$86 Gone in the Blinker of an Eye

Have you ever been to traffic court?

I had to go years ago when I was living in Florida. I had been a resident of the Sunshine State for almost a year but never got a Florida driver’s license. I just couldn’t part with my Jersey one I guess. I also couldn’t part with my Jersey plates, and before long I got pulled over for having expired tags.

Turned out that having an out of state license while living in Florida was an offense that held a penalty larger than just paying a fine. I had to go to court, and I was petrified. As long as I could prove that I’d procured a Florida license and plates, I would only have to pay a small fine, but still, I was scared.

As I sat in court, my nerves began to dissipate as I watched other cases go by. Many of them were for passing bad checks – all at Publix. One man was accused of bashing in his ex-girlfriend’s front door. And another man was convicted of exposing himself to children in a park. This was some heavy stuff…and here I was with my out of state driver’s license offense. By the time it was my turn I was almost proud of what an upstanding citizen I was.

That was around 15 years ago. Day before last I found myself in traffic court again, but this time, it was hubby who was on the docket.

He was driving home from working an overnight shift, and I’m always thankful when I hear him come in the house, safe and sound. He often talks of coming close to nodding off on the long and boring ride home. It’s why I understand the mistake he made.

He was less than a block from our development, where he has to make a right hand turn. It was 5:30 am, there was nobody else on the road with him. But off the road was a State Trooper parked in the weeds. Hubby saw him, checked his speed to make sure he was not going to fast, made his right hand turn, and was shocked to see the lights in the rear view mirror.

He got a ticket for not using his blinker. Can you believe that? Now, I’m a rule follower by nature, but come on. I can see if he’d been speeding – then you can pile on the fines. But is business that slow that you have to break someone’s balls for failing to flip a switch? Don’t get me started on how I feel about cops in general. It’s not a pretty topic.

When he came home that morning he was crushed. The fines totaled over $100 – that’s money we don’t have to spare these days. I suggested we go to court. Maybe he could talk his way out of it, or the cop wouldn’t be there that day. Oh, turns out that is rarely true – we discovered that the officer is held in contempt of court if he fails to appear on the scheduled court date. So much for that urban legend.

Hubby’s court date was Tuesday morning, and we got there with 20 or so minutes to spare. An officer made him leave the courtroom to tuck his shirt in. We also got scolded for whispering to each other. One couple was not allowed to enter at all because the defendant showed up in a dirty T-shirt and jeans. Even Judge Judy yells at you for that shit. Duh.

Once again, it was interesting to see the other cases go by, and once again, hubby felt like a fine, upstanding citizen next to some of the offenses other people were brought up for. There was one DUI – he had to do jail time. One gal was speeding and wasn’t wearing her seat belt. And one woman was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit and was shackled at wrist and foot. I couldn’t quite hear what she’d done wrong, but I suspect it was for more than a minor traffic infraction.

By the time hubby stood up before the judge for not using his blinker, he was too nervous to do any smooth talking and simply plead guilty. The judge was feeling generous, and knocked off $25 because hubby’s driving record was good. I was relieved that he’d given us a break, and it proved that appearing in court rather than blindly paying the ticket was beneficial.

I’ll tell you, knowing that there are cops out there ready, willing, and able to ruin your day, I’ve been paying attention to my driving. It’s easy to get lazy – how often do you slow roll through a stop or forget to flip on your blinker? I know I was super lazy, but this ticket of hubby’s opened my eyes. Money is too tight to throw it to the county – I’m going to make sure I give them nothing to pull me over for.

The Lame Lunch That Left my Wallet Light

Nothing irks me more than when I think I have wasted money. I believe it occurs most while dining out – paying for food that wasn’t all that great is the ultimate waste of one’s hard-earned dollar.

Sometimes it’s unavoidable – like when you’re at an amusement park. You pay $5 for a slice of pizza that tastes like cheese and sauce on Wonder Bread, and another $4 for a soda that is 85% ice cubes. But unless you are willing to get hand-stamped, exit the park and picnic out of your car, you have little choice. (By the way, we did that all the time as teens going to Great Adventure in New Jersey)

However, when I am free to chose amongst the hundreds of eating establishments in town, and I chose a clunker, I get mad. That happened to me yesterday. Our family decided to have lunch together before hubby headed to work and my girls and I finished our prom shopping.

