We've all been there, looking out from the warmth of inside, our eyes large like dessert plates, watching the falling snow. The burble of excitement for accumulating fluff. We think snow angels. snowmen, snow balls, rollicking through the drifts and white washing our unsuspecting friend. What we don't think about seriously, until we're adults at least, is the duty of clearing walkways, driveways and porches. When we're young it's just a chore added on to the endless list of to-do's forced upon us from our parents. A seasonal addition.
Sure, a shovel does the trick. The repetitive scoop, toss, scoop makes for good exercise but it also exhausts the aching bodies of post-adolescents. And that, my friends, is why we all invest in snow blowers.
The relative ease of turning the ignition (or pulling the lawnmower-esque cord for the older models) is mere child's play compared to the hunched back and strained arms of shovelling. The light forward pressure applied to the handles to start the machine in its slow march through the heaps of snow, whether it be hard and iced or light and airy, is almost too easy. The slow crank of the lever to re-direct the shoot of snow, is almost meditative. And when you're done you simply park the beast and admire the ruffled edges of the snow banks, tapering off where the farthest snow landed.
What really blows, is when you wait all morning for the snow to stop without any mid-way shovel or dent in the accumulation. I'll just blow it all away, you think to yourself. Sure in your plan. Just like I've done a million times before. You recall the envied look of your neighbours, blushed with strain and huffing small clouds of hoarfrost as they struggle to finish the job.
The snow stops falling and you strut outside, sure footed as you make your way to the garage. Smirking as you wade through the knee-high powder, you think what a blast this will be -- literally. The giant, rotating teeth of the snow blower will chew through this dump fast enough to get you inside for the second half -- no problem. You tweak the ignition, push her to the top where the rabbit signifies speed, prime the gas and turn the key --nothing. Must be cold, you think to yourself and yank the cord. Nothing. Ah, the good old electric start, that always works. You plug it into the outlet and saunter back to the machine, push the automatic start button and... nothing.
For-crying-out-loud, the damn thing won't work. Now what? Do you admit defeat and grab shovel? Risk being seen by those same struggling neighbours, deflated from your regularly gloating self? Are you less than a man? Less than a woman? Has your rough-and-tough snow blowing extension of yourself failed you? Hindsight comes slapping back and you peer out from the clouded garage window at the 3 feet of heavy snow wishing you had picked up shovel mid-storm. You consider hiding in the garage until the neighbours have returned inside for dinner, then swiftly and without sound shovelling at the speed of light to avoid being seen. But it's all just pride and you realize that pride won't clear the walkways or allow for a car to get out. So you rummage through the depth of the garage until you find the old steel shovel, rusted on the corners and curved with years of use.
Ah, It's just like being a kid again.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Profanity's Connection with the Downward Spiral of the American Economy
"Well, Fuck."
That's the sound of the economy going down the toilet and with it, Americans' ability to vent frustration verbally -- without the use of naughty words. Usually well-behaved adults have recently resorted to an adolescent expression in everyday language preferring to replace adjectives such as "very" with the more sinister "fucking". As in, "I'm going to get into my fucking car and drive off a cliff." And more descriptive nouns from such simple things as utensils, to the more complex, have been replaced with the vulgar "shit" or "crap". Other unruly words such as the less offensive "damn" to the queen-of-all-swear-words "mother fucker" can be heard in offices, grocery lines and yes, even around kitchen tables.
Once reserved for only the most inexplicable or desperate of times, swear words are fast becoming commonplace in everyday language.
It's obvious that the current vernacular is directly connected to the dismal state of affairs in the economy. With every job lost, comes an expletive; with the New York Times stating that "...The economy has shed 1.2 million jobs since the beginning of the year (2008)," how could we not express our frustrations in heated verse?
The most depressing of cases are reported in households whose use of the once outlawed words are now cropping up. Returning to their childhood homes for what they think is going to be a nice, enjoyable meal, grown children find themselves horrified by the use of course language by once proper parents. Stay-at-home moms are getting together in book clubs and describing main characters as "jackasses" and "bitches". Educated fathers are complaining about the "shithead" that walked into his office during prep time. Elderly folk now regularly use terms such as "dingle berry" and "fuck face" when upset.
