached me saying he was not feeling well. I could not say he looked his best so I asked him what he was feeling. He said that he felt a sharp stabbing pain on the right hand side of his stomach. Having had a very similar pain many years ago and based on his description, I began to diagnose. I asked him if the pain radiated towards his back and he said it didn't. He decided to take a nap and a number of hours later, upon awaking, he said he felt better. I wish I could have concurred that he looked better. If seeing a ghost is supposed to make you look blanched, then my husband looked as though he saw a whole family of ghosts.
As the day progressed, he was sweating profusely. I decided to check for a fever and he did have one albeit not too strong. I happened to mention to my husband something a doctor once said to be (in a very similar situations as his), that a sharp pain and a fever are two things you shouldn't take lightly. Despite my saying this to my husband, he went to bed and woke the next day claiming he felt better.
Looking at his face told me otherwise. His stomach also inflated as if he were a few months pregnant. I checked his temperature and it had gone away. His face had taken on a different hue. There were shadows of a mustard appearing in his coloring. That same night, he had a fever again but not as high as the previous night.
I decided not to nag anymore. He was, the last time I checked, an adult and knew his body better than anyone else. I made a couple of threats like "if you get hurt, I'm going to hurt you!" I always found those to be very effective with my parents.
As the days went by, the descriptions of his pain perplexed me. I looked up ever symptom he reported and it completely befuddled me. Finally, he decided to go to the doctor. The doctor was equally perplexed by his symptoms and even more by his blood work results.
After 10 days (yes, ten days!) he went to the emergency room because he just couldn't handle the pain or nagging yucky feeling any longer. The doctor sent him directly to the emergency room. After some time, we discovered that my husband's appendix had ruptured that very first day when he mentioned having a sharp pain. For 10 (yes, ten days!) days his innards were accumulating all the pus and fantastical floating things that one collects around their inner organs when one's appendix breaks. He had to have a small catheter placed into his side to drain all the material that had gathered. It took as many days to drain his stomach area.
Due to the infection that had occurred in his stomach, the doctors couldn't operate to remove the appendix. They had to allow his insides to heal a bit. This past Friday, he finally had his appendix removed and he is recovering.
My husband is not a small man. He's 6'2" and weighs over 200 pounds. He could easily hold a heavy weight in his hands but a circus strong man he is not. His mind might be stubborn enough to refuse to see a doctor but it's not strong enough to bear almost 2 weeks of pain. Most people can't really tolerate much pain but to literally not listen to your gut can only get you so far. If he'd only listened to his wife, he would have gotten attention a lot sooner too.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Beauty School Drop-out?
Maybe it's a higher calling? Maybe it's a hidden talent about which I am not entirely on-board? Somehow against my better judgement and amidst great protest, I have become the family hairstylist. (I really feel like I must have written this in an earlier entry but I can't seem to find it.)
When my dad was alive, he'd often come over to my apartment and ask if I had time to give him a haircut. Not entirely sure why he needed me to do it. All it took was my shaving his head with an electric razor. I was confident he could have done it himself. In fact for a long time he did go to the barber but when his barber retired, he accosted me.
In the early stages of this request, it really annoyed me to have to cut his hair. Can't recall why it annoyed me so since it took maybe 10 minutes of my time probably 4 times a year. Perhaps I was still having a teen angst moment in my early 30s. Over the years I grew to enjoy this little tradition because my dad would make comments that I thought were very cute. As I shaved his head, he would say that he was getting sheared like a sheep. Occasionally he would even bleat as though trying to avoid the yearly (although for him it was a quarterly) woolen collection. As his hair grew greyer and it tumbled off his shoulders, it really did look like wool tufts. He'd even say something like "If you collect it, you can knit a nice sweater!" Then he would make a silly grin that would make me want to hug him. But in my family, we didn't openly show our love or appreciation so I never hugged my dad.
