May your stockings be full, your fruit cakes fruity and your time off enjoyed!
HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A Puff of Smoke...
Legend has it that when I was born, I popped out accompanied with a puff of smoke, top hat, magician’s cape and cane – well, the hat, cape and cane are an exaggeration, but the smoke is NOT. To this day, my mom will gladly share this story with whoever will listen, and I personally can never hear it enough – according to her, immediately after a little Stephanie tapped danced into the world, the resident physician in the delivery room suddenly had a wide, gaping stare. Not knowing whether to be offended or scared, my mom demanded to know what was going on “down there” and the physician, who continued to stare in awe, kept asking the nurses around him, “did you see that?! Did you see that?! There was a puff of smoke!” Everyone just laughed it off and assumed that perhaps this delusional doctor has accidentally received some of the delivery pain medication, but he looked my mom straight in the eye and said directly, “I swear, I saw it.”
Since then, my life, however short it has been, has been chock full of medical mysteries with the puff smoking representing my eventual need to be my own magician to make pain and physical illness disappear. It has become an ongoing joke among my friends, family and colleagues how I seem to get hit with the most random, sometimes unknown, illnesses and medical issues. Most recently this week, I was diagnosed with a very cute (note the sarcasm) case of eczema that planted itself on the back of my neck and crept its way up into my scalp. Never before have I had any type of skin condition, let alone one that will require a lifetime of attention as eczema does, but lo and behold, I will forever have to worry about “flare-ups” of this malady on the nape of neck which looks like a deranged hickey. All I can say is thank God I’ve bagged myself a man, because the continued onset of my strange ailments is definitely not an attractive mating call.
Not too long before this eczema incident, I was perched on the exact same examining table because I had the most random, gruesome looking rash on my right hand. It was this isolated patch of skin that looked far more painful that it actually was and the strangest part is that my doctor couldn’t conclude what it was or what could have caused it – and now I’m left with a permanent scar of what could potentially have been a flesh eating disease transported from an African monkey who got loose in the plant where my hand lotion is manufactured. Alas, I have been unable to confirm this theory.
And who can forget my vertigo incident during college? I woke up one morning unable to stand straight and felt like I was trapped in a snow globe that was being violently shaken with no relief in sight. I soon found myself in the ER and it was determined that I caught the “vertigo virus”, which caused crystallized masses to form on my inner ear causing my balance to be thrown off. To remedy it, I was given a horse sized shot directly into my butt check, which to this day, I can still feel the burn from, and then the ER doc proceeded to shake my head to apparently dislodge these so called “crystals”. I then half excepted him to break out incense and a voodoo dance, but unfortunately, after another minute of jostling my noggin, he then only prescribed me ultra strength motion sickness medicine and told me I would feel like I was at sea for the next week or so. Ahoy.
And then there is my sleeping disorder and this is a fun one. Ever since I was a wee one, my mom would come to wake me up for the morning to find a G-rated crime scene... pillow cases would be off pillows, sheets would be wrapped around a bed post, beloved stuffed animals were catapulted across the room and there I would lay, distorted into a pretzel position, one sock on and the other being grasped in my little hand. At first, my parents assumed I was an “active sleeper” and would jokingly ask me who I “fought” in my sleep that night; however, this was the only the beginning of what become a diagnosed condition called “parasomnia”.
After years and years of being painfully exhausted and being granted my own king size bed on vacations because my entire family was too scared to share a bed with me knowing they would endure a night of violent kicking, my parents sent me to sleep clinic where it was found that my brain doesn’t emit the proper brain waves for deep, REM sleep. Basically, my mind is always awake even when my body is not, thus I physically act out dreams which result in extreme sleep walking and talking. And here’s a fun fact: In 1981 a Scottsdale, Arizona man was accused of murdering his wife with a kitchen knife and admitted to stabbing her 26 times, but claimed he did it in his sleep. After extensive sleep tests, it was proven that the man suffered from parasomnia and was found not guilty and walked away a free man. To my boyfriend: be afraid, be very afraid.
This is just a snapshot of my random ailments and I’m sure I have something brewing as we speak, which will soon rear its ugly head during another inconvenient time in my life. However, I take each ache and pain in stride always keeping in mind that afterall, I WAS born with a “puff of smoke”, so its only obvious that I was destined to handle such mystery in my life. And the magical support of my family and friends, along with a little humor, helps me face each mystery head on with my magician’s cape, hat and cane in tow.
Since then, my life, however short it has been, has been chock full of medical mysteries with the puff smoking representing my eventual need to be my own magician to make pain and physical illness disappear. It has become an ongoing joke among my friends, family and colleagues how I seem to get hit with the most random, sometimes unknown, illnesses and medical issues. Most recently this week, I was diagnosed with a very cute (note the sarcasm) case of eczema that planted itself on the back of my neck and crept its way up into my scalp. Never before have I had any type of skin condition, let alone one that will require a lifetime of attention as eczema does, but lo and behold, I will forever have to worry about “flare-ups” of this malady on the nape of neck which looks like a deranged hickey. All I can say is thank God I’ve bagged myself a man, because the continued onset of my strange ailments is definitely not an attractive mating call.
Not too long before this eczema incident, I was perched on the exact same examining table because I had the most random, gruesome looking rash on my right hand. It was this isolated patch of skin that looked far more painful that it actually was and the strangest part is that my doctor couldn’t conclude what it was or what could have caused it – and now I’m left with a permanent scar of what could potentially have been a flesh eating disease transported from an African monkey who got loose in the plant where my hand lotion is manufactured. Alas, I have been unable to confirm this theory.
And who can forget my vertigo incident during college? I woke up one morning unable to stand straight and felt like I was trapped in a snow globe that was being violently shaken with no relief in sight. I soon found myself in the ER and it was determined that I caught the “vertigo virus”, which caused crystallized masses to form on my inner ear causing my balance to be thrown off. To remedy it, I was given a horse sized shot directly into my butt check, which to this day, I can still feel the burn from, and then the ER doc proceeded to shake my head to apparently dislodge these so called “crystals”. I then half excepted him to break out incense and a voodoo dance, but unfortunately, after another minute of jostling my noggin, he then only prescribed me ultra strength motion sickness medicine and told me I would feel like I was at sea for the next week or so. Ahoy.
And then there is my sleeping disorder and this is a fun one. Ever since I was a wee one, my mom would come to wake me up for the morning to find a G-rated crime scene... pillow cases would be off pillows, sheets would be wrapped around a bed post, beloved stuffed animals were catapulted across the room and there I would lay, distorted into a pretzel position, one sock on and the other being grasped in my little hand. At first, my parents assumed I was an “active sleeper” and would jokingly ask me who I “fought” in my sleep that night; however, this was the only the beginning of what become a diagnosed condition called “parasomnia”.
After years and years of being painfully exhausted and being granted my own king size bed on vacations because my entire family was too scared to share a bed with me knowing they would endure a night of violent kicking, my parents sent me to sleep clinic where it was found that my brain doesn’t emit the proper brain waves for deep, REM sleep. Basically, my mind is always awake even when my body is not, thus I physically act out dreams which result in extreme sleep walking and talking. And here’s a fun fact: In 1981 a Scottsdale, Arizona man was accused of murdering his wife with a kitchen knife and admitted to stabbing her 26 times, but claimed he did it in his sleep. After extensive sleep tests, it was proven that the man suffered from parasomnia and was found not guilty and walked away a free man. To my boyfriend: be afraid, be very afraid.
This is just a snapshot of my random ailments and I’m sure I have something brewing as we speak, which will soon rear its ugly head during another inconvenient time in my life. However, I take each ache and pain in stride always keeping in mind that afterall, I WAS born with a “puff of smoke”, so its only obvious that I was destined to handle such mystery in my life. And the magical support of my family and friends, along with a little humor, helps me face each mystery head on with my magician’s cape, hat and cane in tow.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
A Hair Raising Transformation
I recently gave everyone a HAIR raising surprise... you guessed it... I dyed my hair, which has created an unanticipated stir. I swear, I could have come to work naked and people would have been less shocked, so this unforeseen response to my new do has made me question why hair is such a beloved entity in our society.
Admit it, you’ve cried at least once after getting a “bad” haircut and then cried some more when your mom told you “its just HAIR”. Just hair?! To most people, hair is a treasured possession that’s power must not be underestimated. And its not just women who obsess over their tresses –hair is something universal that people of any sex, race or age have (or have had) at some point, which is why I feel a majority of people get so attached to it.
If you want to see a public display of our societies’ obsession with hair, tune into any makeover show... when the fashion victims sit in a salon chair they act as if it’s an electric chair, crying about the fact that they are going to lose 3 feet of that horse’s tail they call a hairstyle, and as the stylist begins to snip away at their mane, they scream out in pain as if a dagger is stabbing through their heart. Hair has turned into something that identifies us – “dumb blonde”, “feisty red head”, “boring brunette”, the list goes on. I even jumped on the band wagon a few years back and bought a t-shirt that proudly dispels the “myth” and declares that “Brunettes Have More Fun”.
Born a dark brunette, my personal hair fixation started in high school, when I so desperately wanted to be a blonde because apparently blondes had is SO much better. To transform my look, I turned to every hair stylists’ worst nightmare: Sun-In. I used an entire bottle in about a week followed by a regimen of squeezing lemon juice all over my head as I fried myself in the sun to develop a tan to compliment my lighter locks – not only did my skin turn red from the UV rays and smell like a burnt piece of citrus, my hair turned a brassy orange; however, being the delusional 17 year old that I was, I thought I looked HOT... my mom, on the other hand, did not agree and with senior class pictures only weeks away, I was whisked away to the salon and forced to dye my hair a boring brown. Alas, my blonde ambitions were crushed.
After that experience, I decided to leave the fate of my hair in the hands of professionals and for the past six years of my life, my hair has been on a color rollercoaster, mostly staying in the spectrum between a dirty blonde and a lighter brunette; however, a few weeks ago, I decided I was fed up with the cost of maintaining my unnatural color and even more importantly, I wanted to give my hair a break from the color abuse it has endured for years... I feel like Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, but instead of beating my locks with a hanger, my cruelty tool of choice is a brush saturated in bleach followed by foils and extreme heat. This hurts me more than it hurts you, damaged hair.
So I went back to my natural roots, well, I smidge darker than natural, and BOY did I get a reaction, which is to be expected because one day I’m “Sunny Stephanie” and the next I’m, “Stephanie: Dark Seductress”. Some people liked it immediately, while others reacted with an “OH” paired with undertones of I’m not sure its “YOU”, when little do they know that this natural color couldn’t be more “ME”, literally. I will admit that the reaction to my apparent “hair” raising change was a little disappointing only because when you make a beauty transformation, you’re hoping for a better response – it’s like walking down the aisle on your wedding day and people saying “OH.”
But soon enough, my dry, abused hair will slowly begin to fade as it sucks up the dye faster than a Dyson in a dust storm, and I’m sure the novelty of my natural color will also begin to fade and I’ll be back to being Mommie Dearest, forcing my hair to endure the vain pain of achieving a color that was never wired in my DNA. What a vicious cycle, but as I spend years of my life changing my hair color, balding men will spend years investing in hair growth fads, gray hairs will continue to be plucked and people with an attachment to their long locks will fight off scissors with an eternal passion.
Hair is so many things to so many people – it can be a canvas, a statement, a security blanket or a burden – hair is seems to be the one thing we all have in common, so the fixation society has with it is only natural... just like my hair color.
Admit it, you’ve cried at least once after getting a “bad” haircut and then cried some more when your mom told you “its just HAIR”. Just hair?! To most people, hair is a treasured possession that’s power must not be underestimated. And its not just women who obsess over their tresses –hair is something universal that people of any sex, race or age have (or have had) at some point, which is why I feel a majority of people get so attached to it.
If you want to see a public display of our societies’ obsession with hair, tune into any makeover show... when the fashion victims sit in a salon chair they act as if it’s an electric chair, crying about the fact that they are going to lose 3 feet of that horse’s tail they call a hairstyle, and as the stylist begins to snip away at their mane, they scream out in pain as if a dagger is stabbing through their heart. Hair has turned into something that identifies us – “dumb blonde”, “feisty red head”, “boring brunette”, the list goes on. I even jumped on the band wagon a few years back and bought a t-shirt that proudly dispels the “myth” and declares that “Brunettes Have More Fun”.
Born a dark brunette, my personal hair fixation started in high school, when I so desperately wanted to be a blonde because apparently blondes had is SO much better. To transform my look, I turned to every hair stylists’ worst nightmare: Sun-In. I used an entire bottle in about a week followed by a regimen of squeezing lemon juice all over my head as I fried myself in the sun to develop a tan to compliment my lighter locks – not only did my skin turn red from the UV rays and smell like a burnt piece of citrus, my hair turned a brassy orange; however, being the delusional 17 year old that I was, I thought I looked HOT... my mom, on the other hand, did not agree and with senior class pictures only weeks away, I was whisked away to the salon and forced to dye my hair a boring brown. Alas, my blonde ambitions were crushed.
