(F)Lying the Friendly Skies

Posted: January 10, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 7 Comments

Like many quasi-neurotic people, I don’t really like to fly. But not for the reason you think. My aversion to flying isn’t so much the risk of plummeting to certain death in a large, metal coffin – it’s more that I can’t shake the feeling that I’m constantly being lied to. It’s just a “minor” maintenance issue that’s delayed us for three hours. No, you can’t listen to that iPod during take off, it might interfere with the planes electrical system.  Sorry, we’re “out of” diet coke. Like anyone believes that. They treat us like we are  children. And the bottom line is that once you’ve boarded the plane, they’ve got you. You belong to them and they can tell you anything and you have no choice but to go along with it.

Here are my top picks for most egregious airline lies:

1. I’ll be right back with that for you.

Right. I’ve been waiting on a diet coke since 1998.

2. If there is anything we can do to make your flight more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Your lips say one thing; but your eyes say another.

3. Use of cellular phones may interfere with the planes navigational systems.

If a cell phone can bring down a planeload of people – then why would the FAA let 300 people get on a plane holding one? No one’s buying it; they should stop selling it.

4. We’ll be on our way soon.

 ‘Soon’ is a hoax. Don’t be fooled by ‘soon.’ The runways are controlled by very precise people who are required to time events down to the millisecond. They don’t deal in generalities like ‘soon.’ Air traffic control tells the pilots exactly when they will be cleared for takeoff. If they say something like soon, chances are you’re screwed.

5. In the event of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device.

I call bullshit. I can’t say that I’ve tested the theory, but there is no way that nasty, polyester, piece of crap is going to keep anyone afloat in the middle of the ocean after it’s been squashed a thousand times over by America’s obesity epidemic. Then again, the whole idea of a water landing where people are alive enough to need a flotation device may be the biggest lie of all. 

Maybe they think that the general population just can’t handle the truth. But they’re wrong. We can. Don’t tell us in your cool, polished, pilot-voice that you’re going to have the flight attendants sit down “out of abundance of caution” because we’ve just hit some bumpy air. For God’s sake, man! Tell us that the flight attendants are tired and they just want a freaking break from the annoying ingrates that keep ringing that humiliating call button and summoning them for more peanuts. Or tell us that we’ve lost the left engine and the flight attendants deserve to spend their final moments guzzling tiny bottles of vodka and texting their loved ones. Either way, don’t patronize us. Just give it to us straight. (Preferably with a side of peanuts and that diet coke that we know you stashed somewhere for later.)

 

 

Fitted Sheets & The Human Genome Project

Posted: January 2, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: children, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom, writing | Tags: , , , , | 9 Comments

My parents raised me to believe that I could do anything I set my mind to. As it turns out, however, this is not true. In reality, there are lots of things I can’t do. A few that spring to mind are: the splits (Chinese or regular); making out the hidden image embedded in one of those 3-D art posters; and properly folding a fitted sheet. Since I am neither a member of Cirque-du-Soleil nor a collector of 1990’s mall art, the first two don’t cause me much consternation. But as the keeper-of-linens in my house, it really chaps my ass that I can’t fold a fitted sheet no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I’ve tried.

In an effort to shield my delicate ego from this particular failing, I have developed a hypothesis that allows me to absolve myself of any responsibility for it. I have concluded that the ability to fold a fitted sheet is a genetic – something as out of my control as the color of my eyes or being able to roll my tongue into a hot dog. One can either do it, or not. No amount of practicing is going to help. Have you ever seen someone who doesn’t have the gene try to hot-dog their tongue? It’s just sad (and by sad, I mean hilarious). It’s the same with fitted sheets.