Seeing how good of a job I was doing for my dad, my mom, being the epitome of cheapskate, asked if I would cut her hair. My dad used to do it for years but I guess she thought a woman would do a better job since my dad often left her hair lopsided. This tradition is not one I enjoy -- not even with the passing of time. My mom expects me to give her a wonderful hairstyle the likes of Vidal Sassoon. She seems to forget that my salon training came from the school of Super Babboon. Her thinking is that if I go to the salon and watch my hairstylist do his magic on my hair, I should be able to copy it. I have never been able to convince her that this is incredibly faulty logic.
On top of all of that my mom won't be quiet while I cut her hair. If she would just go to a real salon, she could have someone whose job it is to pretend to listen assist her. I don't really want to hear what she has to say because I've already heard it all a million times (and seriously, I'm not exaggerating with the million. My mom is more than a broken record. She a broken orchestra). Then she moves her head all over the place. She can't seem to understand that I need her to be still. When I end up snipping her ear because she moves last minute, she doesn't see that it's partly her fault. 'Pay Attention!' she gripes. To which I reply "Follow Directions!"
No matter what happens or which technique I use, my mom comes to me after washing her hair to point out that I've missed a spot or it's uneven. To which I respond, "Mom, if you wanted perfection, you could go to the salon. Considering that they are actually trained to cut hair. You come to me and I'm trained to read and interpret books and speak foreign languages"
Being the penny pincher that she is, she often approaches me to cut and color my sister's hair. I have refused this for a number of reasons. #1) I am not trained to cut hair or color it! #2) I think my sister could use a nice hairstyle which I am not qualified to give her #3) My sister could use some deep conditioning treatment to control that nest on her head that is often sprouting goslings.
Despite all of my protests, I have often had to cut my sister's unruly hair. I always apologize upfront that it won't look as good as a real hairstylist's work. My sister doesn't go because she doesn't want to have to explain the unnecessary forking over of dollar bills to my mom when I could easily do it for free. So because of my frugal family, I have to fuss around with a second job that I was elected to do.
When my dad was alive, he'd often come over to my apartment and ask if I had time to give him a haircut. Not entirely sure why he needed me to do it. All it took was my shaving his head with an electric razor. I was confident he could have done it himself. In fact for a long time he did go to the barber but when his barber retired, he accosted me.
In the early stages of this request, it really annoyed me to have to cut his hair. Can't recall why it annoyed me so since it took maybe 10 minutes of my time probably 4 times a year. Perhaps I was still having a teen angst moment in my early 30s. Over the years I grew to enjoy this little tradition because my dad would make comments that I thought were very cute. As I shaved his head, he would say that he was getting sheared like a sheep. Occasionally he would even bleat as though trying to avoid the yearly (although for him it was a quarterly) woolen collection. As his hair grew greyer and it tumbled off his shoulders, it really did look like wool tufts. He'd even say something like "If you collect it, you can knit a nice sweater!" Then he would make a silly grin that would make me want to hug him. But in my family, we didn't openly show our love or appreciation so I never hugged my dad.
Seeing how good of a job I was doing for my dad, my mom, being the epitome of cheapskate, asked if I would cut her hair. My dad used to do it for years but I guess she thought a woman would do a better job since my dad often left her hair lopsided. This tradition is not one I enjoy -- not even with the passing of time. My mom expects me to give her a wonderful hairstyle the likes of Vidal Sassoon. She seems to forget that my salon training came from the school of Super Babboon. Her thinking is that if I go to the salon and watch my hairstylist do his magic on my hair, I should be able to copy it. I have never been able to convince her that this is incredibly faulty logic.
On top of all of that my mom won't be quiet while I cut her hair. If she would just go to a real salon, she could have someone whose job it is to pretend to listen assist her. I don't really want to hear what she has to say because I've already heard it all a million times (and seriously, I'm not exaggerating with the million. My mom is more than a broken record. She a broken orchestra). Then she moves her head all over the place. She can't seem to understand that I need her to be still. When I end up snipping her ear because she moves last minute, she doesn't see that it's partly her fault. 'Pay Attention!' she gripes. To which I reply "Follow Directions!"