See, it was senior cut day, so my oldest was “off” from school. As luck would  have it, it was also the day that my youngest daughter’s school was having a BMX bike show for kids who sold enough items in their fundraiser. I blogged about my issues with this fundraiser a few months back (read it here), and vowed to boycott the school that day. So, the four of us were looking for a place to eat lunch.

There’s a restaurant called The Riverside that makes really good burgers. However, they are always crowded, and the parking lot is a hassle to maneuver around, especially when they are crowded, which they always are. There is another joint across the street called Jak n’ Jil. They’ve been in business since 1954, and are supposed to be known for their foot-long hot dogs, so we decided to give them a try.

The prices for your average burger or dog seemed reasonable enough. Some of the other sandwiches and platters seemed a bit pricey for me; a Gyro was almost $8 and I was fairly certain there was no little Greek man in the back shaving lamb off a spit. Eight bucks wasn’t worth spending if all you got was pre-packaged gyro meat.

We all got burgers or dogs, an order of fries, an order of onion rings, one milkshake, and one soda. I had water.

My dog was just ok. It tasted like a very low quality dog…you know, the kind that tastes like baloney? My bun was dry and too big for the dog – with each bite I felt like all I was eating was white bread, and then my mouth would find some of the hot dog, and my brain would say “oh, there’s some baloney.”

The onion rings, priced at $3.75 were also a disappointment. They only gave us 7 onion rings. That’s over fifty cents per ring.

When it came time to pay the bill, I was astounded when the gal behind the counter said “That will be $32.60.”

How’s that?

Within seconds my brain counted through all the things I could have bought for $32. Things that I have avoided buying because I am trying to watch every dime. Things like:

• A haircut
• Plants for my garden
• Grass seed for my lawn
• A new pot to replace the one with the bowed bottom that wobbles on my stove when I’m trying to boil water

Instead, I had spent it on HOT DOGS.

I was furious. I turned to my husband and said “Thirty-two dollars for that…can you believe it?” I didn’t care who heard. I was in no mood to be polite. I went back to check the menu and did a little quick mental math. Although all the prices seemed reasonable, once you added it all up it equaled out to a pretty pricey repast.

I usually try to keep our lunches under $20, sometimes even less if I have a coupon. Hell, I was pissed a few weeks ago when I paid over $18 for a three slices of pizza and a salad at Sabarro. And here I spent twice that amount on a lunch that was nothing more than baloney sticks.

Ugh. Thirty-two dollars on hot dogs and fries. Had they been good dogs? You wouldn’t be reading this. There’s a place where I grew up called Hiram’s that makes the best hot dogs I’ve ever had. Anthony Bourdain featured them on an episode of “No Reservations.”  Those dogs are worth paying $32 for.

So what’s a gal to do? Nothing. All I can do is put Jak n’ Jil’s on my permanent “no way, José” list. They will never, ever see another thin dime of my money.

And to add insult to injury, every time I burped I was given a gentle reminder of the money I had wasted.

 

Beyond the Pale Green Egg

Yesterday my girls and I took a trip to town to do a little shopping. After lunch, we decided to go to Target to see if there were any new Skylanders. I lucked into the first parking spot in the aisle, and proceeded to get out of my car. The driver’s side door was right next to a little island, freshly mulched with a few low, bushy evergreen shrubs. Sitting there in the mulch was an egg.

It was pale green – the color of an Easter Egg dying experiment gone wrong. I’ve seen it a million times with my girls. They dunk the egg in yellow, then decide on blue, then switch to pink; the result is a sickly greenish grey egg. This was the same color, and the same size and shape of a jumbo chicken egg.

I called to my girls, alerting them about the egg, and they both ran over and gawked at it in amazement. My guess was an old Easter Egg. I mean, Easter had only passed a few weeks back, and it was more conceivable to me that this was an abandoned hard-boiled egg than a bird egg because:

a) There were no trees with nests anywhere around us.
b) Why in the world would an egg be on a mulched parking median in front of Target?

My youngest grabbed a couple of napkins from my glove box and picked the egg up. We all looked at it with a mixture of wonder and puzzlement. Our curiosity getting the best of us, we wanted to crack it, but I did not want to do it by my car. If it was a rotten egg, I didn’t want it smelling up my parking spot. So we took it to a secluded area and passed it from person to person. Nobody wanted to be the one to crack it, so the task was left to Mommy.