As with so many of my shortcomings, it is comforting when I can deflect responsibility and blame my inferior genetic wellspring (and by inferior genetic wellspring, I mean my Mom and Dad). My mother, who theoretically is responsible for at least half of my genetic material, can force a fitted sheet into a crisp, perfect rectangle just by giving it a stern look. She is the Darth Vader of folding fitted sheets.  So obviously my problem can’t be her fault. My defect must come from my father who, as far as I know, has never even attempted fold a sheet -fitted or otherwise. This scientifically (and by scientifically, I mean arbitrarily) proves my hypothesis that the FFS (folding fitted sheet) gene must be recessive, passed down through the father’s side. Kind of like baldness is on the mother’s side.

If you have been genetically blessed with the FFS gene, you are probably thinking that I just haven’t tried hard enough. Or that I’ve just never had someone teach me how to do it. But I assure you this is not the case. I’ve been given at least a dozen lessons by my mother, plus I’ve watched countless helpful women on YouTube (and by helpful women on You Tube, I mean pretentious ninnies) who make me feel bad about myself by suggesting ‘it’s so simple everyone can do it!’ in their upbeat voices as they swish, flatten, and press their fitted sheets into folded perfection. Dutifully, I follow each step. But in the end, my sheet looks like something I’m using to smuggle contraband into the linen closet (and by contraband, I mean my pride).

But now I don’t have to feel bad about myself anymore. Knowing (and by knowing, I mean blinding believing) that properly folding a fitted sheet is a genetic trait, takes away all the guilt and shame that I’ve felt for years. And now when I open the door to my linen closet and it looks like a three-fingered pirate wrapped his booty in old sheets and stored it in there for safe-keeping, I am comforted by the fact that it isn’t my fault. After all, I am only a collection cells encoded with pre-determined genetic material. In other words, I am only human (and by human, I mean a superior being capable of rationalization). (And by a superior being capable of rationalization, I mean a person willing to believe my own bullshit.)

Holiday Shopping Advice For People Who Hate Shopping.

Posted: December 20, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | 3 Comments

There are approximately 487 things on my current to-do list – all of which need to be done by Dec. 25th. My list is like a sea cucumber, which is neither as salty nor refreshing as its name suggests. My list is sea cucumber-like in that if you were to cut it up into a million tiny pieces, it would regenerate itself into a million tiny lists – each with 487 separate action items waiting to be checked off. It is formidable and daunting and I’ll admit, completely self-induced. But it’s December and this is the rigor we put ourselves through in the pursuit of Happy Holidays.

So because the Happy Holidays are beating down our doors with a flail, I’m gonna make this post short. I will not take up your precious time with rants or angry outbursts about how the holiday season turns people into crazed, stressed-out, lunatics who will bite your head off if you appear in any way to be interested in the same retail item that they are interested in. I won’t go on about complacent and hostile sales associates (I’m talking to you, Wal-Mart), or how every year the holidays seem bigger and more encompassing than the year before, especially when you celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas. Instead, I will tell you a story. A shopping story – filled with some of the best, if not most practical, holiday shopping advice I’ve ever heard.

It was Black Friday so many years ago that I don’t think the term Black Friday had been coined yet.  I was shopping in downtown Chicago with my Dad and sister. Our tradition was to go to Water Tower Place and my Dad, being the mench that he is, would buy us each a present for no other reason than going with him to brave the crowds and because no one appreciates a good bargain like my Dad.

On this particular Black Friday, we were making our way through a jam-packed Marshall Fields. The store was so busy that in certain places we were forced to walk single file. I think it was snowing outside, which drew inside all the tourists usually content to stroll down Michigan Ave and sight-see. Tired, cranky shoppers wore, or worse held, their heavy winter jackets as they shimmied their way through narrow aisles packed with merchandise, much of it breakable. The store was hot as hell and people were mad and impatient and filled with bargain-hunting induced rage.

My Dad, sister, and I were on our way out of the store after successfully finding our just-because gift of the day. We shuffled single file through the Women’s Accessories department on the first floor filled with gloves, hats, earmuffs, and other baubles, following the tide downstream toward the exit. In the crowd coming upstream opposite us was a Mom with her son, who was probably about nine years old. The Mom looked tired but focused and was carrying at least five shopping bags. The boy looked positively shellacked with boredom. His posture, the all too familiar slumped-shoulders-jutted-out-chin combo, told us they’d been at it for a long time. As we came up upon this duo, I heard the boy asking his mom over and over, “Can we leave now?” “Can we just go?” “Pleeeeeeease, Mom, can we go home now?” The Mom was mostly ignoring him and reciting the things on her list she had yet to check off.