Blue-collar workers, known for their colourful language and use of rough terms, are leading the way in the (mis?) education of the country. Once thought of as the only social group with enough to fret vulgarly about, these workers have perfected the complaint. Years of under pay, cut-backs and pink slips have prepared this group of men and women to shine in this time of economic uncertainty and verbal expressionism. Office workers, geared in tailoured Brooks Brother suits and Bluetooth headsets have been seen sharing a pint down at the local pub in an effort to expand their vocab. Manicured CEO professionals are hanging around building sites to catch an earful of "shit and giggle" terminology to use in voicing their own frustrations with today's world and the unstable work environment.
With all that is on his plate as the incoming president, Obama doesn't have time to focus on the degradation of the American vocabulary. With his plans to rebuild the economy, increase jobs and thus, decrease unemployment, he hopes for a trickle down effect to take hold in our language. Otherwise, "we may all be fucked."
That's the sound of the economy going down the toilet and with it, Americans' ability to vent frustration verbally -- without the use of naughty words. Usually well-behaved adults have recently resorted to an adolescent expression in everyday language preferring to replace adjectives such as "very" with the more sinister "fucking". As in, "I'm going to get into my fucking car and drive off a cliff." And more descriptive nouns from such simple things as utensils, to the more complex, have been replaced with the vulgar "shit" or "crap". Other unruly words such as the less offensive "damn" to the queen-of-all-swear-words "mother fucker" can be heard in offices, grocery lines and yes, even around kitchen tables.
Once reserved for only the most inexplicable or desperate of times, swear words are fast becoming commonplace in everyday language.
It's obvious that the current vernacular is directly connected to the dismal state of affairs in the economy. With every job lost, comes an expletive; with the New York Times stating that "...The economy has shed 1.2 million jobs since the beginning of the year (2008)," how could we not express our frustrations in heated verse?
The most depressing of cases are reported in households whose use of the once outlawed words are now cropping up. Returning to their childhood homes for what they think is going to be a nice, enjoyable meal, grown children find themselves horrified by the use of course language by once proper parents. Stay-at-home moms are getting together in book clubs and describing main characters as "jackasses" and "bitches". Educated fathers are complaining about the "shithead" that walked into his office during prep time. Elderly folk now regularly use terms such as "dingle berry" and "fuck face" when upset.
Blue-collar workers, known for their colourful language and use of rough terms, are leading the way in the (mis?) education of the country. Once thought of as the only social group with enough to fret vulgarly about, these workers have perfected the complaint. Years of under pay, cut-backs and pink slips have prepared this group of men and women to shine in this time of economic uncertainty and verbal expressionism. Office workers, geared in tailoured Brooks Brother suits and Bluetooth headsets have been seen sharing a pint down at the local pub in an effort to expand their vocab. Manicured CEO professionals are hanging around building sites to catch an earful of "shit and giggle" terminology to use in voicing their own frustrations with today's world and the unstable work environment.
With all that is on his plate as the incoming president, Obama doesn't have time to focus on the degradation of the American vocabulary. With his plans to rebuild the economy, increase jobs and thus, decrease unemployment, he hopes for a trickle down effect to take hold in our language. Otherwise, "we may all be fucked."
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Oh, The Spirit Has Arrived (in the form of a tree)
It's the sort of excitement that bubbles up with anticipation, every step a pure delight. Like unwrapping a piece of milk chocolate from shiny tin foil paper, you know what awaits you with every peel and tug of the covering, but just the act is rewarding in itself, the exposed chocolate the definitive and satisfying conclusion. We were going to get a tree today, a Christmas tree.
Faux-Christmas -- as I called it -- had occurred the day before with my father's side of the family. Not obscenely early, but still early enough to make the act feel a bit forced and un-Christmas like. Perhaps it was the lack of my own decorations around the house, I thought. Maybe I needed to get more into the good old Christmas spirit? And what better than the symbol of Christmas -- no, not Santa -- the tree! That classic balsam fir, "Oh, Christmas tree" carol-inspiring, bulb-wielding, light-twinkling holiday icon.
The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!
A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.
We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.
"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.
The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.
Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.
The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.
"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.
A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.
We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.
We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.
Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.
The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!
A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.
We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.
"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.
The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.
Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.
The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.
"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.
A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.
We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.
We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.
Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Keep... going...
I'm running. I'm running. I'm running. It's a burst of energy to keep going. Going. Going. Going. I pile on the duties and keep shuffling through the paperwork or everything else I have to do. Procrastination clouds over, a clogged flue to the chimney of productivity.