Remember, I’m still fully expecting this thing to be a hard-boiled egg.

I gently tossed the egg on the curb of another row of shrubs, and the top cracked. Out oozed clear goo. And a little blood. And some orangey looking stuff.

This was no hard-boiled egg. My youngest began to wail “We killed it! We killed it!” Now, I know full well that no egg left alone in middle of a Target parking lot was a viable bird-to-be, but I still felt kind of shitty. We walked into the store and did our shopping the whole while trying to explain to my youngest that whatever was in the egg was already dead. I told her how animals know when an offspring is defective and how they usually kill it.

But I still felt really crappy. Why did we have to break the egg? Maybe there is some species of fowl that prefers to leave its egg in a sunny and somewhat congested spot, unattended. Maybe we did kill a poor little birdy. Ugh.

When we were leaving the store, the kids went back to look at the egg. Well, poke at the egg with a stick to be more exact. I felt too guilty to return to the scene of the crime and went over to our car. But my curiosity was still nagging at me. Where had that egg come from?

I looked down at the squat, dense little shrub that I had found the egg beside. My mind argued that there was no way anything could have a nest in there…it was too compact…too, well, bushy.

I looked under and saw the dim shape of another egg. I then pulled back a branch or two and saw the metallic blue feathers of a drake duck. I jumped back in surprise, half expecting the duck to fly out and attack me. It was a duck egg!

Some dimwitted duck had decided that a bush on the median beside the very first parking spot at Target was the perfect place to lay her eggs. I called the girls over and told them what I had discovered. I also told them to be respectful and quiet while they spied in the little bush to see the duck sitting on the eggs.

My youngest felt way better after that…she knew there was a nest with other eggs being watched over by daddy duck, and realized that what I told her was probably right. Mom had most likely abandoned a bad egg.

When we got home I had to look it up. I found article after article about ducks pushing eggs out of the nest for a variety of reasons, and I shared them with my girls. It made me feel a little bit better, but for some reason I still feel bad for that poor little ducky whose egg we cracked out of sheer curiosity.

I love ducks. I love how they waddle and quack and shake their little tail feathers. I love how they land on the water like little seaplanes, and how they stand tall and flap their wings.

It’s funny. I almost didn’t park in that spot. I was waiting for another parking place, but there was too much congestion in that aisle so I gave up and found another spot…a spot right in front, next to a freshly mulched little island. With a pale green egg.

On Demand TV Be Damned!

I am doing absolutely nothing. Ok, not nothing, but close to it.

My unemployed days are spent lolling around in a dark room watching television shows that I had never watched before, but have now become addicted to.

First it was “Girls.” Luckily there had only been one season at that point, so I was able to catch up in a single day.

After that,  a “Walking Dead” marathon weekend chained me to my couch for two days straight. At least I shared that obsession with my two daughters. You could kind of file it under family time.

Then it was “Downton Abbey.” That took a few days because the shows are an hour long and I had two and a half seasons to watch. My husband was working almost non-stop at that point so I was able to spend most of time viewing it on our living room TV – where the sun shines and I feel like I am somewhat part of the living, breathing world.

Once I got caught up with both Hannah and the Grantham gang, I needed a new show. I had acquired a taste for non-stop entertainment – for discovering those progrmas that the masses were talking about, but I was oblivious to.

My regular readers will know that I then gravitated to “Homeland.” Oh, that show was wonderful. I spent the better or 3 or 4 days watching seasons 1 & 2 – 24 action-packed, suspense-filled episodes. This was beginning to become a dangerous and lonely trend, though.

With hubby home more often, the living room television is mainly controlled by him. He watches ESPN classic which plays old baseball games from 1979, or interviews with Howard Cosell and some legendary sports figure that I don’t know or care about. So if I’m in the mood to watch TV, I have to take myself to one of my daughter’s rooms; rooms with very little light and very little television sets.

That’s how I watched “Homeland;” crouched in the dark on a bed in an entertainment induced coma. Yes, I would twist open the blinds and let in some light, but before long, the light would fade as the sun went down and I realized it was time to cook dinner.