After that experience, I decided to leave the fate of my hair in the hands of professionals and for the past six years of my life, my hair has been on a color rollercoaster, mostly staying in the spectrum between a dirty blonde and a lighter brunette; however, a few weeks ago, I decided I was fed up with the cost of maintaining my unnatural color and even more importantly, I wanted to give my hair a break from the color abuse it has endured for years... I feel like Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, but instead of beating my locks with a hanger, my cruelty tool of choice is a brush saturated in bleach followed by foils and extreme heat. This hurts me more than it hurts you, damaged hair.
So I went back to my natural roots, well, I smidge darker than natural, and BOY did I get a reaction, which is to be expected because one day I’m “Sunny Stephanie” and the next I’m, “Stephanie: Dark Seductress”. Some people liked it immediately, while others reacted with an “OH” paired with undertones of I’m not sure its “YOU”, when little do they know that this natural color couldn’t be more “ME”, literally. I will admit that the reaction to my apparent “hair” raising change was a little disappointing only because when you make a beauty transformation, you’re hoping for a better response – it’s like walking down the aisle on your wedding day and people saying “OH.”
But soon enough, my dry, abused hair will slowly begin to fade as it sucks up the dye faster than a Dyson in a dust storm, and I’m sure the novelty of my natural color will also begin to fade and I’ll be back to being Mommie Dearest, forcing my hair to endure the vain pain of achieving a color that was never wired in my DNA. What a vicious cycle, but as I spend years of my life changing my hair color, balding men will spend years investing in hair growth fads, gray hairs will continue to be plucked and people with an attachment to their long locks will fight off scissors with an eternal passion.
Hair is so many things to so many people – it can be a canvas, a statement, a security blanket or a burden – hair is seems to be the one thing we all have in common, so the fixation society has with it is only natural... just like my hair color.
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Ugly Christmas Sweater - Your Joke, Someone Else's Favorite Outfit
As the holiday season rolls on, a few of my friends have gone to “Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties”... you know, those parties that require you to put on your holiday finest, shoulder pads and all. There you stand, winter cocktail in hand, sporting a wool blend died a vibrant red and green with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer smiling at fellow party goers who have also adorned themselves in pure holiday tackiness.
These parties always make for a good, festive laugh, but the more pictures I see of my friends wearing obnoxious, oversized Christmas sweaters (paired with equally obnoxious jingle bell accessories), I wonder what the people who SERIOUSLY wear those ugly Christmas sweaters think about the drunken mocking of their fashion sense, because to them, those sweaters aren’t ugly, they are pieces of holiday spirit embodied in the form of a turtle neck or cardigan, something to be cherished and not ridiculed.
I personally was once a proud owner of an infamous “ugly Christmas sweater” and at the time (circa 1995) I would have been considered a part of the “serious” Christmas sweater wearing population. My fashion ode to the holiday was a cardigan made of a heavy wool, died a kelly green, adorned with little bears wearing Santa hats throwing snowballs at one another, which were represented in high-tech 3D with little cotton balls glued onto the fabric. Those interactive snowballs really made the sweater - what a cutting edge look.
As I wore my Christmas sweater with pride that year, I don’t think I would have ever guessed that I would be digging for it over a decade later just to mock it. If I had grown up to be the type of person who found Christmas sweaters as an appropriate fashion statement, I think I would be down right offended by those who hosted parties poking fun at my decision to wear snowball-throwing bears in homage of the season. (Unfortunately, I recently remembered that I had willingly donated my festive sweater to charity a few years back, so although I won’t be a hit at any upcoming holiday gathering, at least I can take solace in knowing that I made someone a lot less fortunate, a lot more tacky.)
A friend of mine, who recently donned a tacky ensemble for an “Ugly Christmas Sweater Party”, showed her mom the obnoxious garb she was planning to wear and her mom’s response? “I don’t get it.” Her mom found the sweater to be “cute” and “seasonal”; however, my friend would be sporting this “cute”, “seasonal” sweater to a gathering of people intoxicated by large quantities of egg nog and peppermint Schnapps, which would only help fuel the jokes that serious ugly Christmas sweater wearers must endure behind their bright, gaudy, holiday infused backs.
I feel that those people who wear holiday sweaters are similar to those people who are keeping the mullet alive, but fortunately enough, ugly Christmas sweater wearers only fall victim to fashion during the holidays, while mullet models tend to display their allegiance to the “business in the front, party in the back” hairstyle 365 days a year. But who I am to judge?! I’m sure somewhere there is party being hosted right now by ugly Christmas sweater wearing/mullet sporting people who find my conservative tastes more bland than a wool holiday cardigan not wired with blinking lights.
So whatever you do, please wear your holiday sweaters responsibly this season and remember that what is your joke, may be someone’s favorite outfit. And to whoever is wearing my wool, snowball-throwing bear cardigan this holiday, please be as kind to it as it was to me.
These parties always make for a good, festive laugh, but the more pictures I see of my friends wearing obnoxious, oversized Christmas sweaters (paired with equally obnoxious jingle bell accessories), I wonder what the people who SERIOUSLY wear those ugly Christmas sweaters think about the drunken mocking of their fashion sense, because to them, those sweaters aren’t ugly, they are pieces of holiday spirit embodied in the form of a turtle neck or cardigan, something to be cherished and not ridiculed.
I personally was once a proud owner of an infamous “ugly Christmas sweater” and at the time (circa 1995) I would have been considered a part of the “serious” Christmas sweater wearing population. My fashion ode to the holiday was a cardigan made of a heavy wool, died a kelly green, adorned with little bears wearing Santa hats throwing snowballs at one another, which were represented in high-tech 3D with little cotton balls glued onto the fabric. Those interactive snowballs really made the sweater - what a cutting edge look.
As I wore my Christmas sweater with pride that year, I don’t think I would have ever guessed that I would be digging for it over a decade later just to mock it. If I had grown up to be the type of person who found Christmas sweaters as an appropriate fashion statement, I think I would be down right offended by those who hosted parties poking fun at my decision to wear snowball-throwing bears in homage of the season. (Unfortunately, I recently remembered that I had willingly donated my festive sweater to charity a few years back, so although I won’t be a hit at any upcoming holiday gathering, at least I can take solace in knowing that I made someone a lot less fortunate, a lot more tacky.)
A friend of mine, who recently donned a tacky ensemble for an “Ugly Christmas Sweater Party”, showed her mom the obnoxious garb she was planning to wear and her mom’s response? “I don’t get it.” Her mom found the sweater to be “cute” and “seasonal”; however, my friend would be sporting this “cute”, “seasonal” sweater to a gathering of people intoxicated by large quantities of egg nog and peppermint Schnapps, which would only help fuel the jokes that serious ugly Christmas sweater wearers must endure behind their bright, gaudy, holiday infused backs.
I feel that those people who wear holiday sweaters are similar to those people who are keeping the mullet alive, but fortunately enough, ugly Christmas sweater wearers only fall victim to fashion during the holidays, while mullet models tend to display their allegiance to the “business in the front, party in the back” hairstyle 365 days a year. But who I am to judge?! I’m sure somewhere there is party being hosted right now by ugly Christmas sweater wearing/mullet sporting people who find my conservative tastes more bland than a wool holiday cardigan not wired with blinking lights.
So whatever you do, please wear your holiday sweaters responsibly this season and remember that what is your joke, may be someone’s favorite outfit. And to whoever is wearing my wool, snowball-throwing bear cardigan this holiday, please be as kind to it as it was to me.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Blog Must Go On!
My loyal readers and fans (all 12 of you) -
As you may have noticed, my recent posts have not been as frequent nor have they been as clever and thought provoking as past entries (okay, I know my posts aren't THAT great, but admit it, you've had some good laughs over the past couple months listening to Stejamoe speak - am I right? Am I right? Huh?).
I must confess that the past couple of weeks have been an tornado of wrapping paper, work deadlines, gift basket making, snow advisories and car issues, which have kept me from thinking about anything clever, consequently preventing me from cleverly blogging! However, adding to my whirlwind of stresses, are the constant reminders I get from you, my loyal readers and fans, that the show must go on and demand to be entertained!
So to satiate some your appetites for the weekend, I must take the easy way out and share something I received via email that gave me a good giggle. I promise I will be back in action and better than ever soon!
(My personal favorite is #6)
-------------------------------------------------------
Ten Rules for Getting Through the Holidays:
1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.
2. Drink as much eggnog as you can; and quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-aholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!
3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.
4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.
5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?
6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's.You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.
7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.
8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?
9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.
10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Reread tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.
Remember this motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand,eggnog in the other, body thoroughly used up,totally worn out and screaming"WOO HOO what a ride!"
As you may have noticed, my recent posts have not been as frequent nor have they been as clever and thought provoking as past entries (okay, I know my posts aren't THAT great, but admit it, you've had some good laughs over the past couple months listening to Stejamoe speak - am I right? Am I right? Huh?).
I must confess that the past couple of weeks have been an tornado of wrapping paper, work deadlines, gift basket making, snow advisories and car issues, which have kept me from thinking about anything clever, consequently preventing me from cleverly blogging! However, adding to my whirlwind of stresses, are the constant reminders I get from you, my loyal readers and fans, that the show must go on and demand to be entertained!
So to satiate some your appetites for the weekend, I must take the easy way out and share something I received via email that gave me a good giggle. I promise I will be back in action and better than ever soon!
(My personal favorite is #6)
-------------------------------------------------------
Ten Rules for Getting Through the Holidays:
1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.
2. Drink as much eggnog as you can; and quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-aholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!
3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.
4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.
5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?
6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's.You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.
7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.
8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?
9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.
10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Reread tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.
Remember this motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand,eggnog in the other, body thoroughly used up,totally worn out and screaming"WOO HOO what a ride!"
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
"Anyone Have $.25?"
I went to school in Madison, Wisconsin, which has to be hands down the homeless capital of the world.
(Side note: Is it just me or is that strange? I’ve grown up in the Midwest my entire life and braved my share of winter storms, but nothing and I mean NOTHING, can prepare you for the winters of Wisconsin, which seem to last unusually long. It wasn’t until I started college that I understood the purpose of sweat shirt hoods, long underwear and gloves underneath mittens, but somehow homeless individuals like to establish themselves in this town where “Flip Cup” isn’t played because its fun, it’s played because the competitive beer game keeps you warm – more or less, heavy drinking in Madison is a way of winter survival.)
Anyway, the homeless population in my college town was a staple to our campus as students always had their favorite pan handler, and looking back on things, a college town, filled with preppy, often drunk kids willing to drop crisp bills at bar time with the cajoling of their equally drunk counterparts, is a very smart place for a down-and-out individual to plant their destitute roots.
I remember my favorite Madison pan handler – we called him “Anyone Have $.25 Guy”. He was a portly gentleman, about 5 feet 5 inches, who always wore baseball-like pants with knee socks. He would roam campus holding a brief case completely covered in black duct tape and would only say one phrase, “anyone have $.25?”. I personally liked him because he was no nonsense – first, he was only asking for a modest $.25 while others would corner you for 5 bucks and second, he gave no sob story and no excuses, he just laid it out there, asking for a quarter – take it or leave it.
About four years ago, right about this time of year, some close friends and I, who all had penchant for “Anyone Have $.25 Guy”, took a Styrofoam cup and filled it up with all the spare change we could find to give to our beloved campus pan handler. We dug up about 8 bucks in change, and wanted to deliver the holiday surprise before heading home for Winter break.
As we combed the streets searching for our baseball pant wearing street dweller, we saw him through a window at Pizza Hut counting pennies on the counter as an impatient employee rolled his eyes in disgust. And then, just like the Fantastic Four, my friends and I swooped into Pizza Hut, slammed the change filled cup on the counter and said, “Merry Christmas - this meal is on us!” (Actually, if I remember correctly, we were all a little unsettled by the fact that we spent about 30 minutes stalking a homeless man, so I think we just set down the cup and ran. Either way, we made our delivery, and “Anyone Have $.25 Guy” had a hot meal that night.)
And get this... the next day, we saw him standing in his usual spot, pizza stains on his shirt, asking, “Anyone have 8 bucks of change?” Just Kidding! Wouldn’t that be funny though?
I write about this memory because a) I just think it’s funny envisioning 4 college girls searching the streets of Madison for a homeless man, and b) as the winter weather hovers over the Midwest ready to pounce with frigid temperatures and buckets of snow, it’s always nice to remember how lucky you are to have a roof over your head, and although you most likely do not want to support the lifestyle of those who make the street their home, remember that during this season it can’t hurt to give someone in need just a modest $.25.