Coughing, I expel the last article before deadline and strive to make the crossing line. Just to perch in anticipation of release, muscles flexed, sprung and pumping forth. Again, another, a second helping. Bloated with responsibility I scratch for the ends, flitting strands of bridled twine. Woven sometimes carelessly and splayed. Harder to grasp. Harder to put through the eye and make the connection, the breakthrough, the beginning.
Coughing, I expel the last article before deadline and strive to make the crossing line. Just to perch in anticipation of release, muscles flexed, sprung and pumping forth. Again, another, a second helping. Bloated with responsibility I scratch for the ends, flitting strands of bridled twine. Woven sometimes carelessly and splayed. Harder to grasp. Harder to put through the eye and make the connection, the breakthrough, the beginning.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Nipping
The cold has come despite all my prayers and muttered expletives. Damn. I thought I'd have it this time. Perhaps global warming would mean something other than the eventual demise of the human race and our beloved planet. Oh, if only it meant sunshine and T-shirts in December, Popsicles being ingested rather than forming on our awnings.
In lew of all my bitching, I've decided to embrace this winter season. I only need a few things for this embrace to come full circle: skis and a ski pass. I'm hoping that I can take full advantage of this snow season and hit the slopes again; me on my skis, carving down the mountain, Erik on his board whipping behind, the sun on our faces, the hot chocolate piping hot in the lounge. Oh glorious ski days!
I'm also looking forward to snow angels, snow ball fights, sledding, snuggling fireside and ice skating. I just hope my blood thickens a bit so I'm not miserable why trying to attempt each. What can I say? I've always had a sensitivity to cold, no matter how many woolen sweaters and long john undershirts I layer on.
Plus, the American holiday season is something I hadn't experienced in two years, so I'm excited to get into the throngs of that! Mistletoe and elves, reindeer and Christmas specials -- the excitement!
So take that , Jack Frost! I'm ready, damn it. With chattering teeth or not, I'm ready.
In lew of all my bitching, I've decided to embrace this winter season. I only need a few things for this embrace to come full circle: skis and a ski pass. I'm hoping that I can take full advantage of this snow season and hit the slopes again; me on my skis, carving down the mountain, Erik on his board whipping behind, the sun on our faces, the hot chocolate piping hot in the lounge. Oh glorious ski days!
I'm also looking forward to snow angels, snow ball fights, sledding, snuggling fireside and ice skating. I just hope my blood thickens a bit so I'm not miserable why trying to attempt each. What can I say? I've always had a sensitivity to cold, no matter how many woolen sweaters and long john undershirts I layer on.
Plus, the American holiday season is something I hadn't experienced in two years, so I'm excited to get into the throngs of that! Mistletoe and elves, reindeer and Christmas specials -- the excitement!
So take that , Jack Frost! I'm ready, damn it. With chattering teeth or not, I'm ready.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Special today: manicurist woes
It was a spontaneous thought, provoked by days of agonizing pain. There's been this unwelcome twinge in my upper back and neck for a week or so, and no matter how hard I try to stretch, kneed or contort it out of me, it remains like an uninvited party pooper.
I was grumbling to myself and shifting uncomfortably in my seat at the breakfast table when I randomly thought of a bridal shower gift I had received: a half hour massage. Oh, glorious day! Why hadn't I thought of it before?
It was actually a gift package, a one-of-everything certificates, and I had already scratched off eyelash tinting (looked like I had smudge mascara beneath my lower lashes at first), a facial (where I was red-faced and peeling for a week afterward) and a scalp massage and deep conditioning treatment that was anything but. I was a little hesitant, since I wasn't immediately impressed with my other services but thought, hey, could it get any worse?
I called to make an appointment and to my surprise they had an opening in a few hours. And here I was, thinking that I better call and reserve now because I wouldn't be able to get in until next week. I envisioned more days filled with pain and not being able to look all the way right; nights of tossing and turning in bed, waking up stiff in the morning and constantly stretching my back. It was a relief and I jumped on the opportunity. "Sure, 11:15 is great!" I told the receptionist. "Would I be able to get the manicure today as well?"
"Well, your manicure has been voided because you were late to the appointment before."