I was both dismayed and relieved when I’d watched all the episodes. Perhaps now I could join the living; get out and walk, maybe take up my crocheting again, or try some new recipes. Didn’t I have better things to do than stare at an illuminated box?

Not once I discovered “Weeds.”

Yes, yet another Showtime original (damn, they have some good writers there) has taken claim of my miserable, pathetic life. And there are 7 seasons. S-E-V-E-N. I am currently in the middle of season 6 – this translates into me sitting in sweatpants, in the dark, staring at a television for most of this past week. I will say that I have showered every day. I have also gone to the store and brought the kids to school. Outside of that I’ve pretty much been a “Weeds” watching zombie.

So now let’s talk about the show. I have a love-hate with Nancy. As the seasons are progressing, she’s becoming less cool and more wtf to where I just want to smack her. And why the hell is she always on the last few sips of a latte? It’s never full – always empty with a loud slurp.

Andy will be my boyfriend in my next life. Celia is a never-ending source of amusement for me. I adore Dean and Doug – I wish I could spend a day with them and a bong.

It has made me laugh out loud at least once an episode. The taint/runway argument was legendarily funny. Celia calling Dean  “Harley Davidstein,” was a knee-slapper, as was anything U-Turn said, and all conversations between Andy and Doug are guaranteed to bring at least one chuckle.

It’s a really filthy, funny show. And I can’t stop watching it. Not until I’ve seen the very last episode of season 7. I figure I’ll be done in time to cook Easter dinner and hide a few eggs.

After that you have a vow from me. There will not be a hunt for a new show – I will not latch onto “Dexter” or “Mad Men.” I’ll pass on “Game of Thrones” and “Breaking Bad.” I’ll stay away until I’ve done a few things…cleaned out my cabinets, raked every leaf, mulched my garden and lost 10 pounds.

Then, and only then will I hit that button on the remote. The one that gives me access to every season of every show that everyone is talking about. But for now, On Demand Be Damned!

Techno Post

 

As I sit here in a dark hotel room while my family still dozes, I am writing this blog post on a tablet. Isn’t that wild?

Maybe not for the majority of you with your iPads and smart phones, but for me this a total hoot!  Yes the typing is clumsy and awkward, but here I am tapping out a blog post where in the past I’d be sitting in the dark waiting for everyone to wake up!

I bought my oldest a tablet for Christmas, and I am finally getting some time to play with it. There have been isues with the device…broken camera, namely. We are waiting for a replacement, but in the mean time I am loving having access to the world while I’m out of the house!

I guess you can just call me techno Tracy. Now if only I knew how to add a photo…

The Last Day of 47

Tomorrow’s my birthday, where I’ll turn 48.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a Saturday birthday. 11 years to be exact, and that birthday was no fun because I was 10 days away from giving birth to my 2nd child, so I couldn’t drink, and I felt fat. I remember sitting at a diner with my husband and then 6 year old daughter and crying.

So I’ve been looking forward to this one. Although my plans for my birthday weren’t perfect, they were good – hubby and daughter’s work were getting in the way of the day being perfect, but you’ve gotta earn that dough. Boy oh boy, do I know that now.

I stepped into work today to find a card and a gift certificate waiting for me on my desk. After more than 2 years with this company that bought my newspaper, they finally remembered my birthday. It used to irk me every time a card was passed around for me to sign because there was never one for me.

11 am comes and my boss asks to speak to me. In walks the publisher/owner as well. ruh roh.

And then it comes, the axe that I have been waiting to fall since July 1, 2010, the day I started with our new publisher. I was fired.

Happy fucking birthday.

I’ve put over 13 years into creating my stupid, dopey little newspaper, and I’ve been budgeted right out of a job. Yes, budgeted. They can’t afford my salary in 2013 because my newspaper has gone from 40-60 pages a week to 24. Realtors think that print is dead and they just won’t advertise. It’s nothing I’ve done, they assured me. It’s just money. That was sort of the trouble with my employers…it was always all about money.

So that’s that.

Now my Saturday birthday plans have gone from a nice dinner out and some shopping to the McDonald’s drive through and scouring the want ads.

Yeah, turning 48 ought to be a blast.

Filmstrips – Schoolroom Fun That Today’s Kids Miss Out On

Modern electronics have all but obliterated a part of my childhood school days that I think back on fondly.

There are no more filmstrips.