Just as we passed the boy, I saw him surreptitiously glance at one of the delicate looking trinkets displayed on the hip-height round table we were scooting past. He lightly touched his fingers upon the top of the nearest ceramic pretty and with a Mr. Burns-like expression on his face, muttered under his breath, “I should just break something, so they’ll throw us out of here…”

Probably no one in the entire store except the three of us heard him. And this observant-yet-sardonic nugget of wisdom made our entire experience worth the hassle. We laughed and laughed as we flowed along with the sea of shoppers out onto Michigan Ave and walked home, our spirits buoyed by the hilarious, jaded-misery of one nine-year old boy.

To this day, I cannot shop in a crowded store without thinking of that boy. His words of wisdom like an escape valve, always giving me hope that if things ever get to be too much, I could always just tip over the display of glass ornaments and end my holiday shopping agony. I haven’t done it yet, but then again there are still 5 shopping days left till Christmas and 486 things on my to-do list. (Write Blog is now crossed off.)

Happy Hanukkah and  Merry Christmas to all my fabulous readers out there! May this holiday season NOT make you want to get thrown out of anywhere. 🙂

 

Things I Sometimes* Wish I Never Taught My Kids

Posted: December 12, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: children, kids, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom | Tags: , , , | 12 Comments
  1. To talk.
  2. To crack the eggs into the batter. (Pancakes are not supposed to be crunchy.)
  3. Sarcasm. I just love it when the kids do as I do, not as I say…
  4. To play games on my cell phone.
  5. To read. (If you’ve ever seen a billboard in the state of Missouri, you’re with me on this one.)
  6. To say please. (See When Good Words Go Bad.)
  7. To expect that meals will be prepared for them. Everyday.
  8. The words ‘mine,’ ‘no,’ ‘jiggly,’ and ‘bottom.’
  9. To tell knock-knock jokes. (And expect me to laugh.)
  10. To spell.  (It’s total b-u-l-l-s-h-i-t that my husband I no longer have a covert means of communication.)
  11. To listen to the radio. (Thankyouverymuch, Katy Perry, for teaching my seven-year old what a menage-a-trois is.)
  12. How to tell time. (I sometimes* ache for the days I could say “It’s bedtime!” at 5:30.)
  13. To use the word ‘really’ as a question.
  14. To use the DVR. (I now have approximately 97 hours of Phineas & Ferb available for my viewing pleasure.)
  15. That there is no such thing as a stupid question. (As it turns out, there is.)
* Varies by hormonal levels, how much chocolate I’m depriving myself of, and hours of sleep logged in any given 24 hour period.
Author’s Note: I apologize for the abundance of parenthesis in today’s post. (I guess I was just in a parenthetical sort of mood.)

 

Beyond Helicopter Parenting… How About Rickshaw, Limousine, and Ice Cream Truck Parenting?

Posted: November 29, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: children, motherhood, parenting, stay at home mom, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | 11 Comments

We all know a Helicopter Parent when we see one. They’re the Moms and Dads obsessively bug spraying, sun-blocking, or hat-n-gloving their kids while shouting at them not to climb too high, swim too far out, or touch anything in the bathroom. However much we may judge these parents, (even when we see them in the mirror) we feel a sense of satisfaction being able to put a name to their neurosis. They are Helicopter Parents and we know this because a doctor and a parenting guru (Foster W. Cline, M.D. and Jim Fay) coined this useful term in 1990. Since then, the expression has been firmly entrenched in our vocabulary.