"Really? When I talked to them that day, I explained that I was coming from out of town and don't have a cell phone, so couldn't call to let you know that I was running late. " I felt the blood rush to my face. They had mixed up the times and yes, okay, fine, I was running a little late but nothing too serious. We're talking 15 minutes! It was the day before my wedding for crying out loud, and this was my nail appointment! Give the bride a little benefit of the doubt, eh?
"Okay, Let me check with my boss. Do you still want to come in at 11:15?"
Driving into town I obsessed with the time, constantly glancing at the minutes as they changed. There was no way I was going to be late for this appointment. I need this damn knot out of my back and they're not going to void it!
Melanie brought me to the back room. She was rotund and smiley with hairspray-matted hair and layered black clothing. I followed her to the third room where she explained what our session would entail. I happily slid under the sheets and pressed my face into the halo.
Thirty minutes and six classical songs later, I exited feeling a little limber but definitely not cured.
"Thanks Molly. Lisa is ready for your manicure right over there," she said and turned on her heals to go clean up the room.
"Oh, but. So, I'm getting a manicure?" I stammered as I walked towards the black towel covered table. Lisa was of Asian decent and and pushed her butterfly framed glasses up while reaching for nail files on her tip-toes. I had prepared myself for not getting one and found this both a kink in my newly formed afternoon plan and a little frazzling, but why the heck not?
I choose a dark merlot colour and wheeled myself up to the table. It began silently. I glanced around the room at the pedicure massage chairs, the sterilizers with fingerprints muddying up the glass covers and at "Lisa's" small framed wedding photo to my left.
"You're married now, right?" She asked. How did she know? I thought for a moment I was being spied on, but then logic returned and I remembered that I must have mentioned it in one of my previous trips.
"Yes. almost two months now." I was hopeful to return to the silence we were previously enjoying, but Lisa was not.
"I'm married. My husband is a marine... He has problem you know?"
This was heavy ground. A marine with problems? I was hoping to numb my mind with such things as the weather and local gossip -- not like I know any -- but Lisa was obviously not.
She continued to talk about how she got married at the age of 21. How her husband had moved all around the U.S. and even went to Iraq while she stayed in Maine. She talked about her 14 month old daughter and their disciplinary strategies, how she wanted to let her daughter out of the corner, but he said no.
I came to know that her husband's mother was a heavy drinker and drugger and wanted nothing to do with Lisa's child and that they didn't get along at all. That her husband constantly fights with them and they offered him no support when he was overseas and completely relied on her.
I know that Lisa's mother has three grandchildren now. That her family came to Maine four years ago and her sister and her husband live in Maine as well.
She wanted to be a Doctor or a lawyer. Not a beautician.
Her husband is disabled. "That's' what they say, disabled. And he is. He needs help," she told me. But he wants to go back into the military and she thinks he's selfish because he is a good father and husband. She'll leave him if he doesn't get help. She's thinking about it.
Her eyes lit up as she spoke about college in Virginia and how she was in a sorority. She had a loud voice despite her petite size and partied in D.C. Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.
I sat there, my hands in hers, listening and nodding. I chirped in with "oh, yeah" and "right" a few times, but basically listened as she unloaded everything that was wrong in her life onto me and my nails.
When she was finally finished, she looked at me and shrugged. Her lips pouted in a disappointment, "okay, you're finished."
I felt like I should give her a hug. Tell her I'd call her.
She hovered as I paid the cost. (Yeah, they charged me the difference of my manicure from switching it with the eyebrow wax I was never going to have there.) I tried to keep the conversation going with the receptionist so Lisa would walk away and I could tip her. She didn't, so I tipped her anyway and said my goodbyes. I wanted to tip her more.
I studied my nails against the black of the steering wheel. Was it all just for pity tips? Naw. I put on my seat belt and stretched the sore muscle in my back.
I was grumbling to myself and shifting uncomfortably in my seat at the breakfast table when I randomly thought of a bridal shower gift I had received: a half hour massage. Oh, glorious day! Why hadn't I thought of it before?
It was actually a gift package, a one-of-everything certificates, and I had already scratched off eyelash tinting (looked like I had smudge mascara beneath my lower lashes at first), a facial (where I was red-faced and peeling for a week afterward) and a scalp massage and deep conditioning treatment that was anything but. I was a little hesitant, since I wasn't immediately impressed with my other services but thought, hey, could it get any worse?