(Side note: Is it just me or is that strange? I’ve grown up in the Midwest my entire life and braved my share of winter storms, but nothing and I mean NOTHING, can prepare you for the winters of Wisconsin, which seem to last unusually long. It wasn’t until I started college that I understood the purpose of sweat shirt hoods, long underwear and gloves underneath mittens, but somehow homeless individuals like to establish themselves in this town where “Flip Cup” isn’t played because its fun, it’s played because the competitive beer game keeps you warm – more or less, heavy drinking in Madison is a way of winter survival.)
Anyway, the homeless population in my college town was a staple to our campus as students always had their favorite pan handler, and looking back on things, a college town, filled with preppy, often drunk kids willing to drop crisp bills at bar time with the cajoling of their equally drunk counterparts, is a very smart place for a down-and-out individual to plant their destitute roots.
I remember my favorite Madison pan handler – we called him “Anyone Have $.25 Guy”. He was a portly gentleman, about 5 feet 5 inches, who always wore baseball-like pants with knee socks. He would roam campus holding a brief case completely covered in black duct tape and would only say one phrase, “anyone have $.25?”. I personally liked him because he was no nonsense – first, he was only asking for a modest $.25 while others would corner you for 5 bucks and second, he gave no sob story and no excuses, he just laid it out there, asking for a quarter – take it or leave it.
About four years ago, right about this time of year, some close friends and I, who all had penchant for “Anyone Have $.25 Guy”, took a Styrofoam cup and filled it up with all the spare change we could find to give to our beloved campus pan handler. We dug up about 8 bucks in change, and wanted to deliver the holiday surprise before heading home for Winter break.
As we combed the streets searching for our baseball pant wearing street dweller, we saw him through a window at Pizza Hut counting pennies on the counter as an impatient employee rolled his eyes in disgust. And then, just like the Fantastic Four, my friends and I swooped into Pizza Hut, slammed the change filled cup on the counter and said, “Merry Christmas - this meal is on us!” (Actually, if I remember correctly, we were all a little unsettled by the fact that we spent about 30 minutes stalking a homeless man, so I think we just set down the cup and ran. Either way, we made our delivery, and “Anyone Have $.25 Guy” had a hot meal that night.)
And get this... the next day, we saw him standing in his usual spot, pizza stains on his shirt, asking, “Anyone have 8 bucks of change?” Just Kidding! Wouldn’t that be funny though?
I write about this memory because a) I just think it’s funny envisioning 4 college girls searching the streets of Madison for a homeless man, and b) as the winter weather hovers over the Midwest ready to pounce with frigid temperatures and buckets of snow, it’s always nice to remember how lucky you are to have a roof over your head, and although you most likely do not want to support the lifestyle of those who make the street their home, remember that during this season it can’t hurt to give someone in need just a modest $.25.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Elf Yourself!
It was just like any other Monday. I got into work, signed online, checked my personal email... and then was greeted by me and three of my closest friends dressed in elf costumes breaking it down to a holiday tune.
If you haven't tried this yet, you're missing out!
http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9615545374
If you haven't tried this yet, you're missing out!
http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9615545374
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Party Formally Known as NYE
The last remaining bits of Thanksgiving dinner are being re-heated for the final time and the chaos of "Black Friday" and "Cyber Monday" are just mere memories of terror and retail havoc. The holidays are officially in full swing, but gone are the days of obsessively talking about decorations and gifts as the current hot topic is, "What are YOU doing for New Year's Eve?!"
To me, this discussion seems pre-mature, but then again I'm no expert because I don't even know the "lingo" that surrounds the festive, booze drenched night. Need an example of my novice status? A high school friend recently emailed me and the subject line of the note was, "NYE". My first thought? She must be traveling to New York City and mistyped. I'm not even kidding. Once I was able to decipher the mysterious code, we had a conversation about our plans and she "gasped" in disgust via email with the infamous and always mocking ":-O", as I told her I had not really thought about...
Ah, the ever popular New Year's Eve party. For the past few weeks hotels, bars and other venues that can accommodate hundreds of drunk, sweaty gropers, have been soliciting "all you can drink and eat" party tickets starting at about $100 a pop. Based on my previous experience, these NYE (see, I'm hip with the lingo now) hot spots seem to have taken it upon themselves to redefine the term "ALL" as they serve watered down drinks and remnants of what used to be appetizers. You stand in a line for the bar to get the most of your 100 bucks along with 526 people, 3 of whom you actually recognize and 523 of whom you hope won't engage you in drunk conversation, just to get in front of an overworked bartender instructed to keep the booze light and the mixers heavy.
As you chug 12 sequential cocktails, in hopes that the combined 2 shots of liquor in them will somehow go straight to your head so "THAT clingy girl" or "THAT sweat stained guy" doesn't annoy you as much, you find yourself hungry and see what looks like a battle ground with the remains of defenseless cheap appetizers, pillaged by aggressive, drunk gluttons. There, laying on hot turned room temperature serving trays, are a few pigs without their blankets and some stray, browning garnish - yum.
Now it's approaching midnight - you're tired from standing for hours on end in the drink line only to be served what tastes like a vodka tonic without vodka... your stomach is growling after being beaten by the masses to the food and that stray, browning garnish is sadly starting to look appetizing... you have been groped by a multitude of strangers wearing those "2008" sunglasses with the "00" for the eyes... then you realize that you lost your "group". The people you came with are lost in a sea of sparkly top hats, party horns and noise makers. You don't recognize anyone and begin to wonder how these strangers became so drunk if you were all being served the same drinks. [SIDE NOTE: A crucial part of going to one of these NYE parties, and something that these venues rely on, is PRE-drinking, so that when you arrive to the destination, you are so blitzed that you don't even know what year it is or what year its going to be, making you less likely to be annoyed by the masses and in turn, less likely to complain about the weak drinks and blanket-less pigs.]
And then... 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1... HAPPY... "who's that touching my butt?!", "no, I won't kiss you, creep!", "where is my boyfriend?!", "is that him kissing that blond bimbo in the corner?!" What a night.
I realize this is a very biased opinion and I'm not trying to insult those loyal NYE party goers as I know that if you mix the right friends with the right place at the right price, you'll have a blast no matter what. I believe it was Prince who said it best, "We're running out of time, so tonight I'm gonna party like its 1999". So make like it's 1999 and enjoy the festivities whether you're at a bar, a hotel, a back alley or face down, passed out on your lawn because to each its own for the party formally known as NYE.
To me, this discussion seems pre-mature, but then again I'm no expert because I don't even know the "lingo" that surrounds the festive, booze drenched night. Need an example of my novice status? A high school friend recently emailed me and the subject line of the note was, "NYE". My first thought? She must be traveling to New York City and mistyped. I'm not even kidding. Once I was able to decipher the mysterious code, we had a conversation about our plans and she "gasped" in disgust via email with the infamous and always mocking ":-O", as I told her I had not really thought about...
Ah, the ever popular New Year's Eve party. For the past few weeks hotels, bars and other venues that can accommodate hundreds of drunk, sweaty gropers, have been soliciting "all you can drink and eat" party tickets starting at about $100 a pop. Based on my previous experience, these NYE (see, I'm hip with the lingo now) hot spots seem to have taken it upon themselves to redefine the term "ALL" as they serve watered down drinks and remnants of what used to be appetizers. You stand in a line for the bar to get the most of your 100 bucks along with 526 people, 3 of whom you actually recognize and 523 of whom you hope won't engage you in drunk conversation, just to get in front of an overworked bartender instructed to keep the booze light and the mixers heavy.
As you chug 12 sequential cocktails, in hopes that the combined 2 shots of liquor in them will somehow go straight to your head so "THAT clingy girl" or "THAT sweat stained guy" doesn't annoy you as much, you find yourself hungry and see what looks like a battle ground with the remains of defenseless cheap appetizers, pillaged by aggressive, drunk gluttons. There, laying on hot turned room temperature serving trays, are a few pigs without their blankets and some stray, browning garnish - yum.
Now it's approaching midnight - you're tired from standing for hours on end in the drink line only to be served what tastes like a vodka tonic without vodka... your stomach is growling after being beaten by the masses to the food and that stray, browning garnish is sadly starting to look appetizing... you have been groped by a multitude of strangers wearing those "2008" sunglasses with the "00" for the eyes... then you realize that you lost your "group". The people you came with are lost in a sea of sparkly top hats, party horns and noise makers. You don't recognize anyone and begin to wonder how these strangers became so drunk if you were all being served the same drinks. [SIDE NOTE: A crucial part of going to one of these NYE parties, and something that these venues rely on, is PRE-drinking, so that when you arrive to the destination, you are so blitzed that you don't even know what year it is or what year its going to be, making you less likely to be annoyed by the masses and in turn, less likely to complain about the weak drinks and blanket-less pigs.]
And then... 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1... HAPPY... "who's that touching my butt?!", "no, I won't kiss you, creep!", "where is my boyfriend?!", "is that him kissing that blond bimbo in the corner?!" What a night.
I realize this is a very biased opinion and I'm not trying to insult those loyal NYE party goers as I know that if you mix the right friends with the right place at the right price, you'll have a blast no matter what. I believe it was Prince who said it best, "We're running out of time, so tonight I'm gonna party like its 1999". So make like it's 1999 and enjoy the festivities whether you're at a bar, a hotel, a back alley or face down, passed out on your lawn because to each its own for the party formally known as NYE.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Granddaughter by Choice, Not Force
As I sit in my office chair doing my daily "clenches" (i.e. flexing my cheeks and sucking in my stomach) to work off the calories from the holiday weekend (I think this is a proven method of exercise that I will write a book about in the near future, "Clenching at Your Desk: Flexing Equals Burning"), I would like to acknowledge those grandparents in my life who have "adopted" me over the years as I had a full weekend of both happiness and tragedy.
I grew up with a limited amount of "old people" in my life. I used to refer to the aging population in such a politically incorrect way only because by the time I was born, two out of my four blood grandparents had passed away and another when I was only four years old. My remaining biological grandparent was a wonderful woman, but somewhat distant from our family and has also since passed, so as a young child, I didn't really understand what it was to have a grandma or grandpa, thus "old people" were often thought of as scary and unfamiliar in my pig tail-sporting head. However, as the years passed and my pig tails turned into highlighted, chemically straightening locks, very special, "mature" individuals, opened their hearts and gave me the chance to be something that I otherwise would never get the chance to be - a granddaughter.
Growing up with a short supply of blood relatives, my parents have made a commendable effort to grow our immediate family with the love and support of close friends. I have some wonderful "aunts" and "uncles" who are actually just my parents' dear companions who have so graciously taken me in as a niece, no questions asked. These "relatives" are so close to me and have been in my life for so long, that I often forget that I'm not actually in their bloodline and find myself commenting on how I look like a "cousin", when in reality, I'm just as related to Angelina Jolie as I am to them (unfortunately, I did not get "Cousin Angelina's" lips and hot bod - damn).
With my parents' friends come their own parents, who over the years, have filled the grandpa/grandma void in my life. I also have been blessed and been adopted by my boyfriend's grandma who is the youngest 90 year old woman I have ever met and has truly redefined what it means to age. Its people like her that make me realize that it doesn't matter who you're related to; its the people who make the effort to love you who deserve the title "family" regardless of blood ties, and I feel so blessed to be considered a "granddaughter" to people who truly don't NEED to love me, but do anyway out of the goodness of their heart.
One of those special people who loved me because they wanted to and not because they "had" to, and who I affectionately referred to as "grandma", passed away this weekend, leaving a void in so many people's hearts. Her passing did not come as a surprise only because she suffered from failing health, but like any death, its still a tragedy and I have lost yet another grandparent.
The same day this specific grandma passed away, I spent the evening enjoying holiday lights with an 80 something who is a close family friend of my boyfriend and who has quickly become another person who treats me like a grandchild. It was a bittersweet moment because as I spent the evening enjoying her company, I was mourning the loss of someone who meant a lot to my family and it made my realize that although I technically do not have grandparents, I'm surrounded by so many people who I can affectionately give the title to, which at times, seems almost more special than plain biologcial bonds.
So as the holiday season rolls on and I celebrate the time of year with one less person, I'm reminded that I have been blessed to have been chosen by so many remarkable people who I can proudly call family.
R.I.P Grandma Grace.
I grew up with a limited amount of "old people" in my life. I used to refer to the aging population in such a politically incorrect way only because by the time I was born, two out of my four blood grandparents had passed away and another when I was only four years old. My remaining biological grandparent was a wonderful woman, but somewhat distant from our family and has also since passed, so as a young child, I didn't really understand what it was to have a grandma or grandpa, thus "old people" were often thought of as scary and unfamiliar in my pig tail-sporting head. However, as the years passed and my pig tails turned into highlighted, chemically straightening locks, very special, "mature" individuals, opened their hearts and gave me the chance to be something that I otherwise would never get the chance to be - a granddaughter.