As far as I’m concerned, Helicopter Parenting is the best kind of term – descriptive, memorable, fitting, and kind of funny. But it’s limited. It only describes one parenting style. And since most of us employ multiple parenting methods throughout the years, perhaps even throughout the day, I feel the list of parenting metaphors can and should be expanded. So, though I am neither a doctor nor a parenting guru, I’ve taken a crack at it myself.

See if you can identify your parenting style in the list below. Or tell me if you know of one I missed. I’d love to hear which kind of parent you are because hearing about other parents not being perfect makes me feel better about being so alarmingly far from it myself. Plus, I love comments on my blog. Plus, I’m just generally nosy.

So, Are You a…

Tandem Bicycle Parent: These parents attempt to get their children involved in the parenting process with questions like, “What do you think your punishment should be?” and “How much do you think you should get for allowance?” Much like the tandem bicycle itself, this kind of parenting sounds like it would be fun, but isn’t. If you choose to parent this way, keep in mind that although the tandem bike may have two sets of pedals, only one person can steer it.

Carnival Cruise Parent: These parents want to have fun! They either can’t find a babysitter or feel too guilty to leave the kids at home, so they bring them along wherever they go. The parents continue to behave exactly as they would if their children were not there, stopping occasionally to feed and briefly converse with their offspring – usually uttering the words, “Not now,” and “When I’m ready to go.”

Rickshaw Parent (also known as Field Plow and Dog Sled Parents): These parents like to take it easy. They are perfectly comfortable to sit back and direct their children from afar. They tell their kids to take out the trash, rake the leaves, and make dinner – all from the comfort of the couch. This kind of parenting works best under a fear-based regime and only until the children grow weary and stage the inevitable coup.

Express Train Parent: These parents are in a big hurry all the time. Their constant refrain is, “Let’s go! C’mon! Let’s go!” They get things done. Lots of things.  They never sit still. They never chill out. They are always in forward motion. Their children often resort to lollygagging in a passive-aggressive form of protest, often causing the Express Train Parent to go “off the rails.”

Ice Cream Truck Parent: Almost everyone is guilty of being one of these parents at least once in a while. Ice Cream Truck parents get their child to do what they want them to do by promising them a sweet treat if they comply. Effective. To be used sparingly. (Admission: My daughter will do almost anything for a Hershey’s Kiss, so in my house this technique is grossly overused.)

Limousine Parent: These parents want to make sure their kids arrive in style. They want it known that their children are special and deserve to stand out. Limousine parents needn’t know the direction they are going, because they’ve hired someone to know for them. They only need to pony up the dough and sit back and enjoy the ride. Be aware: Kids parented in this way may become driven by a lavish lifestyle, but not know how to get there on their own.

Motorcycle Side Car Parent: These parents have a wild side. They like their adrenaline rush and want their kids to like it too. They travel in the fast lane and take the kids along as they bob and weave their way on down the road. These parents love high speeds and high drama. Note: This can also work in reverse, where the child drives and the parent goes along for the ride. Either way, best to buckle up. It’s usually a bumpy ride.

Southwest Airlines Parent: These parents are on a budget and know how to have a good time. So what if they’re not super-organized? Who cares if occasionally they take off without all of their passengers? They are fun! They are wild. They compose funny raps and make wry, witty puns about safety and cleanliness. They may not be the most refined parents around, but they get the job done and do it with a smile.

VW Bug Parenting: These parents don’t believe personal space; they like to be super-close to their kids.

EuroRail Parent (aka, Tour Bus Parent): These parents want their kids to see it all, do it all, and experience it all. They take their children from museums to galleries to monuments (whether they like it or not). These parents have a constant talk-track going about what they are seeing and why it will improve their kids lives. Note: Kids generally absorb only 5 – 7% of this information. Even less when they have access to an iPhone or a Nintendo DS.

Bulldozer Parenting: These parents know where they want their children to go in life and they will flatten anyone who gets in their way (including the children themselves). Best to get out of the way when you see a Bulldozer parent if at all possible.