No matter what happens or which technique I use, my mom comes to me after washing her hair to point out that I've missed a spot or it's uneven. To which I respond, "Mom, if you wanted perfection, you could go to the salon. Considering that they are actually trained to cut hair. You come to me and I'm trained to read and interpret books and speak foreign languages"
Being the penny pincher that she is, she often approaches me to cut and color my sister's hair. I have refused this for a number of reasons. #1) I am not trained to cut hair or color it! #2) I think my sister could use a nice hairstyle which I am not qualified to give her #3) My sister could use some deep conditioning treatment to control that nest on her head that is often sprouting goslings.
Despite all of my protests, I have often had to cut my sister's unruly hair. I always apologize upfront that it won't look as good as a real hairstylist's work. My sister doesn't go because she doesn't want to have to explain the unnecessary forking over of dollar bills to my mom when I could easily do it for free. So because of my frugal family, I have to fuss around with a second job that I was elected to do.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Runaway Puppy
Most of the weekends during the summer are spent at my parent's home on Long Island. It is close to the beach and close to the outlets (a particularly great point for me). One of my dogs loves it because there is plenty of room to run around and explore and to also chase birds. The other, older dog doesn't care either way if we go or not. She has a bed and she spends most of the time sleeping at her age anyway. On occasion, she does take a walk around and likes to see what's going on and what we are doing.
A few weekends ago, I went out with my sister and daughter to go grocery shopping. We ran some other errands as well. When we came back to the house we found my husband pacing and searching around the front of the house. He looked very upset. I asked him what happened and he said that B (the little, old dog) had gone missing. Incredulous to the news that was reported to me, I asked "what do you mean?" He said that he was working on putting in the air conditioner and when he went to check on her, she was not in her normal spot. He told me that he looked all over the house and around the grounds but he wasn't able to find her.
I couldn't start my search because I had to give my daughter something to eat and let her have her nap. After she fell asleep, I had my sister keep watch of the premises while I went out to investigate. My husband went around the neighborhood with the car. As I looked around and couldn't find her, I began to worry. My dog is 15 years young and despite being peppy and small, she does not see or hear very well. Being the pessimist that I am, the worst possible scenarios popped into my head. I kept thinking I would find her crushed by a car or tossed on the side of a road after being hit.
When I couldn't find her, I went back home, tears streaming down my face. I began to prepare a flyer to post around the neighborhood and to give to neighbors. Luckily, my super calm and quick thinking sister had called the animal shelters and veterinarians in the area. She was informed that a dog matching my pooch's description was picked up. My husband had gone to get her but he had advised my sister not to tell me anything in case it was not B. My sister told me regardless because she knew how distraught I was.
But I was hopeful! Although of course, I still cried. Thinking of my life without my puppy was unimaginable. When he finally arrived at the shelter, he called to tell us "She's here and she's fine." I was super happy and the tears that I shed in sadness had turned to ones of joy.
When she arrived home, she walked to her bed as if nothing had happened. She looked at us staring at her as if we had lost our minds. My husband reported that when they asked for her description he gave it to them saying "She's white with black spots, has a couple of growths on her belly and tons of attitude!" The clerk said 'oh yeah, she's here alright!"
Luckily everything turned out well -- the crisis was averted. I am seriously considering getting lojack for her though. That's why they have all these chips and devices you can implant in your pets now-a-days for situations like mine, where you never think it will never happen, until it does.
A few weekends ago, I went out with my sister and daughter to go grocery shopping. We ran some other errands as well. When we came back to the house we found my husband pacing and searching around the front of the house. He looked very upset. I asked him what happened and he said that B (the little, old dog) had gone missing. Incredulous to the news that was reported to me, I asked "what do you mean?" He said that he was working on putting in the air conditioner and when he went to check on her, she was not in her normal spot. He told me that he looked all over the house and around the grounds but he wasn't able to find her.
I couldn't start my search because I had to give my daughter something to eat and let her have her nap. After she fell asleep, I had my sister keep watch of the premises while I went out to investigate. My husband went around the neighborhood with the car. As I looked around and couldn't find her, I began to worry. My dog is 15 years young and despite being peppy and small, she does not see or hear very well. Being the pessimist that I am, the worst possible scenarios popped into my head. I kept thinking I would find her crushed by a car or tossed on the side of a road after being hit.