I called to make an appointment and to my surprise they had an opening in a few hours. And here I was, thinking that I better call and reserve now because I wouldn't be able to get in until next week. I envisioned more days filled with pain and not being able to look all the way right; nights of tossing and turning in bed, waking up stiff in the morning and constantly stretching my back. It was a relief and I jumped on the opportunity. "Sure, 11:15 is great!" I told the receptionist. "Would I be able to get the manicure today as well?"
"Well, your manicure has been voided because you were late to the appointment before."
"Really? When I talked to them that day, I explained that I was coming from out of town and don't have a cell phone, so couldn't call to let you know that I was running late. " I felt the blood rush to my face. They had mixed up the times and yes, okay, fine, I was running a little late but nothing too serious. We're talking 15 minutes! It was the day before my wedding for crying out loud, and this was my nail appointment! Give the bride a little benefit of the doubt, eh?
"Okay, Let me check with my boss. Do you still want to come in at 11:15?"
Driving into town I obsessed with the time, constantly glancing at the minutes as they changed. There was no way I was going to be late for this appointment. I need this damn knot out of my back and they're not going to void it!
Melanie brought me to the back room. She was rotund and smiley with hairspray-matted hair and layered black clothing. I followed her to the third room where she explained what our session would entail. I happily slid under the sheets and pressed my face into the halo.
Thirty minutes and six classical songs later, I exited feeling a little limber but definitely not cured.
"Thanks Molly. Lisa is ready for your manicure right over there," she said and turned on her heals to go clean up the room.
"Oh, but. So, I'm getting a manicure?" I stammered as I walked towards the black towel covered table. Lisa was of Asian decent and and pushed her butterfly framed glasses up while reaching for nail files on her tip-toes. I had prepared myself for not getting one and found this both a kink in my newly formed afternoon plan and a little frazzling, but why the heck not?
I choose a dark merlot colour and wheeled myself up to the table. It began silently. I glanced around the room at the pedicure massage chairs, the sterilizers with fingerprints muddying up the glass covers and at "Lisa's" small framed wedding photo to my left.
"You're married now, right?" She asked. How did she know? I thought for a moment I was being spied on, but then logic returned and I remembered that I must have mentioned it in one of my previous trips.
"Yes. almost two months now." I was hopeful to return to the silence we were previously enjoying, but Lisa was not.
"I'm married. My husband is a marine... He has problem you know?"
This was heavy ground. A marine with problems? I was hoping to numb my mind with such things as the weather and local gossip -- not like I know any -- but Lisa was obviously not.
She continued to talk about how she got married at the age of 21. How her husband had moved all around the U.S. and even went to Iraq while she stayed in Maine. She talked about her 14 month old daughter and their disciplinary strategies, how she wanted to let her daughter out of the corner, but he said no.
I came to know that her husband's mother was a heavy drinker and drugger and wanted nothing to do with Lisa's child and that they didn't get along at all. That her husband constantly fights with them and they offered him no support when he was overseas and completely relied on her.
I know that Lisa's mother has three grandchildren now. That her family came to Maine four years ago and her sister and her husband live in Maine as well.
She wanted to be a Doctor or a lawyer. Not a beautician.
Her husband is disabled. "That's' what they say, disabled. And he is. He needs help," she told me. But he wants to go back into the military and she thinks he's selfish because he is a good father and husband. She'll leave him if he doesn't get help. She's thinking about it.
Her eyes lit up as she spoke about college in Virginia and how she was in a sorority. She had a loud voice despite her petite size and partied in D.C. Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.
I sat there, my hands in hers, listening and nodding. I chirped in with "oh, yeah" and "right" a few times, but basically listened as she unloaded everything that was wrong in her life onto me and my nails.
When she was finally finished, she looked at me and shrugged. Her lips pouted in a disappointment, "okay, you're finished."
I felt like I should give her a hug. Tell her I'd call her.
She hovered as I paid the cost. (Yeah, they charged me the difference of my manicure from switching it with the eyebrow wax I was never going to have there.) I tried to keep the conversation going with the receptionist so Lisa would walk away and I could tip her. She didn't, so I tipped her anyway and said my goodbyes. I wanted to tip her more.
I studied my nails against the black of the steering wheel. Was it all just for pity tips? Naw. I put on my seat belt and stretched the sore muscle in my back.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
It has been a long time...