Slow-Boat-to-China Parents (aka, River Boat and Barge Parenting): These parents believe that kids grow up too darn fast these days. In many ways, they are the opposite of the Express Train parents. They believe that all good things come to those who wait and that homemade fun is the best kind of fun. Their children don’t watch TV, eat microwave meals, or play with electronic/tech based toys.

Private Jet Parents (aka, Maybach Parenting): These parents want their kid to know that they have a lot of money and that they aren’t afraid to spend it.

Four-Wheeler Parents: These parents are looking to recreate the kind of fun they remember having when they were kids. Often times, they are remembering things from when they were an older child. But in their zeal, Four Wheeler parents will forget this and attempt to relive all their childhood memories when junior is about five years too young. You see them with their one year olds at DoraLive! Or off for a hunting trip before the kid can even read. Or with their American Girl whose face has been colored on with a sharpie. (Note: A mutation of this kind of parent is the GoKart Parent, which is the deep-fried version of the Four Wheel Parent. They function the same way, but are frequently drawn to guns, roadside fireworks, and yes, GoKarts.)

Wonder Woman’s Invisible Jet Parents: The worst kind of parents. These people have kids, but no one ever actually sees them parenting anybody.

Old is the New Black

Posted: November 21, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Next weekend I will attend my 20th High School Reunion. Which seems weird to me because I feel like I was in high school was just yesterday. Ok, maybe not yesterday. Maybe the day before yesterday. Or possibly late last week. But it certainly doesn’t seem like it’s been 20 freaking years since I graduated. But it’s true.

This brings me face-to-face with the inescapable reality that I am no longer a young person. It doesn’t make me old-old, but it certainly rules out the possibility of me being objectively young. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I know, I know. You’re only as old as you feel! Age is just a number! I get it – it’s passé to lament aging. Publicly. (However, in the privacy of your Dermatologist’s office, feel free.) We’re told to embrace each day as it comes because every day is a gift. It’s true. I know. Blah. When it comes to getting older, I feel – in the wise words that are my sister’s mantra – it is what it is.

It’s fine. I can accept getting older. Older is okay. Older has been good to me so far. Older has brought me a husband who will clean out the garage and rub my feet; two delicious children (metaphorically speaking, of course); and a peace with myself that I didn’t have in 1991 when I graduated high school. Nearly every aspect of my life is better now than it was 20 years ago.

So maybe I can’t eat pizza after 8 o’clock without needing an IV to flush the sodium out of my bloodstream. And maybe now I think twice whether or not those adorable leopard pumps would actually be comfortable? These are not things that really matter in life. The bottom line is that there is little about my youth to pine for – except, I suppose, youth itself. (And by my youth itself, mostly I mean my metabolism.)

To illustrate this point, I made a chart.

When I was Younger…

Now that I am Older…

I was insecure about my decisions, my skills, my possessions, my ideas, my relationships, my talents, my looks, etc.

I am confident on the good days; I forgive myself on the others.

I cared way too much what everybody thought about me all the time.

I realize that most people aren’t thinking about me at all. And they never were. And furthermore, who cares?

I had a coarse, frizzy brown mop on top of my head.

I have smooth, straight, blondish chemically fried, but infinitely more attractive hair.

I waited for people to ask me out on dates.

The love of my life is legally bound to date me forever.

I babysat other people’s children.

I have minions children of my own.

I had to share a car with my sister.

The minivan is mine, all mine.

I wondered what I would be when I grew up?

I know that the answer to that question comes in list form and can be added to daily.

I was a slave to grammar.

I. Write. The. Way. I. Want.

I had a killer metabolism.

Damn, I miss that.

This weekend at my reunion, I will be confronted with the physical and emotional manifestations of time reflected in my classmates faces. Just as they are in mine.  And I will try to remember this little list to ease the sting of being Older. After all, if I’m lucky, there’s a lot more where that came from.