Growing up with a short supply of blood relatives, my parents have made a commendable effort to grow our immediate family with the love and support of close friends. I have some wonderful "aunts" and "uncles" who are actually just my parents' dear companions who have so graciously taken me in as a niece, no questions asked. These "relatives" are so close to me and have been in my life for so long, that I often forget that I'm not actually in their bloodline and find myself commenting on how I look like a "cousin", when in reality, I'm just as related to Angelina Jolie as I am to them (unfortunately, I did not get "Cousin Angelina's" lips and hot bod - damn).
With my parents' friends come their own parents, who over the years, have filled the grandpa/grandma void in my life. I also have been blessed and been adopted by my boyfriend's grandma who is the youngest 90 year old woman I have ever met and has truly redefined what it means to age. Its people like her that make me realize that it doesn't matter who you're related to; its the people who make the effort to love you who deserve the title "family" regardless of blood ties, and I feel so blessed to be considered a "granddaughter" to people who truly don't NEED to love me, but do anyway out of the goodness of their heart.
One of those special people who loved me because they wanted to and not because they "had" to, and who I affectionately referred to as "grandma", passed away this weekend, leaving a void in so many people's hearts. Her passing did not come as a surprise only because she suffered from failing health, but like any death, its still a tragedy and I have lost yet another grandparent.
The same day this specific grandma passed away, I spent the evening enjoying holiday lights with an 80 something who is a close family friend of my boyfriend and who has quickly become another person who treats me like a grandchild. It was a bittersweet moment because as I spent the evening enjoying her company, I was mourning the loss of someone who meant a lot to my family and it made my realize that although I technically do not have grandparents, I'm surrounded by so many people who I can affectionately give the title to, which at times, seems almost more special than plain biologcial bonds.
So as the holiday season rolls on and I celebrate the time of year with one less person, I'm reminded that I have been blessed to have been chosen by so many remarkable people who I can proudly call family.
R.I.P Grandma Grace.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Soundtrack to Your Life: "Who's that Girl?"
If you could have a boom box follow you around in your day to day life, what song would be blasting from the speakers? If you could pick a soundtrack to represent your life, what would it be?
A very dear, close, crazy friend of mine would always ask me this question when we were in college and we would laugh about the various tunes that would represent our lives. She said that her life's anthem would revolve around Eve's "Who's That Girl" and envisioned Flavor Flav following her down campus streets, with a 1981 boom box perched on his shoulder blasting THE song that represented her life. She always blared it through her headphones whenever she dominated an exam and in some cases, even when she didn't do so well, just to remind her that she's DA GIRL and nothing could break her stride.
These late night conversations about the soundtrack to our lives with my dear, close, crazy friend are some of my favorite college memories, and at the time, I found the concept to be kind of bizarre and just truly a funny thing to think about with a glass a wine. At the risk of sounding cliche, my college experience was truly the best four years of my life (so far) and if I had to pick a song that would represent those years it would be difficult. Was it Prince who wrote, "My Life is Really Great and I Don't Want to Graduate"? No? I didn't think so either.
It wasn't until I graduated and started my full-time job that my life's soundtrack unfolded and for the past 1.5 years, I have been compiling "My Life's Greatest Hits: 1.5". Just like Jock Jams and Now That's What I Call Music, this soundtrack is just one of many editions to come, because unlike my dear, close, crazy friend, who was able to nail down THE song that represented her life, I have found that my life requires many tunes - some accompanied by Flavor Flav holding a boom box, whiles others need to be paired with Celine Dion and a sold out crowd.
Below is what version "1.5" looks like for me (with the holidays approaching, this soundtrack would make a great stocking stuffer):
A very dear, close, crazy friend of mine would always ask me this question when we were in college and we would laugh about the various tunes that would represent our lives. She said that her life's anthem would revolve around Eve's "Who's That Girl" and envisioned Flavor Flav following her down campus streets, with a 1981 boom box perched on his shoulder blasting THE song that represented her life. She always blared it through her headphones whenever she dominated an exam and in some cases, even when she didn't do so well, just to remind her that she's DA GIRL and nothing could break her stride.
These late night conversations about the soundtrack to our lives with my dear, close, crazy friend are some of my favorite college memories, and at the time, I found the concept to be kind of bizarre and just truly a funny thing to think about with a glass a wine. At the risk of sounding cliche, my college experience was truly the best four years of my life (so far) and if I had to pick a song that would represent those years it would be difficult. Was it Prince who wrote, "My Life is Really Great and I Don't Want to Graduate"? No? I didn't think so either.
It wasn't until I graduated and started my full-time job that my life's soundtrack unfolded and for the past 1.5 years, I have been compiling "My Life's Greatest Hits: 1.5". Just like Jock Jams and Now That's What I Call Music, this soundtrack is just one of many editions to come, because unlike my dear, close, crazy friend, who was able to nail down THE song that represented her life, I have found that my life requires many tunes - some accompanied by Flavor Flav holding a boom box, whiles others need to be paired with Celine Dion and a sold out crowd.
Below is what version "1.5" looks like for me (with the holidays approaching, this soundtrack would make a great stocking stuffer):
- Say it Ain't So by Weezer - "WHAT?! So you're saying I have to graduate and get a job?!" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YU7LZts87Zg)
- Gotta Get Thru This by David Bedingfield - This was my pump up song to shake off the post graduation blues and its techno beat would inspire me during my 6 am commute.(http://homepage.ntlworld.com/gary.hart/lyricsb/bedingfield.html)
- Bad Day by Daniel Powter - Um, yeah. This song was my anthem for a while; I was missing my college friends and I was trying to get used to the real world. If you couldn't find me in the phone book it was because I was going by "Debbie Downer" at the time. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIcFgl6zf3A)
- Crazy by Gnarls Barkley - I think I just lost my damn mind for a moment or two. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bd2B6SjMh_w)
- Ain't No Mountain High Enough preformed by Diana Ross - I was finally coming to terms with life after college and succeeding at my career; the fact that I had a "career" was an accomplishment and I started to get a little skip in my step knowing that I could really beat the odds. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ain)
- Home by Michael Buble - I was traveling a lot for while and I would listen to this song as I looked out the airplane window - I kid you not. I know, I'm lame. But it was when I was listening to this song, missing home, that I realized that my life truly had a soundtrack. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDQnkYwfNfk)
- Suddenly I See by KT Tunstall - Call it breakthrough. Call it breakdown. Call it whatever you want. I suddenly saw that life goes on after college and actually can be just as great. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-At6avvY_4)
- SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Oh, yeah - my Sexy was Back! Well, I don't know if it ever actually left... but I just felt the need to include JT in my compilation. (http://www.completealbumlyrics.com/lyric/130587/Justin+Timberlake+-+Sexyback.html)
- Glamorous by Fergie - I was finding ways to spice up my life,and have been living G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S life every since, or at least trying to! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOQvcMLll4E)
- Who's That Girl by Eve - In honor of my dear, close, crazy friend, the last song on the soundtrack to my life, edition 1.5, is dedicated to her for making me realize that no matter how down you can be, you can't help but to smile if you think of Flavor Flav following you with a boom box, playing THE song that represents your life.(http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/eve/whosthatgirl.html)
So, what's YOUR life's soundtrack?
Monday, November 19, 2007
Maybe it was the post. Maybe it was the Baileys in her coffee. Maybe it was the Giving Tree.
My last blog post was about the early arrival of the holidays and how my mom, aka "the love child of Martha Stewart and Scrooge", so desperately wished that twinkling lights and Christmas sales would postpone their appearance until after Thanksgiving. Fed up with the stress the holidays bring, which is common for so many good hosts, she often found herself resenting the early onset of Christmas carols and decorations instead of embracing them...
... then something happened...
Maybe it was the post. Maybe it was the baileys in her coffee. No matter what it was exactly, my mom oozed Rockette-like Christmas spirit this past weekend as we braved the stores, ignoring the neurotic pre-holiday shoppers and leisurely strolled from shop to shop, getting giddy at the sight of decorations and bargain buys (obviously, we decided to omit the whole kick line thing - I'm not as limber as I used to be) . As we shopped, she continued to impress me by not negatively commenting on the red and green hues that surrounded her and was eager to collaborate on gift ideas, but more importantly, her own red and green aura beamed brightly as we gently combed through the mall's "Giving Tree" and became two of Santa's vertically gifted elves. I wanted to share our experience to continue my recent holiday rant and hopefully inspire some of you to remember the reason for the season.
What's a Giving Tree? Most traditional malls have one. They are Christmas trees covered top to bottom in ornament-like tags that each represent a person in need with their Christmas wish-list attached. Most of the wishes are incredibly modest and range from clothes, gloves and toiletries. Some are from optimistic teenagers hoping for a Play Station or an iPod, and I read one from a 10 year old boy who wanted a puppy, making me realize that these hanging tags were more than Christmas lists on paper, they were people far less fortunate than me putting their dreams on a string, hoping that someone would remember them this holiday season. The young children on this tree probably gave up on Santa years ago and now here I stood determining which lucky one I would choose; however, our family has a tradition that we like to follow - we like to pick all older people because it seems that everyone favors babies and young children and seem to forget that adults have worthy wishes that should be fulfilled too.
So after sorting through the many branches, we chose:
Now, I know I'll soon be instructed to carve butter sticks into Christmas trees and fold napkins into Nativity scenes to alleviate my mom's Martha Stewart Syndrome and even have to face a "bah-humbug" comment or two at the 11th hour before our holiday guests arrive, but no matter what, I know I would not want to be any other place during the holidays than in my home with my Family Tree instead of waiting alone, patiently on a Giving Tree.
So, appreciate your family and friends as the twinkling lights begin to shine, find something exciting to do each day to remind you that this time of year is special and should be savored, and remember to take some time to make the holiday special for someone who has to depend on those more fortunate than them to make one of their wishes come true.
... then something happened...
Maybe it was the post. Maybe it was the baileys in her coffee. No matter what it was exactly, my mom oozed Rockette-like Christmas spirit this past weekend as we braved the stores, ignoring the neurotic pre-holiday shoppers and leisurely strolled from shop to shop, getting giddy at the sight of decorations and bargain buys (obviously, we decided to omit the whole kick line thing - I'm not as limber as I used to be) . As we shopped, she continued to impress me by not negatively commenting on the red and green hues that surrounded her and was eager to collaborate on gift ideas, but more importantly, her own red and green aura beamed brightly as we gently combed through the mall's "Giving Tree" and became two of Santa's vertically gifted elves. I wanted to share our experience to continue my recent holiday rant and hopefully inspire some of you to remember the reason for the season.
What's a Giving Tree? Most traditional malls have one. They are Christmas trees covered top to bottom in ornament-like tags that each represent a person in need with their Christmas wish-list attached. Most of the wishes are incredibly modest and range from clothes, gloves and toiletries. Some are from optimistic teenagers hoping for a Play Station or an iPod, and I read one from a 10 year old boy who wanted a puppy, making me realize that these hanging tags were more than Christmas lists on paper, they were people far less fortunate than me putting their dreams on a string, hoping that someone would remember them this holiday season. The young children on this tree probably gave up on Santa years ago and now here I stood determining which lucky one I would choose; however, our family has a tradition that we like to follow - we like to pick all older people because it seems that everyone favors babies and young children and seem to forget that adults have worthy wishes that should be fulfilled too.
So after sorting through the many branches, we chose:
- Emma, an 88 year old woman wishing for any kind of clothing
- Mac, a 63 year old man who wanted a sweater
- Sarah, a 60 something year old woman who wanted a non-stick baking sheet
- Justin, a 19 year old, who unlike his many electronic wishing counterparts, asked for towels and a blanket
Now, I know I'll soon be instructed to carve butter sticks into Christmas trees and fold napkins into Nativity scenes to alleviate my mom's Martha Stewart Syndrome and even have to face a "bah-humbug" comment or two at the 11th hour before our holiday guests arrive, but no matter what, I know I would not want to be any other place during the holidays than in my home with my Family Tree instead of waiting alone, patiently on a Giving Tree.
So, appreciate your family and friends as the twinkling lights begin to shine, find something exciting to do each day to remind you that this time of year is special and should be savored, and remember to take some time to make the holiday special for someone who has to depend on those more fortunate than them to make one of their wishes come true.
Monday, November 12, 2007
On the 60th Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me...
It's mid-November. Trees are changing colors, families are preparing for big Thanksgiving dinners, football season is in full swing, and "White Christmas" blasts from the radio - wait. White Christmas?