Filmstrips was this great time where the teacher turned off lights, lowered the shades and turned on the projector. The classroom would then be treated to a glimpse inside a variety of subjects – we’d learn about everything from manners to mammals.

In case you’re not familiar with this archaic instructional tool, a filmstrip was a series of still pictures that were strung together to tell a story. There was a soundtrack that would accompany the film, which would not only narrate the story, but give you a cue as to when to change the picture – usually a beep or a tone.

The best part of the filmstrip viewing experience was if YOU were chosen by the teacher to turn the knob on the projector. What a sense of pride it was to be given this role of distinction! It was your responsibility to keep the story moving!

The narrators were of your typical variety – dry actors who would describe in perfect pitch and tone why Susie should brush her teeth after meals. Then would come the “ding!” and the picture would change.

Yes, it was totally lame, but it was way better than listening to your teacher drone on about punctuation or long division! Plus, they could be very entertaining, but not always in the manner intended. Sometimes the kids and people in the filmstrips were so dorky it was impossible not to goof on them.

For example:

But another caption would be way more fun. One like “Steve’s mother sympathized with Mrs. Logan for having a hang over after drinking one Old Fashioned too many.”

Or how about this Rockwell-esque scene? The deviant mind would notice the rather lascivious look on dad’s face. Look’s like he’s excited to see fresh meat at the table, and he ain’t talking about the baloney sandwiches.

Steve won’t share and little Billy is left to play pocket pool. Who’s having the real fun?

Some captions needed no embellishment. They were just too fucking funny as they were.

I’ll be the first one to admit that filmstrips sorta sucked. They were a glorified Viewmaster outfitted for the classroom. But there’s a timeless beauty to them as well…it was an era where it was still considered ok to shove morality down our throats…where free thinking was evil and a sin.

It was hard not to giggle during those 20 minutes in the warm darkness of the afternoon classroom. The stray giggle or titter rarely elicited a warning from the teacher. Many of these films were outdated even in the 70′s and were so hokey it was a wonder any teacher found them to be acceptable educational tools.

Who knows – after a long day of trying to teach us knuckleheads our 3 R’s – maybe our teacher needed a laugh too.

Those Cyclone Days of Life

Yesterday, life strapped me in and took me on a roller coaster ride of a day.

President Obama was scheduled to hold a rally not only in my town, but a mere two blocks from where I work. His campaign offices are just about catty-corner to mine, so it was easy for me to get tickets to the rally just in case my family had any interest in going.

It would mean taking the kids out of school, a thing that hubby – despite all his years of cutting class back in the 70′s – frowns upon. Yet we both agreed that seeing the President live and in person would be an acceptable reason to miss a day of school. We just had to figure out if we wanted to go through the hassle of the lines and security. It would be a long, hot wait if we decided to go. In the end, realizing that neither child would be missing anything vital that Wednesday, we opted to attend.

The day dawned sunny and bright. With no kids to ready for school, I got out of the house early which was a necessity – parking around my offices was going to come at a premium and the early bird catches the parking space! During my drive in the local news was reporting a murder/suicide where 4 people were killed, and news about the President’s visit, street closures, etc.

My plan was to get as much work done as possible before noon, meet up with hubby and the girls at my offices, and walk up to the rally to spend 3 hours in line. With Howard Stern on vacation, and not really digging his “best of” special this week, I did not have my headphones on as I usually do and could hear all the typical office banter as I did my work.

The head of the sales department was giving her usual pep talk to her team and a few times had mentioned the absence of a staff member, Beth. She had been out sick the day before, and having not heard from her yet that morning was worried. I remember her saying “It’s not like her to sleep in, even if she’s sick.” I heard her leave a voice message on her phone.

At around 11 am my family arrived. I was in the middle of building an ad that I wanted to finish before I left for the day, so I told them to busy themselves for 15 minutes or so. A few minutes later my boss entered asking if we could circle up. I was expecting to get a speech about the President’s visit and taking time off and parking and what’s to be expected of us.

Instead he says, “I’ve never had to do this before. Last night Beth was killed.”

Killed? Not died. Not passed away. Killed – which implies intent and malice. And violence.

I know I audibly gasped. I know my hand went to my mouth. I know I didn’t hear anything else my boss had to say.