 

 

Good Writing Reflects Clear Thinking

Posted: November 14, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: novel writing, Uncategorized, writing | Tags: , , , | 5 Comments

One of the most useful things I learned in Journalism School, I learned in the first fifteen minutes of my first class on the first day. The two Deans of the University of Missouri J-School stood at the bottom of the large lecture hall and tag-teamed a speech about the art and science of Journalism; the rigors and importance of its study. I remember shockingly little of what they said. I remember that one of the Deans was a lady with short red hair who wore a pantsuit. I remember I didn’t see her again until graduation. And I remember that she began her portion of the lecture with the simple truism, “Good writing reflects clear thinking.”

Over the years, I have referred back to this sentence more than any other piece of writing advice I received since. It has become my writing mantra. These words focus and tighten my work. They eliminate pages of unnecessary qualifiers and distracting tangents. They crystallize tedious, rambling diversions into concise, readable information. Good writing reflects clear thinking. I hear the Dean’s voice in my head; picture her in her beige pants suit pacing back and forth like some kind of smartly dressed caged tiger – full of pent-up insight and knowledge.

But this advice applies to more than just Journalism. As I write my first novel, this dictum serves as my talisman – sitting on my shoulder, strong and true in its own little pantsuit; a beacon of efficiency.  It reminds me that good writing is more than just stringing words together in a pleasing way. The words have to say something. They can’t simply be page-candy, there only to decorate and sound pretty. Even the most beautifully written prose must earn its keep by informing, enlightening, or advancing the story.

Here is how this all works in action: I write something. I read it over. If I decide it sucks (which I almost always do on the first pass), I repeat my mantra. Good writing reflects clear thinking. I re-read what I wrote. More often than not, the problem is not with the words themselves. The problem is I didn’t know what I wanted to say. It wasn’t clear to me –so how could it possibly be clear on the page? The words never stood a chance. I focus. I ask myself what I am trying to say in this sentence, this paragraph, this chapter. And if I am lucky enough to come up with an answer, the words follow – lining up like obedient soldiers doing their duty to ink and paper. The writing becomes strong, if not good, and we move on to the next battle.

Good writing reflects clear thinking. My arrogant 18 year-old self heard this and thought something banal like, “No duh.” But fortunately my sub-conscious knew better. It stored this little nugget in the depths of my brain until I was ready to understand that no amount of clever word play will make up for a writer’s ambivalence of purpose.

I pass this on with the hope that it helps other writers as much as it has helped me.

Why Candy Tastes Better When It’s Free (or Stolen From Your Kids)

Posted: October 31, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: children, kids, motherhood, parenting | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

There is only one thing that tastes better than free candy. And that is free candy you steal from your children. Candy you take out of your child’s Halloween stash somehow tastes sweeter, lasts longer, and seems less caloric than candy begotten from other means. I rationalize stealing my kids candy in two ways:

1. I think of it as a luxury tax. I bought the costume. I took them around from house to house. And I will most certainly have to deal with the consequences of their massive bellyaches once they’ve snarfed down eleven pounds of candy in half an hour. The way I see it, I deserve a percentage of net sales.

2. I tell myself I’m doing it for them. No responsible parent would allow their children to eat triple their body weight in sugar, would they?. By dipping into their supply, I am actually protecting them. I am being a good parent. I am acting righteously. (Refer to earlier post on How to Feel Righteous Everyday: A Cheater’s Guide).

But beware: Once children reach the age of four (or possibly a precocious three) they will protect their candy with their lives. If you are going to be successful in your quest, you must have a game plan. You must shut out all thoughts of selflessness and altruism. You must come prepared for battle. Here are a few bits of advice to help you along the way:

  • When they dump their candy out on the floor to bask in its gluttonous glory, take note of any doubles and triples. Start with these items first. The earlier you can extract them, the better.
  • Never, ever make the mistake of asking or worse, saying something like, “Let’s see, what do we have here…” This causes instant foodstress in kids and puts them on the defensive. You want them unaware.
  • Tell them you have to check the candy for razor blades or other forms of tampering. The only way to know for sure is to test it out yourself. That’ll buy you at least a couple of pieces – but won’t work forever. Most kids I know would rather risk being poisoned than give away their Halloween candy.
  • You can always pull the classic, “Look over there! Is that The Great Pumpkin?” and while their sweet little heads are turned, you swipe a bag of M&Ms or a Payday (if you roll with peanuts).
  • Don’t be greedy. Never take the King Size Twix or the cute little homemade marshmallow pops the Martha-wanna-be down the street gave out. You’ll get busted for sure. Stick to the common stuff – your Hershey’s mini’s, your individually wrapped licorice, your Tootsie rolls, etc.
  • Obviously, when they are at school and/or asleep, you have free reign to pillage at will. But be aware that some children take inventory and will know when something goes missing. You will pay the price in shame if you get caught. And possibly in actual candy as well. I’ll admit I had to do some re-stocking during the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup binge of ’08.
  • Kids fear the unknown food. Play upon their natural pickiness. You can pull out the lesser-known Skor bar and say, “You don’t like this, do you?” and before they even know what hit them you’re enjoying that rich toffee goodness.

Best of luck in your efforts tonight… Happy hunting and Happy Halloween!

 

 

Conquering The Beast

Posted: October 24, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | 8 Comments

I’m afraid that I’m kind of a scaredy cat. I’m not paralyzed by fear –just generally wary, mostly of things having to do with high speeds, heights, the dark, and/or threat of mortal peril. I don’t walk around town wearing a helmet anything, but I am not what you would call a risk taker either. I’ve never ridden a roller coaster. I’ve never gone white water rafting. I’ve never been in a hot air balloon or a helicopter. I’ve never gone bungee jumping. Never gone sky diving, wind surfing, or even parasailing.

Most of the time this is okay with me. After all, somebody has to stay behind to hold the coats while everyone else is off riding the Screaming Death Loop.

But there is a part of me that wonders if I’m missing out by always taking the safe route.  As I get older, I find myself thinking that maybe only doing what feels safe and comfortable is kind of cop-out? Maybe it’s just plain boring? Maybe being so rigid when it comes to doing things outside of my comfort zone ends up limiting my range of experiences and therefore my enjoyment of life? Usually, I have these thoughts in brief snippets at times when my most perilous choice is between red or white.

But I was faced with such a choice this weekend while in Kansas City with three of my dearest friends for a girl’s weekend away. After dinner on Saturday night, the girls thought it would be fun to go to one of Kansas City’s famed haunted houses. The destination in question was The Beast, a four-story “open format” haunted house in which you have to find your way through an abandoned warehouse while being chased by werewolves, chainsaw wielding maniacs, and zombies who pop out of the darkness and scare the s*** out of you. The whole thing culminates at the exit, which is a four-story slide straight down.

I told them I would hold their coats.

The over-developed part of my brain that specializes in rationalizations told my friends (and myself for that matter), “It’s not that I’m scared to go – I just don’t want to go. I just don’t enjoy that kind of thing.”  I mean why would I want to do that when I could be sitting in a hotel lounge somewhere listening to music and sipping a cocktail, right? Being the good friends they are, they were going to let me sit it out. But then a funny thing happened. I started to want to go. I suppose it could have been peer pressure, but I don’t think that was it. It was more like disappointment in myself for wimping out, yet again.

So after having a drink at the bar, it was decided that all four of us would go together. We hopped in a cab to the sketchy part of town, paid the rather exorbitant entrance fee, and took on The Beast. We spent the next 45 minutes shuffling through the warehouse in our high heels (a rookie mistake) with all 8 of our arms linked together tighter than bark on a tree. The four of us screamed at the top of our lungs while gory, spooky creatures jumped out of the blackness and chased us through the winding, fog-machine-fog filled rooms.  We were all screaming, yelling, laughing, slightly sweating, and one of us (you know who you are) was cussing like a drunken sailor. We were, in other words, having a wonderful time.