Its seems that every year Christmas starts earlier and earlier, and before I've even put on my turkey-eating pants and pilgrim bonnet, I'm rocking out to "Jingle to Bells" on the radio and getting hot flashes in department stores that are swarming with pre-holiday shoppers. I recently read in the Chicago Tribune that due to rising housing costs and gas topping $3 a gallon, retailers have started the winter season "early" to encourage more sales over the longer period of time - as if offering Christmas sales two weeks earlier than normal will make people forget about taxes, energy costs and gas. Or will it? I recently filled up on $3.19/gallon gas just to join all the fruitcakes and nutcrackers at the mall for some great deals, and to celebrate those deals, I treated myself to a $4.50 Starbucks Peppermint Mocha, a holiday edition drink, of course.
With or without troubling economic times, I feel like the winter holiday season makes up 9 out of the 12 months of the year, and as retailers have taken it upon themselves to defy time and nature, I seem to feel like a majority of my life is spent preparing for, then enjoying, then finally recovering from the holiday. I think this feeling is shared by many, especially those who are constantly a holiday host finding themselves cooking, organizing, decorating, wrapping, spending, crying, burning... the list of "-ing"s goes on. The early onset of Jingle Bells leads to one big Jingle HELL as those who find the holidays stressful to begin with, begin to twitch like an anxiety ridden elf as Santa shows up at the mall before the Thanksgiving menu is even planned.
For me to admit that I'm all about officially starting the holiday season after Thanksgiving would be a lie. I will admit that when 93.9 FM started playing Christmas music on November 1st, I tuned in. Gone are the days of Maroon 5, Beyonce and Coldplay - Bing Crosby, Josh Grobin and Nat King Cole now serenade me every morning as I drive my all wheel drive sleigh. So with the support of my radio and the good, money hungry American retailers, Christmas lasts for about 60 days... on the 60th day of Christmas, what do you give your true love?!
For someone like my mom, who seems to be a recurring character in my blog posts (take it as a compliment, Mama P!), you get your love a swift kick in the arse on the 60th day of Christmas and tell them to "get over it". My mom is the perfect example of someone who resents the early arrival of Christmas because to her, the overexposed holiday is beginning to lose all meaning as angry shoppers aggressively push their way through store aisles just to get their grubby hands on gifts that we all know will end up being returned on December 26th, which is an aspect of the holidays that I've grown to detest: "The Day After Christmas Present Return Rush". What's wrong with you people? You so desperately hated that duck sweater you got from Aunt Jean that you must immediately return it or else you'll be naked?! You don't have any other sweaters to cover your cold, ungrateful heart? Oh, I see, you need to make sure you take advantage of all those sales, which just really end up being the returned gifts of strangers who you have no idea where their hands have been.
Present returning aside, what's funny is that, during the holidays, my mom becomes the love child of Scrooge and Martha Stewart. She will host lavish dinners for our close family friends that ooze thought, care and Christmas joy, but during the preparation she is "Sargent Santa" as she instructs her minions to sculpt Christmas trees out of butter sticks and fold napkins into a Nativity scenes as she tirelessly toils over the perfect bow. Throughout the preparation she utters at least a few times that "Christmas comes too early", "Why does it feel that we were just hosting a holiday party?", or my favorite, "You're not sculpting those butter sticks fast enough and are ruining Christmas... again". Okay, the last one is stretch, but my poor mother is so tainted by the early onset of the holidays, that her normal sweet, gracious demeanor turns bitter and raw.
My mom isn't the only one who feels that holidays aren't what they used to be and ends up resenting the early arrival of twinkling lights instead of embracing them. I agree that as I've gotten older, I've come to realize the stress that comes with the season because gone are the days of a $1/week allowance and letters to Santa. Now, as an "adult", my family knows that I spend my days working at a real job, which in turn gives me real money, so noodle necklaces for gifts don't quite cut it any more, and I unfortunately found out last year that Santa does not truly exist, and a piece of holiday magic was forever lost.
Its seems that every year Christmas starts earlier and earlier, and before I've even put on my turkey-eating pants and pilgrim bonnet, I'm rocking out to "Jingle to Bells" on the radio and getting hot flashes in department stores that are swarming with pre-holiday shoppers. I recently read in the Chicago Tribune that due to rising housing costs and gas topping $3 a gallon, retailers have started the winter season "early" to encourage more sales over the longer period of time - as if offering Christmas sales two weeks earlier than normal will make people forget about taxes, energy costs and gas. Or will it? I recently filled up on $3.19/gallon gas just to join all the fruitcakes and nutcrackers at the mall for some great deals, and to celebrate those deals, I treated myself to a $4.50 Starbucks Peppermint Mocha, a holiday edition drink, of course.
With or without troubling economic times, I feel like the winter holiday season makes up 9 out of the 12 months of the year, and as retailers have taken it upon themselves to defy time and nature, I seem to feel like a majority of my life is spent preparing for, then enjoying, then finally recovering from the holiday. I think this feeling is shared by many, especially those who are constantly a holiday host finding themselves cooking, organizing, decorating, wrapping, spending, crying, burning... the list of "-ing"s goes on. The early onset of Jingle Bells leads to one big Jingle HELL as those who find the holidays stressful to begin with, begin to twitch like an anxiety ridden elf as Santa shows up at the mall before the Thanksgiving menu is even planned.
For me to admit that I'm all about officially starting the holiday season after Thanksgiving would be a lie. I will admit that when 93.9 FM started playing Christmas music on November 1st, I tuned in. Gone are the days of Maroon 5, Beyonce and Coldplay - Bing Crosby, Josh Grobin and Nat King Cole now serenade me every morning as I drive my all wheel drive sleigh. So with the support of my radio and the good, money hungry American retailers, Christmas lasts for about 60 days... on the 60th day of Christmas, what do you give your true love?!
For someone like my mom, who seems to be a recurring character in my blog posts (take it as a compliment, Mama P!), you get your love a swift kick in the arse on the 60th day of Christmas and tell them to "get over it". My mom is the perfect example of someone who resents the early arrival of Christmas because to her, the overexposed holiday is beginning to lose all meaning as angry shoppers aggressively push their way through store aisles just to get their grubby hands on gifts that we all know will end up being returned on December 26th, which is an aspect of the holidays that I've grown to detest: "The Day After Christmas Present Return Rush". What's wrong with you people? You so desperately hated that duck sweater you got from Aunt Jean that you must immediately return it or else you'll be naked?! You don't have any other sweaters to cover your cold, ungrateful heart? Oh, I see, you need to make sure you take advantage of all those sales, which just really end up being the returned gifts of strangers who you have no idea where their hands have been.
Present returning aside, what's funny is that, during the holidays, my mom becomes the love child of Scrooge and Martha Stewart. She will host lavish dinners for our close family friends that ooze thought, care and Christmas joy, but during the preparation she is "Sargent Santa" as she instructs her minions to sculpt Christmas trees out of butter sticks and fold napkins into a Nativity scenes as she tirelessly toils over the perfect bow. Throughout the preparation she utters at least a few times that "Christmas comes too early", "Why does it feel that we were just hosting a holiday party?", or my favorite, "You're not sculpting those butter sticks fast enough and are ruining Christmas... again". Okay, the last one is stretch, but my poor mother is so tainted by the early onset of the holidays, that her normal sweet, gracious demeanor turns bitter and raw.
My mom isn't the only one who feels that holidays aren't what they used to be and ends up resenting the early arrival of twinkling lights instead of embracing them. I agree that as I've gotten older, I've come to realize the stress that comes with the season because gone are the days of a $1/week allowance and letters to Santa. Now, as an "adult", my family knows that I spend my days working at a real job, which in turn gives me real money, so noodle necklaces for gifts don't quite cut it any more, and I unfortunately found out last year that Santa does not truly exist, and a piece of holiday magic was forever lost.
But enough about the stress of the holidays! I'm on a mission to enjoy the early onset of "Jingle Bells" because I figured out that you just can't escape it. I have decided to take the agressive pre-holiday shoppers as a sign to make my Christmas memories last, because unlike my noodle necklace making, Santa believing days, the actual moments of joy don't seem to last like they used to. Do you remember how long you waited for December 25th when you were a kid? I used to make a countdown calendar and I felt like that life was moving in a vat of Jell-O as I waited impaitently for Christmas Eve. Now, as an adult, one day I'm listening to "White Christmas" on the radio and the next I'm boxing up ornaments, wearing my duck sweater (what? Unlike you all, I appreciate Aunt Jean's wacky gifts), wishing I could have enjoyed the season just a bit more.
So remember that YOU make the holidays bright and its up to you to ignore those things that bring a dark cloud over your cheer, be it the early Christmas carols on the radio, expensive gifts for relatives you haven't seen since the last holiday season, the pushy bargain hunters or butter sticks shaped like Christmas trees. Don't want to spend a lot of money this year? Don't. Is it pain to cook? Order some food in. No matter what you do, don't be distracted by retailers because the holidays are a time to celebrate, not commiserate.
And to my mom who gets antsy at the sight of garland before Thanksgiving: I hope you know that you make our family's holiday bright with your attention to detail and thoughtfulness and although I complain about sculpting butter, nothing tastes better than a roll buttered with my masterpiece. This year, let's take those things that make you nuts about the holidays and make one damn good fruitcake!
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Saturn is Heaven on Earth
I'm not talking about the planets. I'm talking about my car.I just recently purchased a 2008 Saturn Vue, my very first car purchase, which consequently led to my very first financially induced heart palpitation. My car loan is worth more than my little life and that worth includes me wearing ever article of clothing and piece of jewelry I own - what can I say? I'm still waiting to make it big and I also don't have any jewels yet.
Anyway, my new, shiny, flawless piece of love on four wheels is currently my pride and joy. I refer to it as its my 2 ton child and require all passengers to either a) remove their shoes before entering or b) wear painting booties which I most conveniently supply free of charge. Hungry? Well, too bad, because no food or drink is allowed in my cool-mobile, which shouldn't be a problem because after 1 minute in my baby you'll be full on the delicious aroma of new car. Sweaty? You better find another sucker to chauffeur your lazy butt around because no one's perspiration is touching my finely crafted, custom made Italian leather seats. (I think the "Made in China" tag means "Luxurious Leather" in Italian.)
However, I recently was startled by an unbecoming sound coming from my steering wheel. This sound had to be a result of a strange automotive virus as I know my precious, one month old car would not produce such a heinous sound on its own accord. So as a worried mother would rush to the ER with a feverish child, I put to the pedal to the metal and drove my ailing baby to the Saturn dealership, where much to my surprise, I experienced heavenly customer service.
First, I arrived to the service center unannounced and unprepared as I wasn't quite sure how to translate my car's disturbing sound into English or luxurious Italian, for that matter. I ended up interpreting the noise as a "weird, winding-like sound". Yes. I'm THAT technical.
In less than 3 minutes, a loyal Saturn "mechanical automotive specialist" (I have decided to refer to the mechanics there as such), was by my side and in my car asking me to drive around so he could hear the "weird, winding-like sound" (see, they even were so kind to speak MY language). And of course, just like when you go to the doctor complaining of pain, when you're on the examining table, lo and behold, you don't hurt anymore. Well, my precious, yet stubborn car (must take after her father), wasn't making her noises. Embarrassed, I practically wanted to turn the wheel as hard as I could just so some kind of noise squeaked out, but the mechanical automotive specialist kindly said, "no, no I believe you - let me take a closer look at the car and see what I can do". 10 lovely minutes later, which were spent in the comfort of the Saturn customer lounge, I was told my car just needed a few tweaks and it was ready to go!
And did you know that when you own a Saturn you get free car washes for life? Monday-Saturday. Any time. My mom drives a BMW and is offered free car washes only on Saturdays at a specified time when the moon is predicted to be full - those Germans sure are tough.
So after my car was examined and gently tweaked, a kind man took my car through the wash and as I get back into my car I notice two remarkable things - 1) there are fresh flowers on my dashboard - I kid you not. Either that's just Saturn etiquette or the car washer liked my over sized sweatshirt and smile and found some flowers laying around in the back of the service shop 2) my seat was just as I had left it - meaning both the mechanical automotive specialist and car washer had their knees up to their chins to drive my car just so I would NOT be inconvenienced by their own comfort. Its always so hard to find your seat "groove" as it is, and it would have been a major hassle to readjust after I had just gone through my first trauma as an offical car owner.
So, if you're looking to purchase a car, may I recommend you look at a Saturn? They are well priced, drive really well and their customer service is out of this world! Plus, take a closer look at the picture above... is that an X5 you ask? No, its my vue :)
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Lady with a Beard, 900 Pound Man, Girl from the Suburbs... GASP
For the past couple of years, I have constantly been forced to stand up for the "little guy". I have felt obligated to defend something that has no voice. I have battled rumors, jokes and myths as a crusader for a seemingly minority group. Yes. As a young, "single"*, hip (again, its my blog and I can say what I want, so I'm "hip", get over it) female, I have spent the past couple years supporting my choice to live in the suburbs - GASP.