While I did not work closely with her, she was a living, breathing soul who my living breathing soul passed daily on the way to the bathroom or in the kitchen. I remember just last month totally botching the signing of her birthday card.

We have two Beths in the office, and I was lead to believe the card was for the other one. Not wanting to write something lame like, “Happy Birthday, Beth!”  I drew a little picture and wrote something appropriate for Beth number 2, not realizing the card was for Beth number 1. When I realized my blunder, I approached her and said something like, “you must think I am a total numbskull” and explained the mishap. I even thought of making her a little mini birthday card of her own as a funny little apology, but didn’t.

Now I wish I had.

It turns out she was a part of that 4 person murder-suicide that was reported on the morning news. All the details aren’t out yet, but my coworker and her 3 children, are all dead.

I left the office and met my family for lunch, where my husband, in his usual wishy-washy fashion, began to waffle on our decision to take the kids out of school. But I couldn’t concentrate on that, and I have to admit I got annoyed.

We walked up to wait in line, and once our tickets were ripped and we took our place amongst the thousands of other spectators we had 3 hours to stand around and think.

It’s hard to keep a 16 & 10 year old occupied on a hot August day where all you can do is stand in one place for an hour. We played a few rounds of 20 questions. I had my daughter tell me in great detail about the last episode of “Pretty Little Liars.” President Obama owes me big time for that one.

And I thought about Beth. I thought about how scared she must have been, and it made me really sad. I thought about her last few weeks at work – they were tough ones. Our sister publication just put their biggest issue of the year to press, and it’s particularly rough on the sales reps. I know that she had been one of the top sellers, so she must have worked really hard. It was over and behind her, and now she’s just gone.

The hour finally came where we were ushered into the Pavilion and phase two of operation hurry up and wait commenced. We were put through metal detectors, our bags meticulously searched, and our bodies wanded. I was surprised the Secret Service didn’t confiscate my eye-liner sharpener that I had in my bag. I was fully expecting to have to give that up for the cause.

After that we made it to the inside of the Pavilion and staked out our spot. Our vantage point was fantastic – we were around 30 feet from the podium where the President would speak from. And we still had 2 hours to wait.

We sat on the concrete floor for a while, talked about this and that, texted a friend or two, and then the urge hit me. Quite typical of Tracy, I had to pee.

This wasn’t going to be an easy feat. While there was a barricade directly to my right which separated the throngs from the handicapped section, they wouldn’t let you jump the barricade – even though it gave you easy access to the bathrooms.

Instead, I had to take my daughter by the hand and weave, pardon, excuse me and sorry about that my way through THOUSANDS of people packed like sardines. I tried to be as kind and apologetic as possible, but there were still a bunch who grumbled. And if I thought getting to the bathroom was hard, getting back was even worse.

However, once that little chore was over with, the waiting went relatively quickly. We had to suffer through 30 minutes of a banjo playing quartet…I don’t mean to disparage the banjo, but it got tedious after that long. Then came out some folks to talk about volunteering, followed by speeches from former governor Kaine, and former Congressman Perriello.

Then came the big man himself. After a short speech from a UVA student, President Obama was introduced and out he walked. In the flesh. Right before my very eyes.

I think between my husband, my 16 year old and I, we took about 160 photos and a bunch of video of the rally. Being so close, and having a decent zoom on my little Canon, I was able to get some decent shots. Unfortunately, many of them show the President’s face contorted in speech, or with closed eyes, but this is why I took so many.

He spoke for about 40 minutes, and it was truly thrilling. For 4 years I’ve seen him on television, and in print, but here he was right in front of me. I wish my dad, who is a robo-democrat, could’ve been there. He would have truly cherished that moment.

Afterwards we joined the throngs of people trying to leave the venue which in itself was a sight to see. I’m sure the businesses on the Downtown Mall appreciated all the money they made yesterday – lines for ice cream at all three locations were out the door.

And I’m really glad we took our kids. They got to see what it’s like to rally behind someone or something – to join forces and cheer for what you believe in. I saw later that day that my oldest had joined the “Students for Obama” page on Facebook. I “liked” that in more ways than one.

My day started with a tragedy, and ended with some hope for the future. There is so much political bashing on Facebook and in the media – both sides are guilty of it. But yesterday all I could really think about was that I was grateful to be alive and breathing, plain and simple. I thought of my co-worker, whose life was senselessly extinguished for reasons unknown.