Wow, how long has it been now? I feel like I haven't written on here in ages and look at all the major life events that have happened! Shame on me for being emotionally overwhelmed and in turn avoiding this blog in a lame attempt to stifle an outpouring of emotion.
So, I suppose I owe it to you all -- if there even is a "you all" who still read this blog -- to recap what has been going on in the life of Molz.
On Mother's Day (05 2008) I made a phone call to my Mum to wish her a happy day of the Mom. Instead of the usual friendly banter of what's new, it took an unpleasant turn to worry. She was having trouble swallowing and an endoscopy had found a mass in her throat/esophagus. Now, let's be honest, we all want to be positive and light-hearted about such findings, but with our family history, worry was the order of the day. Of course, I didn't let my Mother know my distraught, and reassured her that all may be okay. Meanwhile, what was really going on with me was an overpowering feeling of doom; a dark shadow that was swiftly spreading throughout my body whispering the words, oh, no.
Over the next few weeks we found that it was indeed cancerous. Things deteriorated to the point where my mother couldn't eat. I had planned on coming home to visit mid June anyway, so against my instinct and out of respect for my mother who requested I wait, I came home as planned (okay, I bumped it up a few days, but she doesn't know). This trip gave me a chance to see for myself, first hand, what was really going on. Being on the other side of the globe and getting information second hand was incredibly difficult and upon my arrival, it was obvious -- I was moving back home.
That leads into "THE BIG MOVE BACK".
I returned to Thailand and my supportive fiance, and together we closed everything up, ready to move back in 3 weeks. (this is a long story in itself and will have to wait.) The only thing that I regret is that my beloved cat, Chumpoo, could not come with us. How I miss that cat. I can't even explain to you how much that cat meant to me. She was my confidant, little sidekick and best friend. Yeah, I said it, so what? Roll your eyes if you must, that cat was one in a million.
(Re)welcome to America:
The theme song was "I want to live in Ah-mer-ica" from West Side Story. We were looking at the positive. We were ready to see some family and spend some time with friends. Ah, the crisp New England air (in July), the "red snappers" hot dogs, pot roast and traffic rules -- it was good to be back. We jumped from place to place, home to home, pullout couch to pullout couch, visiting and trying not to brag of life exotic.
I went to doctors appointments, double-checked facts and cooked and cleaned. I was here and it was much better than being on the outside and helpless. I was glad to be with my Mum, I love her tremendously.
Sound The Wedding bells!
Screw September 2009, let's go with THIS September! Why not? We're here. My Mum will be there, older relatives... let's do this! (In hindsight -- holy crap. We planned a wedding in 2 months. That's crazy! But then again, it just goes to show that you don't really need a year + to plan. Although in some aspects, I wish I had.) So September 13, 2008 was deemed the day o' love between Molly and Erik and off we went on crazy long-distance planning (Erik was in Mass at the time and I in Maine with my Mum). Stress and more stress, tears of both joy and extreme frustration, hugs and shrugs, kisses and "kiss my ass", and all the other lovely struggles of a new couple trying to cope with planning the wedding they want while also readjusting to life in America and trying to assist an ailing family member. Oh, what fun! But we got through it.
The day was pretty much perfect and everyone had a blast. (this lends itself to a longer piece as well). Another major life occurrence complete!
So as you see, we've been very busy with life. Every challenge and quibble that crosses our path we take in stride. It's all part of the crazy journey of life. And what a crazy journey it has been and continues to be.
So, I suppose I owe it to you all -- if there even is a "you all" who still read this blog -- to recap what has been going on in the life of Molz.
On Mother's Day (05 2008) I made a phone call to my Mum to wish her a happy day of the Mom. Instead of the usual friendly banter of what's new, it took an unpleasant turn to worry. She was having trouble swallowing and an endoscopy had found a mass in her throat/esophagus. Now, let's be honest, we all want to be positive and light-hearted about such findings, but with our family history, worry was the order of the day. Of course, I didn't let my Mother know my distraught, and reassured her that all may be okay. Meanwhile, what was really going on with me was an overpowering feeling of doom; a dark shadow that was swiftly spreading throughout my body whispering the words, oh, no.
