In the past couple of days, I've started planning our annual holiday open house. I love entertaining but it's so hard to get everyone together in one place at the same time. This year, instead of trying to do it in the crazy few weeks before Christmas, I've decided to wait until the Saturday between Christmas and New Year's, when the big holiday rush has died down a bit.
Last year's party was a big success, although I had been miserably sick, recovering from strep throat with a fever that I just couldn't shake. We had about forty relatives, some neighbors and very close friends at the house. I made mini bacon-and-cheese quiches, hot crab dip, and shrimp cocktail, some baked ziti, and bought some catered food too...hot roast beef, green beans Amandine, roasted red bliss potatoes, and--undoubtedly the MOST popular item on the buffet line--Chick-Fil-A chicken nuggets! Man, those things just about disappeared right before my eyes.
For dessert, I made a few trays of brownies and dozens of different kinds of Christmas cookies. The other big hit of the party was the electric, multi-tiered chocolate fountain that I won from my office's holiday gift exchange. I cranked that sucker up and put out long wooden skewers and yellow cake cubes, pretzels, and marshmallows for dipping.
This year the invite list has gotten bigger...I'm a little afraid that everyone is actually going to RSVP "yes!" Oh well, the more, the merrier, right?
Next steps: print the invites, mail them, and test some new recipes.
Any good recipe suggestions for a buffet?
In My HeadSunday, October 28, 2007
I was so caught up in the excitement of the Foo Fighters concert a few weeks ago that I neglected to post a few pictures I'd taken the following day in Wildwood, NJ.
Our friends were kind enough to invite us to spend the night at their condo in North Wildwood with them after the concert, so we wouldn't have to make the long drive home so late at night.
I spent my childhood summers here and I loved it. I still do. When I was a kid, going "down the shore," as we Philadelphians say, was a magical time. My extended family owned a few houses throughout North Wildwood, on the bayside, and it was always so beautiful and peaceful there.
I was never much of a beach person, but I would've spent our entire vacations on the boardwalk if I'd had my way. For as long as I can remember, the loud dance music blasting out of the speakers from the amusements, the screaming sirens and bells of the many arcades, and the smell of the sea and funnel cake and french fries mesmerized me. I loved roller coasters--still do, in fact--and I would ride them over and over again until I was dizzy. I loved the log flume, the fun house, the ferris wheel, the Gravitron. There wasn't a single ride I didn't like there. And during the day, I'd beg my mom to take me and my cousins to the waterpark on the end of Morey's Pier. We'd spend hours riding down the waterslides and tubing through the lazy river pool that ran the perimeter of the park.
As I got older, the boardwalk became a place for me to meet and hook up with guys, although the amusement rides never lost any of their appeal for me, either. I remember the painstaking process of getting ready to go out to the boardwalk at night: slapping on as much eyeshadow and lipgloss as possible, teasing up my hair and practically shellacking it with Aqua Net, and picking out just the right outfit in the hopes of finding a cute guy on the boards. I always despaired over my super-curly hair that went wild with frizz from the humidity of the coastal air.
Eventually, we stopped going to Wildwood, though I can't quite remember why. I guess I just grew out of it. Hard to believe I could outgrow something I loved so much, but that's life, I guess.
Until earlier this month, I hadn't been there in many years. I was happy to see that the boardwalk hasn't changed much, although it was much less crowded off-season. Gateway 26, my favorite arcade, is still there. Somewhere in my parents' attic, there is a Tupperware container with upwards of 20,000 Gateway 26 Skee-ball tickets. Too bad I didn't have them with me then! Sam's Pizza is still there. Kohr Brothers ice cream and Curley's Fries are still there, as is Douglas Fudge, of course.
The overwhelming number of new condominiums throughout Anglesea and North Wildwood did surprise me, though. It seemed like almost everything there was new construction. And expensive!
Here are a few pics. Enjoy!