You never know when that hammer is going to fall. Yesterday I had my family with me, in the sunshine, listening to the President. All the rest is bullshit.

Those Cell Phone People

I always try to observe good cell phone etiquette. To me, that means taking your call in a place that offers some form of privacy. Not so much because of that nature of my conversations – I’m no secret agent divulging matters of national security. Usually I’m telling my kids how long you microwave popcorn for. It’s just that I don’t want to bother others with my conversation.

It amazes me how many folks don’t follow this rule of etiquette. A few years ago I was shopping in the Dollar Store for Christmas stocking stuffers. I was really looking forward to browsing the aisles trying to find cute little things for my girls (this was when our Dollar Store actually sold some good stuff). But one aisle over there was a woman, on the phone with her realtor, negotiating the purchase of her new home. Aisle after Aisle I had to hear her babble about the home inspection and the mortgage rate and the counter offer, blah blah blah blah blah.

I tried to ditch her by moving to another section of the store, but our paths kept crossing. Before long I was sucked back into her real estate vortex. It gave me a headache. Why in the world would you not find a quiet corner to have this long winded conversation or just go outside? Because those cell phone people are arrogant turds filled with so much self-importance that they think everyone is interested in their lives! Who needs to shop quietly with my own thoughts when I can listen to rich bitch negotiate?

A few weeks back I was sitting in the waiting room of my hair salon, when a woman walked in while on her cell phone. She conducted her sign in with the receptionist with the phone to her ear, then sat in the chair next to me and continued her “power meeting.” Good God, it was annoying.

First off, wouldn’t you try to end your conversation before you entered the salon? Isn’t the salon supposed to be a relaxing, some what pampered type of environment? I would think one would pause at the front door and say, “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to get back to you – I’m late for my hair appointment.”

Not if your one of those cell phone people! They are so self-centered that they feel a very small and crowded waiting room is the perfect place to talk about firing that totally ineffectual employee!

And that’s what this broad did. She sat there for more than 10 minutes in the chair right next to me discussing “the office manager.” How she was not living up to her resume and how she must have lied about her skill sets and how much leadership she required, and that the company needs a take charge self-starter blah blah blah blah blah.

She didn’t stop until she was called to go back for her shampoo – even that one hasn’t figured out a way to stay on the line with her head under water. But by then I was privy to the fact that somewhere in Charlottesville, a girl was hours away from losing her job and it bummed me out. One of those cell phone people managed to spoil my haircut.

As for me, I take all my calls outside or end them as quietly or as quickly as possible when in a public place. My husband can attest to this fact – I get super annoyed when he calls me while I’m shopping. He’s learned that if the realization that we need toilet paper comes while I am at the store, he’s better off texting me than calling me or he’ll be dealing with a very snappish Slovie.

Even at the office, I’ll walk outside the building if I feel I need to have more than a 72 second conversation. Although when I’m outside my office there are tons of people, they are en route to one place or another. They are not a captive audience forced to listen to my conversation about my daughter’s athlete’s foot or the cat’s fleas.

I’d be embarrassed to have a conversation where I knew others – total strangers -  could hear it. That’s what those cell phone people lack. They are such superstars in their own little bubble of a world that they lack humility.

If you are one of those cell phone people, my advice is to take it outside. We realize you are fabulous and fun. We know you have it all and everyone adores you. But you know what? Nobody wants to hear you.

Coppertone & Chlorine at the Leonia Pool

The Pool of my youth, circa 1970

With the temps past the century mark yesterday, we took our kids to the pool. The water wasn’t all that refreshing – only a few degrees cooler than the air it seemed. But who could expect it to be cold after a week of 100°+ temperatures. As I lounged against the pool’s edge I watched my girls frolic with each other, and realized something was missing.

Where we their friends? I called my kids over and asked why there weren’t throngs of their friends here at the pool. They shrugged in reply. My oldest said most of her friends hang out at one of the lake beaches. How different from my youth, I thought to myself. We lived and breathed the pool and so did most of the other families in town.

Every single summer our family joined our town Pool. One of the bonuses of my home’s location was the pool was only one block away. This was a deal-sealer for our family membership each year as we could walk to the pool if need be, although if we went with mom it was pretty much a given we were taking the car. She had bad feet, and even the short walk to the pool would be enough to dissuade her from taking us for the afternoon.