Over the next few weeks we found that it was indeed cancerous. Things deteriorated to the point where my mother couldn't eat. I had planned on coming home to visit mid June anyway, so against my instinct and out of respect for my mother who requested I wait, I came home as planned (okay, I bumped it up a few days, but she doesn't know). This trip gave me a chance to see for myself, first hand, what was really going on. Being on the other side of the globe and getting information second hand was incredibly difficult and upon my arrival, it was obvious -- I was moving back home.
That leads into "THE BIG MOVE BACK".
I returned to Thailand and my supportive fiance, and together we closed everything up, ready to move back in 3 weeks. (this is a long story in itself and will have to wait.) The only thing that I regret is that my beloved cat, Chumpoo, could not come with us. How I miss that cat. I can't even explain to you how much that cat meant to me. She was my confidant, little sidekick and best friend. Yeah, I said it, so what? Roll your eyes if you must, that cat was one in a million.
(Re)welcome to America:
The theme song was "I want to live in Ah-mer-ica" from West Side Story. We were looking at the positive. We were ready to see some family and spend some time with friends. Ah, the crisp New England air (in July), the "red snappers" hot dogs, pot roast and traffic rules -- it was good to be back. We jumped from place to place, home to home, pullout couch to pullout couch, visiting and trying not to brag of life exotic.
I went to doctors appointments, double-checked facts and cooked and cleaned. I was here and it was much better than being on the outside and helpless. I was glad to be with my Mum, I love her tremendously.
Sound The Wedding bells!
Screw September 2009, let's go with THIS September! Why not? We're here. My Mum will be there, older relatives... let's do this! (In hindsight -- holy crap. We planned a wedding in 2 months. That's crazy! But then again, it just goes to show that you don't really need a year + to plan. Although in some aspects, I wish I had.) So September 13, 2008 was deemed the day o' love between Molly and Erik and off we went on crazy long-distance planning (Erik was in Mass at the time and I in Maine with my Mum). Stress and more stress, tears of both joy and extreme frustration, hugs and shrugs, kisses and "kiss my ass", and all the other lovely struggles of a new couple trying to cope with planning the wedding they want while also readjusting to life in America and trying to assist an ailing family member. Oh, what fun! But we got through it.
The day was pretty much perfect and everyone had a blast. (this lends itself to a longer piece as well). Another major life occurrence complete!
So as you see, we've been very busy with life. Every challenge and quibble that crosses our path we take in stride. It's all part of the crazy journey of life. And what a crazy journey it has been and continues to be.
Friday, March 28, 2008
In a Flash
Sunday, Easter Sunday actually, was the second time my life has been saved by wearing a helmet.
It was a loud smack of plastic and metal — then black. My head was heavy and my vision was cloudy as if I were pulling it up through a thick fog. I was half on my side — I think. I remember rolling over to find my fiancé, face down in the cement with the motorbike on top of him, a pool of blood where his face lay on the pavement.
That’s when I went all adrenalin.
I scrambled across the street, my depth perception off. He appeared close, but was far to reach. Like a dream where you try to run but go nowhere as if stuck in quicksand, I couldn’t get to him fast enough. I tried to wake him. Did I shake him? I don’t remember. I called his name. I tried not to move him too much. I think I felt his pulse. I looked around. Where was I? Brightly lit storefronts and Thai faces, pavement and night. I think someone was wearing a pink shirt. They were standing back — the faces — off to the side. I lifted my lead-weight body and struggled toward them.
“Hospital! Ambulance! Someone call…” I trailed off. Why weren’t they doing anything? “Hospital! Call an Ambulance! Help!” I screamed. I think I shook one of them, panic setting in. Oh, shit. I have to tell them in
Did I pull out my phone and dial the emergency number, shoving it in a Thai’s hand? I may have. It’s unclear. I stumbled back to Erik. “Erik! Baby, wake up!” He moaned and lifted his head off the pavement a little. I could see his bewilderment. “Oh my God! Erik. Thank God, don’t move!” I turned back to the crowd, “Help! Hospital!” Erik lifted himself up, shaking his head to clear away his own settled fog. He touched his face and his eyes widened at the realization. That’s when I became a bit hysterical. Because I think it sank in at that moment for me, the severity of what just happened.
“Tighten up!” He said to me as the tears flowed from my swollen eyes. Oh my God he’s alive. Thank God he’s alive, and walking. Oh my God he’s walking. And talking. “Is it bad?” he asked me. “Okay, um.” I swallowed hard, catching my breath and trying to focus. “Um, okay, there’s a deep cut above your lip, and your chin. Oh God, you’re bleeding everywhere. Uh, shit. Are you okay?”