After we conquered The Beast, we felt like rock stars. Never mind that as we left  we saw many of our fellow Beast Slayers being picked up by their moms in minivans. Never mind that it took nearly 20 minutes for my heart rate to come back to normal. I felt brave! Not just for getting through the haunted house without soiling myself, but because I didn’t let being afraid stop me from doing it. And I’m so glad I did it. It even made me feel a little righteous. I know it was only a haunted house. And I know most people have this experience by the time they are 14, but I always thought I was too chicken to do something like that. And that night, I wasn’t. It felt good.

Immediately upon leaving The Beast, we went out for a celebratory glass of champagne at a little piano bar called The Cigar Box, a throwback to the old lounges of back-in-the-day, complete with a crooner covering Frank Sinatra tunes while wearing a silk-shirt-and-smoking jacket combo and one of the worst toupees you’ve ever seen. We sat there for the rest of the night laughing about our experience with The Beast, feeling like we were kids again – blithe, fearless, and silly.

The best part was that in the end, The Beast wasn’t even the scariest thing we saw that night. That toupee was downright frightening.

How to Feel Righteous Everyday: A Cheater’s Guide

Posted: October 17, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 12 Comments

I will admit that I like feeling righteous. This is not to be confused with feeling self-righteous – which is to say, smug. Smugness is ugly and coarse and inelegant. But righteousness is above all that. To feel righteous is to feel conscientious, dutiful, virtuous, irreproachable – in short, Good.

But Good does not come cheap. Often times doing Good involves time and sacrifice. I have devised a system to get around all that. I have a list of Everyday Righteous Activities which, admittedly fall a bit short of the lofty heights of volunteering at soup kitchens or reading to disadvantaged youth, but still provide me a small sense of virtuosity, even if only for a couple of seconds. (The rule is: The smaller the act of Good, the shorter time you can spend feeling righteous about it.)

I do not pretend that these things will put me in contention for the Nobel Peace Prize, but I think you will agree that doing them is better than not doing them. And that is really the only qualification for inclusion on this list.

Everyday Righteous Activities:

  • Eating vegetables
  • Any form of exercise
  • Shaving my legs
  • Letting a car go in front of me in traffic
  • Not shopping
  • Any act of cleaning my home
  • Making a dinner in which no ingredients came out of a bag or box
  • Showering and washing my hair
  • Wearing something other than yoga pants
  • Not having dessert
  • Holding the door for the person behind me
  • Sewing on a button (or sewing of any kind)
  • Clipping my kids fingernails
  • Not going to Starbucks for my Iced Mocha
  • Slowing down, rather than gunning it, when approaching a yellow light
  • Eating soy products that pretend to be chicken or ground beef
  • Wearing shoes other than flip-flops or tennis shoes
  • Giving my dogs a bath
  • Recycling
  • Thinking about starting to compost
  • Reading a newspaper
  • Folding and putting away laundry on the same day
  • Eating fruit with the skin on
  • Using up the last of my hair products before buying new ones
  • Opting for soda water instead of diet soda
  • Putting a new roll of toilet paper on the thingy

Some might say that these things are nothing to feel special about. But I challenge those people to shift their paradigm: To believe that yes, you ARE a rock star because you cleaned behind your refrigerator. Or to feel proud of the fact that you got up, showered, and left the house. After all, you could have not done that, right? You could have sat on your ass eating canned cheese in your underwear all day. But you didn’t. You mowed the grass. You asked your mail carrier how her day was. You took your grocery cart to the cart-return and didn’t let it roll amuck. It may not be much, but there is some value in that.

The way I see it, my Everyday Righteous Activities are like my everyday clothing: Functional, comfortable, not-too-fancy, and easy to get away with. I also have my Good clothes, which I break out on special occasions; just like I do Good on a larger scale on special occasions, or at least as often as I can. But not everyday. Not everyone has the time everyday to engage in grand gestures of human kindness and/or public service (unless you are my father-in-law or Oprah.) For the rest of us mortals, I offer my list. Use it as a righteousness-patch – something to get you through until you have the time to dedicate yourself to something truly worthwhile.  And while you’re at it, go ahead and give yourself a pat on the back for reading this blog. You deserve it.

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