Our friends were kind enough to invite us to spend the night at their condo in North Wildwood with them after the concert, so we wouldn't have to make the long drive home so late at night.
I spent my childhood summers here and I loved it. I still do. When I was a kid, going "down the shore," as we Philadelphians say, was a magical time. My extended family owned a few houses throughout North Wildwood, on the bayside, and it was always so beautiful and peaceful there.
I was never much of a beach person, but I would've spent our entire vacations on the boardwalk if I'd had my way. For as long as I can remember, the loud dance music blasting out of the speakers from the amusements, the screaming sirens and bells of the many arcades, and the smell of the sea and funnel cake and french fries mesmerized me. I loved roller coasters--still do, in fact--and I would ride them over and over again until I was dizzy. I loved the log flume, the fun house, the ferris wheel, the Gravitron. There wasn't a single ride I didn't like there. And during the day, I'd beg my mom to take me and my cousins to the waterpark on the end of Morey's Pier. We'd spend hours riding down the waterslides and tubing through the lazy river pool that ran the perimeter of the park.
As I got older, the boardwalk became a place for me to meet and hook up with guys, although the amusement rides never lost any of their appeal for me, either. I remember the painstaking process of getting ready to go out to the boardwalk at night: slapping on as much eyeshadow and lipgloss as possible, teasing up my hair and practically shellacking it with Aqua Net, and picking out just the right outfit in the hopes of finding a cute guy on the boards. I always despaired over my super-curly hair that went wild with frizz from the humidity of the coastal air.
Eventually, we stopped going to Wildwood, though I can't quite remember why. I guess I just grew out of it. Hard to believe I could outgrow something I loved so much, but that's life, I guess.
Until earlier this month, I hadn't been there in many years. I was happy to see that the boardwalk hasn't changed much, although it was much less crowded off-season. Gateway 26, my favorite arcade, is still there. Somewhere in my parents' attic, there is a Tupperware container with upwards of 20,000 Gateway 26 Skee-ball tickets. Too bad I didn't have them with me then! Sam's Pizza is still there. Kohr Brothers ice cream and Curley's Fries are still there, as is Douglas Fudge, of course.
The overwhelming number of new condominiums throughout Anglesea and North Wildwood did surprise me, though. It seemed like almost everything there was new construction. And expensive!
Here are a few pics. Enjoy!
Labels: childhood, family, friends, jersey shore, memories, nostalgia
Posted by Lori at 10/28/2007 06:30:00 PM
|
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I usually don't write about terribly personal things on here, but this has been weighing on my mind for a while now and I needed to get it out.
If you've either been a longtime reader of this blog, or if you've ever just delved back into the archives here, you may remember this post I wrote way back in January 2006 about a friend of mine.
We had been talking more frequently throughout the autumn of last year and I'd known that he was still deep in the throes of his addictions, but having been through it before, I also knew that there was nothing I could do but stand back and watch. It was heart-wrenching and frustrating and scary to be in such a helpless position.
After the new year, I'd stopped hearing from him. For over two months, it was as if he'd totally dropped off the face of the planet, and I felt completely sick about it. I knew that his lack of communication with me had to signal his absolute descent into darkness. I even worried that he was dead.
Then one day in mid-March, my cell phone rang. It was him. He was a wreck: bawling hysterically, telling me he'd done something really awful.
"Did you kill someone?" I asked him tentatively.
"No," he sniffled. "You know I'd never do that."
"Well then, it couldn't be that bad," I replied. "Just tell me what's going on. You know I've been your friend forever, and there's nothing that you could tell me that would change that."
He went on to describe the existence he'd been leading in the past several months. Living on the streets intermittently, getting high with his girlfriend and god knows who else, having the electricity and gas shut off in the home they rented together.
Desperate, he decided one day to steal some blank payroll checks from his employer. He told me he forged a check large enough to cover the utility payments, but I had my doubts about that. After all, he was an addict, and addicts will do just about anything to finance their habits.