I feel that my decision to live "way out" in the suburbs is a constant issue for those around me. Well, "issue" may not be the best word, as it often has negative, confrontational undertones, but lets just say that when someone hears that I work in the bustling city yet live in the mundane 'burbs, its as if the freak show just came to town as they respond with a combination of disgust, curiosity and pity. "Look ma, that lady has a beard. Oh wow, that man is 900 lbs... no... wait... LOOK at this young, single, hip female... she's the freakiest of them all... she lives in the SUBURBS".
The freak show is over, people... I'm going to defend my beloved homeland for the final time. Take it or leave it, but please don't point and stare anymore because unlike the bearded lady, this lady is living the good life.
First, let me define my suburb. I live about 30 miles from one of the biggest cities in the country. 30 miles. Not 300. Did you know that you can get from the suburbs to the city in something other than in a horse and buggy? No? Well, I can get to the city in a really nice car that I can afford because I don't have to pay for astronomically expensive parking and have access to cheaper gas making my sometimes 30 minute (or less) drive so much more satisfying. Okay, okay - I can hear some of my colleagues screaming, "What about the morning commute to work?! Its NOT 30 minutes!" You caught me. So, if its a lazy Sunday afternoon of shopping in the city or a random Tuesday night after rush hour, my drive is quick and easy; however, I will admit that morning traffic rivals the gridlock of Macy's on Christmas Eve. So I choose not to drive it - I train it.
Ah, the train, another misunderstood suburban myth. I'm not going to sing the praises of it as I often feel chained to specific departure times, but I do want to defend it as a very respectable mode of transportation, and for my environmentally responsible audience, its also a green way to go, which only adds to my hipness.
So, now you know that I'm a 30 minute drive or a relatively hip, green train ride away from the city (which if you think about it, isn't THAT bad), lets talk about what us suburbanites do for fun. Contrary to popular belief, there is more to do in the suburbs than crocheting sweaters and hanging laundry. Now, I will agree that some suburbs in this beautiful country fit the stereotypical picture of lameness as they are literally hundreds of miles away from a Wal-Mart, let alone a large city, and although I've stressed time and time again to my friends and coworkers that I'm not Laura Ingalls Wilder and that my town does not have any Little House on the Prairie tendencies, they don't seem to buy it. Alas, I continue to fight the good fight and battle the injustice.
Bonnets and prairies aside, let's get back to suburban social activities. First, lets talk about shopping. I often will shop in the city because once again - say it with me now - I don't live THAT far away, but I also live about 10 minutes from one of the largest malls in the world. Do you know what us suburbanites say when we bump into obvious tourists while shopping? "Damn those city people." Admit it. You city folk get a kick out of huge sprawling shopping centers and my area is full of speciality shops, chains and department stores of all kinds. And one thing I can't stress enough is the easy access us suburbanites have to Target. If you want to go to a Target in the city, you must prepare both mentally and physically for practically a 10 day adventure of trains, planes and automobiles, just to enjoy all the bounty of the finest store in the world.
What about food? Its either TGIFridays or Olive Garden in the suburbs, right? WRONG. We have everything from cheesy chains (don't knock them, I would kill for a good Chili's salad) to really great high end eateries. Do you know that 2 of most critically acclaimed Chicago restaurants of 2007 are in the suburbs?! GASP. And yes, I even "go out" in the suburbs and believe it or not, there are actually great bars and great people "out there". Everyone in the city believes young people who live the suburbs must watch dateline on Saturday nights at home because they are stranded in corn fields - not so much. I have a very active life, which I'm coming to find is somewhat mysterious and, dare I say, "hip". And may I remind everyone that the city doesn't make you social, you're personality does and I know some pretty lame people who live in the city and some crazy social butterflies who call the suburbs home - if you're wondering, I think I fall right in the middle.
I think we can now agree that the suburbs have good shopping and good food. Oh, and did I mention that I pay less for both? And when I want to splurge and enjoy true Chicago shopping or eating, I can then go back home to 2 acres of land, look out to a beautiful sunset and breath fresh, unpolluted air. Don't get me wrong, I'm NOT knocking the city - if you know me, you know I LOVE urban life and unless you knew my address, you would have no idea that I spend 2 hours everyday commuting to and from the burbs in my horse and buggy.
So to all those city dwellers that don't understand this young suburbanite - stop trying to understand me and just appreciate that I'm just your gateway to visiting beautiful landscapes and the infamous Target. And remember that I'm not a freak... I'm just a young, single, hip female living in the 'burbs.
*Please note that I consider myself as "single" (and the following explanation is for my beloved bf who was probably pissed from that word on throughout reading this post, if he even reads it), because "single" legally refers to anyone who is not married, thus putting me in the "single" category; however, I believe there is an up and coming "engaged" category that I would like to be a part of... just throwing that out there. (I bet my bf is now a little less pissed about the "single" comment and a lot more angered by "engaged").
I feel that my decision to live "way out" in the suburbs is a constant issue for those around me. Well, "issue" may not be the best word, as it often has negative, confrontational undertones, but lets just say that when someone hears that I work in the bustling city yet live in the mundane 'burbs, its as if the freak show just came to town as they respond with a combination of disgust, curiosity and pity. "Look ma, that lady has a beard. Oh wow, that man is 900 lbs... no... wait... LOOK at this young, single, hip female... she's the freakiest of them all... she lives in the SUBURBS".
The freak show is over, people... I'm going to defend my beloved homeland for the final time. Take it or leave it, but please don't point and stare anymore because unlike the bearded lady, this lady is living the good life.
First, let me define my suburb. I live about 30 miles from one of the biggest cities in the country. 30 miles. Not 300. Did you know that you can get from the suburbs to the city in something other than in a horse and buggy? No? Well, I can get to the city in a really nice car that I can afford because I don't have to pay for astronomically expensive parking and have access to cheaper gas making my sometimes 30 minute (or less) drive so much more satisfying. Okay, okay - I can hear some of my colleagues screaming, "What about the morning commute to work?! Its NOT 30 minutes!" You caught me. So, if its a lazy Sunday afternoon of shopping in the city or a random Tuesday night after rush hour, my drive is quick and easy; however, I will admit that morning traffic rivals the gridlock of Macy's on Christmas Eve. So I choose not to drive it - I train it.
Ah, the train, another misunderstood suburban myth. I'm not going to sing the praises of it as I often feel chained to specific departure times, but I do want to defend it as a very respectable mode of transportation, and for my environmentally responsible audience, its also a green way to go, which only adds to my hipness.
So, now you know that I'm a 30 minute drive or a relatively hip, green train ride away from the city (which if you think about it, isn't THAT bad), lets talk about what us suburbanites do for fun. Contrary to popular belief, there is more to do in the suburbs than crocheting sweaters and hanging laundry. Now, I will agree that some suburbs in this beautiful country fit the stereotypical picture of lameness as they are literally hundreds of miles away from a Wal-Mart, let alone a large city, and although I've stressed time and time again to my friends and coworkers that I'm not Laura Ingalls Wilder and that my town does not have any Little House on the Prairie tendencies, they don't seem to buy it. Alas, I continue to fight the good fight and battle the injustice.
Bonnets and prairies aside, let's get back to suburban social activities. First, lets talk about shopping. I often will shop in the city because once again - say it with me now - I don't live THAT far away, but I also live about 10 minutes from one of the largest malls in the world. Do you know what us suburbanites say when we bump into obvious tourists while shopping? "Damn those city people." Admit it. You city folk get a kick out of huge sprawling shopping centers and my area is full of speciality shops, chains and department stores of all kinds. And one thing I can't stress enough is the easy access us suburbanites have to Target. If you want to go to a Target in the city, you must prepare both mentally and physically for practically a 10 day adventure of trains, planes and automobiles, just to enjoy all the bounty of the finest store in the world.
What about food? Its either TGIFridays or Olive Garden in the suburbs, right? WRONG. We have everything from cheesy chains (don't knock them, I would kill for a good Chili's salad) to really great high end eateries. Do you know that 2 of most critically acclaimed Chicago restaurants of 2007 are in the suburbs?! GASP. And yes, I even "go out" in the suburbs and believe it or not, there are actually great bars and great people "out there". Everyone in the city believes young people who live the suburbs must watch dateline on Saturday nights at home because they are stranded in corn fields - not so much. I have a very active life, which I'm coming to find is somewhat mysterious and, dare I say, "hip". And may I remind everyone that the city doesn't make you social, you're personality does and I know some pretty lame people who live in the city and some crazy social butterflies who call the suburbs home - if you're wondering, I think I fall right in the middle.
I think we can now agree that the suburbs have good shopping and good food. Oh, and did I mention that I pay less for both? And when I want to splurge and enjoy true Chicago shopping or eating, I can then go back home to 2 acres of land, look out to a beautiful sunset and breath fresh, unpolluted air. Don't get me wrong, I'm NOT knocking the city - if you know me, you know I LOVE urban life and unless you knew my address, you would have no idea that I spend 2 hours everyday commuting to and from the burbs in my horse and buggy.
So to all those city dwellers that don't understand this young suburbanite - stop trying to understand me and just appreciate that I'm just your gateway to visiting beautiful landscapes and the infamous Target. And remember that I'm not a freak... I'm just a young, single, hip female living in the 'burbs.
*Please note that I consider myself as "single" (and the following explanation is for my beloved bf who was probably pissed from that word on throughout reading this post, if he even reads it), because "single" legally refers to anyone who is not married, thus putting me in the "single" category; however, I believe there is an up and coming "engaged" category that I would like to be a part of... just throwing that out there. (I bet my bf is now a little less pissed about the "single" comment and a lot more angered by "engaged").
Thursday, October 25, 2007
CAUTION: Women at Work
A friend of mine, who just recently accepted a new job, is leaving a company that was 100% female and consequently, 100% irritating. Her work related stories were best told around a campfire where she instilled fear into her audience with tales of menopausal managers and weekly baby showers. If she had to play one more game of "name that baby food" during her lunch hour, she was going to die. She would go into details of malicious mind games and teenage quality gossip that happened behind her back, and would attribute it to the high levels of estrogen that she could not escape.
Then I started to think... is it easier/better/more pleasant to work with men or with women?
I work in an industry that is dominated by women. Its harder to find a man in our office than it is to find Britney Spears in a parenting class, and although I do work with a few males here and there, pumps, black mascara and highlights are far more prevalent among my colleagues than loafers, aftershave and crew cuts*. So do I prefer working with women or men?
First, unlike my tortured friend who suffered severe FOLD (female overload disorder) from her overexposure to women, I work with a predominantly younger crowd which makes a big difference. Since I work with female "peers", both in the professional and social sense, I all together avoid the awkwardness and various issues that occur when 15+ years separate you and your colleagues. I can only imagine what my friend must have experienced on a daily basis as I have had similar, yet few, experiences trying to mingle with the more "mature" female crowd ... my boyfriend is the youngest of a sales team full of 40 and 50 something men - just imagine the holiday parties I must endure: I'm standing around with women who share more in common with mom as I try to relate to their housekeeping and child bearing woes. These women, although kind, totally don't buy it when I'm shaking my head in agreement about having to take junior to soccer practice while trying to cook a full meal for the family. And that's a big difference between men and women both socially and in the workplace - in the end, men are all big kids and pretty much can relate to one another at some level no matter what age as my 23 year old boyfriend will be put in a head lock by his 53 year old male boss. Yet you won't find me and my group of "mature" lady friends playing slap the Franzia sack (if you don't know this drinking game, you are missing out) as women seem to often look down at their younger, less experienced counterparts and want to keep things far more professional and often times cold.
But age and slap the sack aside, should XX or XY determine if you sign your X on the dotted line with an employer? In my line of work, communication is key and women excel at both truthfully explaining and cleverly manipulating (without risking complete dishonesty, of course). This helps business both internally and externally, and regardless if you agree or disagree with general female tendencies in a social setting, you can't deny that women are pros at thinking rationally and responding to difficult situations calmly at work.
What about the "G" word and infamous workplace "no-no": GOSSIP. Don't only women chatter behind their co-workers back? Whoever thinks only women gossip, is obviously a delusional and hypocritical male. Remember that we're talking about the workplace here, which I have found sometimes brings out a different side to both sexes, so although you won't find a group of men chattin' in up at coffee shop with their boyfriends on a Saturday afternoon, they sure do flock to the water cooler on a Monday morning. Its just the nature of an office setting and both men and women fall victim to it.
How about emotions? Men, generally, are thought of as rougher and more to the point compared to women, which might be considered a "fair" approach. If your male boss doesn't like your work, he tells you and doesn't care if you cry because he doesn't have a cute pack of tissues on his desk anyway. I feel that women are often criticized for dancing around a point to avoid hurt feelings and in the end all you want is the truth so you can do your job. So many of my female friends claim that they rather work for a man to avoid such an annoying situation, but I would venture to guess that once that aggressive male barks at them straight in their face, they would get a little misty eyed and want to turn to the more understanding female colleague for support.