“Molly! Get a hold of yourself!” he snapped at me. I did need to get a hold of myself, but for crying out loud, he was just unconscious in a pool of blood and I was relieved he was okay. “Let’s just go. Come on!” He said in his haze.
“Erik, baby, sit down.
“Okay. You’re right.”
“Somebody help! HELP!” Hos-pi-tal!”
“Calm down.”
“Why won’t they help us? HELP!” I choked.
Blackness
“Call Eva. Just call Eva.” I plead with them, knowing that she, my best friend, would know what to do. I closed the hatch hastily and off we went, my hand still in Erik’s as he fell in and out of awareness. A mixed group of paramedics, if one can call them that, surrounded the bed, attending to him. My eyes met those of a Thai boy, he couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old, as he held Erik’s head in place. I smiled meekly at him. Hold it tight.
We got to the hospital in good time. Surprising as I regularly see ambulances stuck in traffic jams, no one budging an inch for the injured. I don’t remember much of the ride, because I think I was going in and out of hysterics. Blackness. I remember crying uncontrollably, then collecting myself in a second’s time if needed. Jesus Christ, I was a fucking mess.
Erik received stitches in his upper lip and chin. I remember them putting a needle into his lip, blood oozing out as he shut his eyes, clenched in pain. That’s when they took me away to clean my wounds. “Erik, baby, are you okay?” I yelled across the hospital.
“I’m okay. I’m right here.” He answered back. We continued that for some time, until a stern nurse came and told me to shush up. It only made me want to know more. “Are you okay?” I called again, giving her the stink eye in defiance. The Thai people all around me were yelling to each other. “Thank you.” I turned to the nice nurse who was cleaning my wounds. Minutes later Eva and her Uncle Bruce arrived. They were on top of everything. And from then on, I relaxed. Well, by relaxed I mean I lost it. I just let the whole thing crash down on me and released all my suppressed fear — I thought he was dead.
The following day we went back to claim the bike. It had an estimated 4500 baht worth of damage to it. But it’s our helmets that scared me the most. Big gashes and scraps mark the sides and tops. My visor in broken in several places and Erik’s is completely broken off.
Imagine if those were our heads? I wouldn’t be telling you this story right now.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Fashionistas Fashion Nightmare and Other Oddly Paired Couplings of Clothes
Thais lova-ze- leggings. Was it Mary-Kate (or Ashley) Olsen who brought the early 90's raging tights back for more a few years ago? I remember pictures of them in People Magazine and other celebrity obsessed publications rocking an over sized sweater and calf-length leggings. I had to do a double-take-I at first thought it was a picture of me in third grade.
Comfortable, semi-flattering on the right body type, fancy-free when paired with skirts as the whole "sit like a lady!" thing is dismissed and stretchy-- you got to hand it to leggings, they've come back like the Spice Girls tour. Every shop in Thailand has a mannequin with a pair of disgustingly 90's leggings (you know the ones, with lace on the bottom {I think I just threw up a little in my mouth}) and paired with an over sized shirt/dress.
Just the other day I was on Phi Phi Island, perusing the shops for something to go home with, when my friend and I saw an item we both liked. "I could use a dress in this colour," I said as I removed it from the rack.
"I'm a fan of the sea-foam," my friend replied holding the dress up to her shoulders so that it draped down her body. "Wait, is this a dress... or a shirt?"
"What do you mean?" I chuckled back, proceeding to hold my black version up to my body.
Each fell to just under the crotch, Dangerously mini. But was it intended to be a dress? Could it be? I mean, come on, Thailand is famous for it's bar-girl scene... but seriously, really? We exchanged quizzical looks as the Thai salesman stood in the background. We didn't want to seem clueless, but, well, we were. "Oh, I get it. The legging combo!" I pointed to a mannequin in the standard attire.
"Come on. Just make a decision. Shirt or dress!" my friend exclaimed as she shoved the shirt/dress back on the rack. "That just makes me not want to buy it. It's confused for crying out loud. Who wants confused clothes?"
I think on average, 4 out of 5 Thais rock the legging combo. Mary-Kate or Ashley must be proud. A whole country is now obsessed with the stretchy, clinging clothes item. I can't even find a decent pair of pants... or a normal shirt for that matter.
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