When I couldn't find her, I went back home, tears streaming down my face. I began to prepare a flyer to post around the neighborhood and to give to neighbors. Luckily, my super calm and quick thinking sister had called the animal shelters and veterinarians in the area. She was informed that a dog matching my pooch's description was picked up. My husband had gone to get her but he had advised my sister not to tell me anything in case it was not B. My sister told me regardless because she knew how distraught I was.
But I was hopeful! Although of course, I still cried. Thinking of my life without my puppy was unimaginable. When he finally arrived at the shelter, he called to tell us "She's here and she's fine." I was super happy and the tears that I shed in sadness had turned to ones of joy.
When she arrived home, she walked to her bed as if nothing had happened. She looked at us staring at her as if we had lost our minds. My husband reported that when they asked for her description he gave it to them saying "She's white with black spots, has a couple of growths on her belly and tons of attitude!" The clerk said 'oh yeah, she's here alright!"
Luckily everything turned out well -- the crisis was averted. I am seriously considering getting lojack for her though. That's why they have all these chips and devices you can implant in your pets now-a-days for situations like mine, where you never think it will never happen, until it does.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Thank You Notes
I can’t begin to express how happy this article in the New
York Times today made me. Not only do I love this segment of Jimmy Fallon’s
show but I also love a good thank you note. Honestly, I love any personal note
in the mail, which is why I still keep up with correspondence.
I am thrilled to see that there is still some value in
sending ‘Thank You’ notes to people. And I’m even more excited to know that an
article has been written about this to propel people to do it more often.
I’m not sure when I became such a proponent of the gratitude
note. I’ve always loved writing instruments – pens, paper, etc. I was
encouraged to send notes when people gave me gifts or attended events in my honor.
Instead of cringing at the chore, I remember sitting at my desk for a few hours
perfecting each individual letter to make it even more personal.
As much as I want people to take up this practice, it’s nice
that only a handful of people still do it. It is a very nice detail. It makes them stand out in a sea of technology and unfeeling communication.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Coffee and Tea
Two weekends ago my sister and I graced the halls of the
Lexington Armory for an enjoyable experience made for lovers of caffeinated
beverages. There were non-caffeinated options too but sometimes that won’t get
anyone out of bed on a chilly Sunday morning.
I had heard of the Coffee and Tea festival over the years
and always wanted to attend. This year I bought a Groupon as an excuse to get
there. I invited my sister to come along because she’s equally obsessed with and
appreciative of trying new teas and coffee.
When we got there the line went around the corner. Quite frankly
I was scared that we would not get into the event. Even though I had the
coupon, I was worried it would not be accepted. As we walked past all those
people, I worried that the cheap ticket was too good to be true. I turned to my
sister and said that if the line went around the block, we could skip the event
and go home.
Luckily, we got into the line just before it wrapped around another
corner. We chatted for a bit and finally the line started to move. After
entering, we went to the admissions table and I told them I had a groupon. And
there I was on the list. YES!! I was so happy that it worked out well. We got
our directory and walking the immense space. As we crossed the threshold, the
scent of roast coffee wafted into our nostrils. My sister and I both inhaled
deeply and went ‘ahhhhh’. This made some people around us laugh. We were
psyched and ready to go.
We planned out a course of action and started trying
samples. We had some lovely teas and sipped some strong coffees, which I really
needed as I had slept poorly the night before the event. The space became
increasingly crowded so that it was hard to try everything. When it became too
difficult to get through the mob without spilling a drink on oneself, we opted
to leave.
It was a lot of fun. We purchased some unique coffees and teas.
We got a BIG bag of free samples! That alone made up for all the people!! I would definitely go back next year.
My only complaint was that the vendors didn’t have special
areas cordoned off so people tasting could enjoy their samples. If I had that
time to make an informed decision, I might have purchased more. Come to think
of it, maybe it is better that it didn’t turn out that way. Less is more,
right?
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