The excitement of a pool membership started in the late spring, when you had to get your photo taken for your official LEONIA MUNICIPAL POOL badge, which was nothing more than a laminated square complete with your blurry, grinning photo and the requisite pin clasp. My mom would pin our badges to her garish, over-sized beach bag rather than poke holes in our bathing suits.

A day at the pool would start off with the walk or drive down our street and one block over. We were on Oakdene Avenue and the pool was on the corner of Moore and Grand Avenues, which was great because the pool was just so utterly accessible to us. It was not out of the ordinary for us to head to the pool at 6:00 on a Tuesday evening after dad got home from work. Or there were times when we would go at 10:00 a.m., come home for lunch, and then head back again at 3:00

Most trips to the pool were made shoe-less because it was one less thing you had to worry about. This posed only one problem…the pool parking lot. It was not paved back when I was a kid. It was gravel, but not the fine type of gravel; these rocks were pretty big and pretty sharp. Getting from the car to the pool’s walkway was a test of wills similar to walking over hot coals or broken glass.

Once you got to the entrance, you had to show your badges to the attendant and then you went through the often wet turn-style. After the turn-style and the subsequent chlorine assault on your nostrils, you had to divide up into boys and girls and head through your respective changing room: girls to the left and boys to the right. Once outside the changing rooms the T-shaped pool was before you.

The old, rickety, often rusty pool chairs

The pool was surrounded by a waist-high fence, and beyond that was grass where you laid your towel or placed your pool chair. Ah, the pool chairs. Kids usually just sat on a towel, but the throngs of parents and old-timers would opt for one of the rickety pool chairs that would be stacked along the back fence. Some kids would snag a bunch of chairs and make a fort or use and extra one for their feet, but would soon be scolded by one of the pool elders, resulting in the loss of their chairs.

Deciding where to place your towel at the pool depended on how old you were, and who your friends were. It was like the grassy areas were divided into little neighborhoods. There was a spot for families with small children, an area where the old timers sat, and an area for the teenagers. But the most spot I was most fearful of was the narrow strip of grass behind the diving boards.

Our pool had 3 diving boards; two standard height boards and a high dive which had to be at least 10 feet off the ground. With every trip to the pool, at least 1/4 of my time was spent going off the boards trying swan dives, cannon balls and various other mid-air tricks. But while you were waiting in line, you may be heckled and teased by the guys who frequented that grassy area behind the boards. They were the popular guys and the tough guys. The guys who got away with things. These were the guys who “hung out” uptown, smoking and drinking. Funniest of all is who knew I’d wind up married to one of those ruffians.

I remember standing in line waiting for my turn anxiously; trying to blend into the scenery unnoticed by this gang. I cannot recall one single thing they ever said to me, probably because I was so much younger than them. But I saw others berated and teased, and lived in fear of these boys. But even that fear could not keep me away from the diving boards.

At first I stuck to the low boards and perfected various different diving stunts: swan dive, cannon ball, twirl n’ jump, pike n’ toe touch. I would look at the high dive with respect and awe for quite some time. My dad would try to talk me into going off it, but I would have none of it until I was around 10. A really cute life guard finally convinced me to jump off. I never dove off that high dive, but a running jump did prove to be quite exhilarating.

Later when I was in high school, the pool was just a fun place to hang out because you never knew who would show up. Some days would be great with most of your friends hanging around. And those days were so much fun – it almost didn’t matter whether you were in or out of the water. While in the water you could dunk each other or race or show off on the diving boards. When it was adult swim you sat on towels getting a tan and sharing each others Coppertone (I used Ban de Soleil #4).

By the time evening came around you almost didn’t want to go home for dinner. And the next day you did it all over again – man it was a blast.

Yet here were my kids, at our community pool with nobody to horse around with but each other. I’m sure they don’t care. We go to the beach just as often as the pool and they almost always find kids they know there…usually 5 minutes before I’m ready to leave, which means I have to grant them a stay…”just one more hour puleeeeeze?“

You always want your kids to have it better than you did and in some ways they do – internet, DVRs, iPods. But I think I have my kids beat when it comes to summer vacations and long fun-filled days at the pool.