It seems that my thoughts are leaning more towards pro-woman workforces, but what I'm really trying to say is that you need a happy medium or at least a sprinkle of a certain sex to make work tolerable. An all female office results in too many emotions bouncing off cube walls, yet too many men result in a conference room of head locks. I think society is generally finding that female leadership is proving to be very successful, so I would caution men to treat their female counterparts with respect knowing that they will someday be signing their paycheck - muhahaha.
So for all the men and women out there suffering from FOLD or MOLD (the male version of FOLD and seems to fit the sex, doesn't it?), don't despair. Wear your loafers or pumps proudly and remember to look at each colleague as a individual because pleasant, hard working, fair coworkers aren't male or female - they are just simply a person who naturally has those traits no matter what sex (and if they want to gossip with you at the water cooler on occasion that's just a bonus).
Then I started to think... is it easier/better/more pleasant to work with men or with women?
I work in an industry that is dominated by women. Its harder to find a man in our office than it is to find Britney Spears in a parenting class, and although I do work with a few males here and there, pumps, black mascara and highlights are far more prevalent among my colleagues than loafers, aftershave and crew cuts*. So do I prefer working with women or men?
First, unlike my tortured friend who suffered severe FOLD (female overload disorder) from her overexposure to women, I work with a predominantly younger crowd which makes a big difference. Since I work with female "peers", both in the professional and social sense, I all together avoid the awkwardness and various issues that occur when 15+ years separate you and your colleagues. I can only imagine what my friend must have experienced on a daily basis as I have had similar, yet few, experiences trying to mingle with the more "mature" female crowd ... my boyfriend is the youngest of a sales team full of 40 and 50 something men - just imagine the holiday parties I must endure: I'm standing around with women who share more in common with mom as I try to relate to their housekeeping and child bearing woes. These women, although kind, totally don't buy it when I'm shaking my head in agreement about having to take junior to soccer practice while trying to cook a full meal for the family. And that's a big difference between men and women both socially and in the workplace - in the end, men are all big kids and pretty much can relate to one another at some level no matter what age as my 23 year old boyfriend will be put in a head lock by his 53 year old male boss. Yet you won't find me and my group of "mature" lady friends playing slap the Franzia sack (if you don't know this drinking game, you are missing out) as women seem to often look down at their younger, less experienced counterparts and want to keep things far more professional and often times cold.
But age and slap the sack aside, should XX or XY determine if you sign your X on the dotted line with an employer? In my line of work, communication is key and women excel at both truthfully explaining and cleverly manipulating (without risking complete dishonesty, of course). This helps business both internally and externally, and regardless if you agree or disagree with general female tendencies in a social setting, you can't deny that women are pros at thinking rationally and responding to difficult situations calmly at work.
What about the "G" word and infamous workplace "no-no": GOSSIP. Don't only women chatter behind their co-workers back? Whoever thinks only women gossip, is obviously a delusional and hypocritical male. Remember that we're talking about the workplace here, which I have found sometimes brings out a different side to both sexes, so although you won't find a group of men chattin' in up at coffee shop with their boyfriends on a Saturday afternoon, they sure do flock to the water cooler on a Monday morning. Its just the nature of an office setting and both men and women fall victim to it.
How about emotions? Men, generally, are thought of as rougher and more to the point compared to women, which might be considered a "fair" approach. If your male boss doesn't like your work, he tells you and doesn't care if you cry because he doesn't have a cute pack of tissues on his desk anyway. I feel that women are often criticized for dancing around a point to avoid hurt feelings and in the end all you want is the truth so you can do your job. So many of my female friends claim that they rather work for a man to avoid such an annoying situation, but I would venture to guess that once that aggressive male barks at them straight in their face, they would get a little misty eyed and want to turn to the more understanding female colleague for support.
It seems that my thoughts are leaning more towards pro-woman workforces, but what I'm really trying to say is that you need a happy medium or at least a sprinkle of a certain sex to make work tolerable. An all female office results in too many emotions bouncing off cube walls, yet too many men result in a conference room of head locks. I think society is generally finding that female leadership is proving to be very successful, so I would caution men to treat their female counterparts with respect knowing that they will someday be signing their paycheck - muhahaha.
So for all the men and women out there suffering from FOLD or MOLD (the male version of FOLD and seems to fit the sex, doesn't it?), don't despair. Wear your loafers or pumps proudly and remember to look at each colleague as a individual because pleasant, hard working, fair coworkers aren't male or female - they are just simply a person who naturally has those traits no matter what sex (and if they want to gossip with you at the water cooler on occasion that's just a bonus).
*In a continued effort to promote political correctness on my blog, I must acknowledge that loafers, aftershave and crew cuts are not limited to men, and I'm sure there are some very lovely women out there who prefer the more masculine products in life, and I salute you.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Signs. I'm not talking about Mel Gibson.
My blog following, as small as it may be, is the greatest audience of all time because I have recently been talking with some of my friends... er... I mean, my fans, and they have been giving me some great topics that they want Stejamoe to speak about. Yes, I just referred to myself in the third person. Its my blog and I can do what I want.
So, last night I spoke with a good friend who is in a bit of a love conundrum and we talked out her predicament. Long story short, she met a great guy who has given her all the initial signs that he's interested, but now is leaving it up to her to make the next move, and that move takes a lot guts and is best accompanied with a vodka tonic. Since my own good relationship is a result of me making both the first AND second move (sans vodka, thank you very much), my advice to her was to tuck her pride in her pocket, go out on a limb and if it went well she would represent all the strong women out there and have a wonderful man in her life, and if it didn't go well, I would be the only person to know and hate the loser guy forever. We ended the conversation with her committing to make the next move and promising that she would keep me updated in regards to whether I would: a) be making a new friend with the wonderful man she would now be dating or b) making a loser guy's life a living Hell with my crafty ways (you mess with my friends, you mess with me, and its just so darn fun to mess with stupid boys' heads).
This morning I get an email from my love conundrummed friend asking me, "do you believe in signs?". (I know that "condrummed" is not a word, but it should be.) She proceeds to tell me that after our female empowering conversation last night, she pondered our discussion, took a deep breath and suddenly experienced various signs that were the equivalent of a vodka tonic, which then inspired her to be the strong, independent woman that she is and make the next move. The success of this move is still to be determined, but in the meantime, she's relying on my fabulous advice (again, its my blog and I can say what I want) and the signs she experienced, which has led to this blog post and questions what are signs and do you believe in them?
What is a sign? I believe a sign can be a hint, a warning or a divine clue that inspires you to make both trivial and difficult decisions. For a trivial example, I've been trying to cut back on Starbucks to both shed a few extra pounds and save a few extra bucks. The other day I received a Starbucks card from my boss and took it as a sign that I should visit my dealer (aka the Starbucks Barista) and buy a mocha because after all, the drink would be free and I considered the gift card to be a hint that I should treat myself to a cup of love.
An example of a more significant sign would be when I ran into my now boyfriend 3.5 years ago when he was just a hot guy who I met only for a moment, never thinking I would see again among 42,000 college students, and took the second random run-in as a sign that I needed to ask him out on a date.
I also think a sign can be an indicator that you made either a good or bad decision. An example for that would be me starting this blog because it wasn't a sign that inspired me to start it - to be honest, I just wanted a creative outlet - but it has been all the positive feedback and all the resulting conversations from my posts that I consider to be a sign to keep investing my time and thoughts into it. Now, if I were to find a horse's head in my bed tonight, I would take that as a sign to STOP blogging.
Do I believe in signs? Sure. Why not? As I mentioned, I relied on a sign to make the first move with my now boyfriend and by doing so, I was able to create my own love filled and promising future. If I didn't take that sign, perhaps the only man in my life would be "Scary Train Boy" (see October 19th 2007 post) and I'd forever regret not going on out a limb and asking that hot guy out. I've relied on signs and gut feelings for a lot of important decisions so I have to pay homage to the concept, but when it comes down to it, a sign is just a more romantic, magical version of an excuse to do something that you want to do, but just need validation for - and there is nothing wrong with that.
I realize that some signs are very freaky, and my good friend who inspired this post has some very valid and strange examples that would justify her signs as being divinely sent, but I don't want these signs she experienced to take away from the fact that she just did a very brave and commendable thing on her own. I think signs are like your dad waiting in the pool with his arms outstretched as the toddler version of yourself takes a deep breath and dives in. In the end, your dad was a sign that you'd be safe, but you still had use your own muscles and bravery to take that leap.
So to my love conundrummed friend - whether you rely on signs, excuses, friendly advice or just your own instinct, never let it diminish the strength of your decision because in the end, sign or no sign, I know you would have made the right choice.
I'm going to take the length of this blog post as a sign to get back to work!
So, last night I spoke with a good friend who is in a bit of a love conundrum and we talked out her predicament. Long story short, she met a great guy who has given her all the initial signs that he's interested, but now is leaving it up to her to make the next move, and that move takes a lot guts and is best accompanied with a vodka tonic. Since my own good relationship is a result of me making both the first AND second move (sans vodka, thank you very much), my advice to her was to tuck her pride in her pocket, go out on a limb and if it went well she would represent all the strong women out there and have a wonderful man in her life, and if it didn't go well, I would be the only person to know and hate the loser guy forever. We ended the conversation with her committing to make the next move and promising that she would keep me updated in regards to whether I would: a) be making a new friend with the wonderful man she would now be dating or b) making a loser guy's life a living Hell with my crafty ways (you mess with my friends, you mess with me, and its just so darn fun to mess with stupid boys' heads).
This morning I get an email from my love conundrummed friend asking me, "do you believe in signs?". (I know that "condrummed" is not a word, but it should be.) She proceeds to tell me that after our female empowering conversation last night, she pondered our discussion, took a deep breath and suddenly experienced various signs that were the equivalent of a vodka tonic, which then inspired her to be the strong, independent woman that she is and make the next move. The success of this move is still to be determined, but in the meantime, she's relying on my fabulous advice (again, its my blog and I can say what I want) and the signs she experienced, which has led to this blog post and questions what are signs and do you believe in them?
What is a sign? I believe a sign can be a hint, a warning or a divine clue that inspires you to make both trivial and difficult decisions. For a trivial example, I've been trying to cut back on Starbucks to both shed a few extra pounds and save a few extra bucks. The other day I received a Starbucks card from my boss and took it as a sign that I should visit my dealer (aka the Starbucks Barista) and buy a mocha because after all, the drink would be free and I considered the gift card to be a hint that I should treat myself to a cup of love.
An example of a more significant sign would be when I ran into my now boyfriend 3.5 years ago when he was just a hot guy who I met only for a moment, never thinking I would see again among 42,000 college students, and took the second random run-in as a sign that I needed to ask him out on a date.
I also think a sign can be an indicator that you made either a good or bad decision. An example for that would be me starting this blog because it wasn't a sign that inspired me to start it - to be honest, I just wanted a creative outlet - but it has been all the positive feedback and all the resulting conversations from my posts that I consider to be a sign to keep investing my time and thoughts into it. Now, if I were to find a horse's head in my bed tonight, I would take that as a sign to STOP blogging.
Do I believe in signs? Sure. Why not? As I mentioned, I relied on a sign to make the first move with my now boyfriend and by doing so, I was able to create my own love filled and promising future. If I didn't take that sign, perhaps the only man in my life would be "Scary Train Boy" (see October 19th 2007 post) and I'd forever regret not going on out a limb and asking that hot guy out. I've relied on signs and gut feelings for a lot of important decisions so I have to pay homage to the concept, but when it comes down to it, a sign is just a more romantic, magical version of an excuse to do something that you want to do, but just need validation for - and there is nothing wrong with that.
I realize that some signs are very freaky, and my good friend who inspired this post has some very valid and strange examples that would justify her signs as being divinely sent, but I don't want these signs she experienced to take away from the fact that she just did a very brave and commendable thing on her own. I think signs are like your dad waiting in the pool with his arms outstretched as the toddler version of yourself takes a deep breath and dives in. In the end, your dad was a sign that you'd be safe, but you still had use your own muscles and bravery to take that leap.
So to my love conundrummed friend - whether you rely on signs, excuses, friendly advice or just your own instinct, never let it diminish the strength of your decision because in the end, sign or no sign, I know you would have made the right choice.
I'm going to take the length of this blog post as a sign to get back to work!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Stretch Out Your Beer Pong Elbow... Its Homecoming Time!!!
There is nothing like half naked men with painted chests and drunk alumni hanging out with students half their age. There is nothing like honoring the days when you would drink from 7 am to 7 pm, nap, and then drink some more. There is nothing like a college homecoming.
Its mid-October and universities are preparing for the flock of graduates, both recent and more "established", who will join the undergrad population and celebrate their school's history of violent football games, obscene chanting and excessive drinking. When I was an undergrad I remember being terrorized by a pack of drunk 40 year old dads turned 21 year old wannabes who, with their mock turtle necks underneath their school spirited sweatshirts, tried to persuade me and my friends that they knew of a great after bar. Oh, alumni.
Its funny how your former, younger, drinking self emerges when you return to your old stomping grounds and its even funnier watching little league dads and kool-aid moms put on their game faces and become the most offensive fans in the stadium during homecoming. With this in mind, I would like advise my fellow recent grads to move forward with caution because, unlike your more established counterparts, you will not be looked at as the funny, old alumni, oh no... you will be put on a pedestal as you are now in the real world, yet still could blend in with the regular college crowd, and when the older, established, mock turtle neck wearing alumni are buying students drinks, students are buying YOU drinks... and shots... and boots full of beer... and a nasty combination of liquids better suited for nail polish removal.
Think about it. When you were in college, you had friends of all classes and when they graduated, leaving you behind, it was like the red carpet of past students during homecoming. You would see your favorite classmate from the year before and you would glamorize their real world existence which probably wasn't anything more than a bedroom in their parent's house and an entry level position at a dry company, but still, they were "out" and deserved a drink! And those recent alumni were so drunk on pure college bliss that they accepted every drink graciously, which was then followed by them trying to get the bar to participate in a school chant and finished with the comment, "don't EVER graduate" (in slurred, alumni speech, of course).
Now most of my friends have pretty heavy work schedules that have eliminated the M-F drinking conditioning of their college days (please note the emphasis on MOST as I realize some my friends are still a version of their college self, but instead of drinking in the token campus bar, they are sipping high priced booze in a suit with their coworkers on a random Tuesday night), and they have definitely toned down their weekend habits as the real world is exhausting... and expensive! But although we may honor our newly found adult drinking limits during our day to day lives, there is something about going back to our Alma Mater that brings out the students we once were.
So as you begin to stretch out the elbow you play beer pong with and prepare to celebrate homecoming as a recent grad and less established alumni, please remember that although current students don't know much about the real world, they DO know how to drink, and your arrival to campus will merit Bradgelina-like attention which will result in many drinks and many beer related game challenges. So don't get too caught up in the undergrads adoring you, and don't be THAT girl or guy who can't keep up with the youngins', BUT please DO all of us "real-worlders" proud and kick every undergrad's ass in beer pong. Go Team!
Its mid-October and universities are preparing for the flock of graduates, both recent and more "established", who will join the undergrad population and celebrate their school's history of violent football games, obscene chanting and excessive drinking. When I was an undergrad I remember being terrorized by a pack of drunk 40 year old dads turned 21 year old wannabes who, with their mock turtle necks underneath their school spirited sweatshirts, tried to persuade me and my friends that they knew of a great after bar. Oh, alumni.
Its funny how your former, younger, drinking self emerges when you return to your old stomping grounds and its even funnier watching little league dads and kool-aid moms put on their game faces and become the most offensive fans in the stadium during homecoming. With this in mind, I would like advise my fellow recent grads to move forward with caution because, unlike your more established counterparts, you will not be looked at as the funny, old alumni, oh no... you will be put on a pedestal as you are now in the real world, yet still could blend in with the regular college crowd, and when the older, established, mock turtle neck wearing alumni are buying students drinks, students are buying YOU drinks... and shots... and boots full of beer... and a nasty combination of liquids better suited for nail polish removal.
Think about it. When you were in college, you had friends of all classes and when they graduated, leaving you behind, it was like the red carpet of past students during homecoming. You would see your favorite classmate from the year before and you would glamorize their real world existence which probably wasn't anything more than a bedroom in their parent's house and an entry level position at a dry company, but still, they were "out" and deserved a drink! And those recent alumni were so drunk on pure college bliss that they accepted every drink graciously, which was then followed by them trying to get the bar to participate in a school chant and finished with the comment, "don't EVER graduate" (in slurred, alumni speech, of course).
Now most of my friends have pretty heavy work schedules that have eliminated the M-F drinking conditioning of their college days (please note the emphasis on MOST as I realize some my friends are still a version of their college self, but instead of drinking in the token campus bar, they are sipping high priced booze in a suit with their coworkers on a random Tuesday night), and they have definitely toned down their weekend habits as the real world is exhausting... and expensive! But although we may honor our newly found adult drinking limits during our day to day lives, there is something about going back to our Alma Mater that brings out the students we once were.
So as you begin to stretch out the elbow you play beer pong with and prepare to celebrate homecoming as a recent grad and less established alumni, please remember that although current students don't know much about the real world, they DO know how to drink, and your arrival to campus will merit Bradgelina-like attention which will result in many drinks and many beer related game challenges. So don't get too caught up in the undergrads adoring you, and don't be THAT girl or guy who can't keep up with the youngins', BUT please DO all of us "real-worlders" proud and kick every undergrad's ass in beer pong. Go Team!
Monday, October 22, 2007
Birth Order: What am I? A Gerbil?!
Over the weekend, I read an article in TIME Magazine about birth order (http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1673284,00.html) and how it has been scientifically proven that your personality is greatly impacted by where you fall in line among your siblings. This concept is by no means a new idea, and TIME has done numerous articles on birth order over the past few years, and being the youngest child that I am, I feel the need to both confirm and challenge this increasingly popular belief in relation to my family.
First comes the confirmation...
I am the younger of two girls in my family and my sister is the typical first born in many ways. According to the research, first borns tend to be more reserved, more in control and always seem to have the bigger bedroom compared to their younger siblings (okay, the research doesn't specifically reference bedroom size, but it does discuss how first borns are often given more resources due to a sense of entitlement that comes with age). For example, when my sister and I were growing up, her bedroom was like the Taj Mahal compared to my shoebox, and when I hit my teenage years and started to value closet space, my mom would justify the space difference by claiming she gave me a choice, and I went with the smaller room. Considering that was only one year old when we moved and couldn't speak let alone choose a room for my future needs (I was all about sippy cups and Big Bird at the time and not really concerned about square footage), this decision was made solely on birth order.
So not only did my sister have the larger, first born-entitled, bedroom growing up (and the "I'm better than you" attitude that went with it), she had four years of complete only-child bliss before I bounded into the world, and according to the TIME article, even in the primitive animal sense, the eldest child is accustomed to getting 100% of their parents' resources, which leads to the expectation of constant attention and inability to accept the needs of others, specifically of their younger siblings. The perfect example, and my mom is going to kill me when she reads this, is when I was just a wee one and my sister and I would both need lunch. My mom was alone, and because I was child numero dos, her resources were quite stretched, so she would prop up a bottle between the rungs of my crib and then tend to my older, attention needing sister. As my sister enjoyed a PB&J with a side of my mom's love and attention, a baby Stephanie was stuck alone like a gerbil in her crib sucking on a bottle that could not be held by her mother because her older sister required the one-on-one time. When I heard this story from my mom, I asked her if she was kind enough to put a salt block in my crib since I had to be fed like a rodent. Obviously, my mom was doing the best she could and its really just a funny story that I tease her about, but in the end, true to birth order, I'm used to making due with what I have (even if that means being fed like a rodent), while my sister doesn't like change and wants things her way.
Another thing that jumped out at me in the TIME article was the reference to baby books. According to research "family scrapbooks are usually stuffed with pictures and report cards of the firstborn and successively fewer of the later-borns--and the later-borns notice it." When I read this, it was like TIME had spent a day in my shoes. My sister's baby books (PLURAL) are quite the collection of memories and my baby book (SINGULAR) is one page of pictures from the moment I popped out all gross and ugly followed by pages of... nothing. Thank God I have my memory and know that I too had a great youth like my sister who can refer to those memories in volumes of books dedicated to her, while I must fish for them in the cobwebs of my mind. No, I'm not bitter, but yes, this relates to scientific research that first borns walk into a life of pre-given attention, while those who follow need to create and earn that awareness, which results in the youngest children being more creative, funnier and more rebellious than their older siblings - why do you think this youngest child started a blog?!
Now comes the challenge...
First comes the confirmation...
I am the younger of two girls in my family and my sister is the typical first born in many ways. According to the research, first borns tend to be more reserved, more in control and always seem to have the bigger bedroom compared to their younger siblings (okay, the research doesn't specifically reference bedroom size, but it does discuss how first borns are often given more resources due to a sense of entitlement that comes with age). For example, when my sister and I were growing up, her bedroom was like the Taj Mahal compared to my shoebox, and when I hit my teenage years and started to value closet space, my mom would justify the space difference by claiming she gave me a choice, and I went with the smaller room. Considering that was only one year old when we moved and couldn't speak let alone choose a room for my future needs (I was all about sippy cups and Big Bird at the time and not really concerned about square footage), this decision was made solely on birth order.
So not only did my sister have the larger, first born-entitled, bedroom growing up (and the "I'm better than you" attitude that went with it), she had four years of complete only-child bliss before I bounded into the world, and according to the TIME article, even in the primitive animal sense, the eldest child is accustomed to getting 100% of their parents' resources, which leads to the expectation of constant attention and inability to accept the needs of others, specifically of their younger siblings. The perfect example, and my mom is going to kill me when she reads this, is when I was just a wee one and my sister and I would both need lunch. My mom was alone, and because I was child numero dos, her resources were quite stretched, so she would prop up a bottle between the rungs of my crib and then tend to my older, attention needing sister. As my sister enjoyed a PB&J with a side of my mom's love and attention, a baby Stephanie was stuck alone like a gerbil in her crib sucking on a bottle that could not be held by her mother because her older sister required the one-on-one time. When I heard this story from my mom, I asked her if she was kind enough to put a salt block in my crib since I had to be fed like a rodent. Obviously, my mom was doing the best she could and its really just a funny story that I tease her about, but in the end, true to birth order, I'm used to making due with what I have (even if that means being fed like a rodent), while my sister doesn't like change and wants things her way.
Another thing that jumped out at me in the TIME article was the reference to baby books. According to research "family scrapbooks are usually stuffed with pictures and report cards of the firstborn and successively fewer of the later-borns--and the later-borns notice it." When I read this, it was like TIME had spent a day in my shoes. My sister's baby books (PLURAL) are quite the collection of memories and my baby book (SINGULAR) is one page of pictures from the moment I popped out all gross and ugly followed by pages of... nothing. Thank God I have my memory and know that I too had a great youth like my sister who can refer to those memories in volumes of books dedicated to her, while I must fish for them in the cobwebs of my mind. No, I'm not bitter, but yes, this relates to scientific research that first borns walk into a life of pre-given attention, while those who follow need to create and earn that awareness, which results in the youngest children being more creative, funnier and more rebellious than their older siblings - why do you think this youngest child started a blog?!
Now comes the challenge...
Birth order research constantly support the success of first borns and the sometimes pitiful downfall of their younger siblings, specifically the youngest, due to the attention and privilege first borns receive. TIME's article references famous siblings including the Bush Brothers, the Royal Family and other families whose youngest child is the rebel and often falls into the shadows of their other siblings successes. As an adult, my sister is very successful, but when we were growing up, she was always being compared to me as I tended to be involved in more activities and was just overall more outgoing. In fact, I think my sister to this day resents me for being in the spotlight, which is very non-oldest child-like (I'm sure she's stabbing the voodoo doll of me as we speak).
Researchers also claim that younger siblings like to "court danger", but I'm queen of fearing physical peril. According to research, last born siblings like to play very physical sports and lean towards adventure and like to push the limits - bungee jumping, sky diving, rollercoaster riding, etc. For me, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is my definition of a "thrill" ride, and non-stop shopping during the holiday season is what I consider an adventure. I played volleyball throughout my school days to avoid face-to-face confrontation and found athletic relief knowing that a net separated me and my competitors. So, danger is out of the picture for me even though I should technically welcome it.
Although I'm the typical last born when it comes to cracking jokes and excelling at creative tasks, I'm also level headed and according to research, my parents SHOULD turn to my sister to assume various responsibilities anywhere from "watching out" for me or taking care of the house when they are away, as "us" younger siblings would tear the place apart. Au Contraire! My sister, although reserved and mature in her own birth order right, is not as organized and "street smart" as me and contrary to research, my parents have always turned to me, the youngest, to put out any fires. Even in my social circle, I'm the level-headed "mom" of the group who thinks a few steps ahead to avoid any unpleasant situations. But according to research, I should be the one who my friends need to watch and coax down from dancing on table tops because, dammit, I'm the youngest and should be living only for the NOW, but alas, I personally live for the tomorrow and my 401K.
Conclusion...
Birth order research is important and valid; however, its not infallible. There are just so many variables outside birth order that impact our personalities beyond socioeconomic status and race (see article for further explanation), so although my days of being fed like a gerbil, and the outcome of it, are indicative of birth order, my tendency to follow the rules and my fear of chaos would hint that I was meant to be the oldest. So maybe I'm just a first born stuck in a last born body or better yet, maybe I'm a gerbil stuck in a human... you'd have to ask my mom about that :)
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