Of course, he got caught. He lost his job and his employer pressed charges.
Sobbing, he told me that he was going to go away for a long time, and that he just wanted me to know about it.
I'd never heard him sound so distraught in all the years I'd known him. I immediately left work that day and went to see him.
His appearance shocked and terrified me. David had always been lanky, but now he was nearly skeletal. He looked so filthy that I even hesitated to hug him. His clothes were stained and pocked with cigarette burns. His work boots were blackened, and the soles were coming loose. His lips were cracked and his skin ashy. The thing that scared me the most was the wild look in his eyes. I'd never, ever seen him like that before.
I only spent about an hour with him that day. I took him to Wawa and, telling him that he looked like he needed a meal, bought him a hoagie and a soda, both of which he refused. Most of our visit was comprised of him sobbing and wailing and me feeling about a million different emotions and not knowing exactly how to respond to him.
When I left him, I told him to take care of himself and to let me know if he needed anything.
Twenty-four hours later, he attempted suicide.
He swallowed a large amount of several different kinds of prescription drugs. Mostly anti-psychotics. Lithium.
No one I've known (at least not to my knowledge) has ever tried to kill themselves. This was a life-changing event for me to witness. The most horrible thing about it for me was that I didn't even know about it until a week later.
I hadn't heard from him and figured that he had probably turned himself in to the police. But one morning, exactly a week after I'd seen him, I got a voicemail on my cell phone. In the message, he sounded completely out of it, and he stated that he'd had a "little accident" but that things were going to be fine.
On a hunch, I immediately called the hospital closest to his house and asked for him. For some reason I've always had a weird connection to him. Probably because we've known each other for so long.
My heart rate shot into hyperspeed when the operator confirmed that he was there and connected me to his room.
He told me what had happened, and I just sat there listening, open-mouthed. He told me that he knew what he'd have to do. No more drinking. No more drugs. No more girlfriend. He'd have to move back to his mom's house, maybe go to rehab, and work on rebuilding his life.
Gently, I asked, "What about NA? Are you going to start going to meetings?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "I need help. I finally realize that, Lori."
As of today, I am happy to report that he has been substance-free for almost seven months. This is a major accomplishment for him, as it's the first time he's been clean and sober since he was twelve years old.
He started going to NA meetings every day after he got out of the hospital. He got a sponsor there and has made friends with other recovering addicts.
Also, he has been rehired as a dialysis technician for a company that had previously fired him and had labeled him as "unrehireable."
He has started patching up relationships with his family.
And he went to court this summer and completely avoided jail time. Instead, he was made to pay fines and to perform sixty-four hours of community service, which I believe he has already completed.
He and I have drifted apart somewhat as he has been creating a new life for himself. But I am incredibly proud of him no matter what. I always believed in him, and I always knew that he could do this if he really, really wanted it badly enough.
So this agnostic has to admit to herself that sometimes, miracles really do happen.
If you've either been a longtime reader of this blog, or if you've ever just delved back into the archives here, you may remember this post I wrote way back in January 2006 about a friend of mine.
We had been talking more frequently throughout the autumn of last year and I'd known that he was still deep in the throes of his addictions, but having been through it before, I also knew that there was nothing I could do but stand back and watch. It was heart-wrenching and frustrating and scary to be in such a helpless position.
After the new year, I'd stopped hearing from him. For over two months, it was as if he'd totally dropped off the face of the planet, and I felt completely sick about it. I knew that his lack of communication with me had to signal his absolute descent into darkness. I even worried that he was dead.
Then one day in mid-March, my cell phone rang. It was him. He was a wreck: bawling hysterically, telling me he'd done something really awful.
"Did you kill someone?" I asked him tentatively.
"No," he sniffled. "You know I'd never do that."
"Well then, it couldn't be that bad," I replied. "Just tell me what's going on. You know I've been your friend forever, and there's nothing that you could tell me that would change that."
He went on to describe the existence he'd been leading in the past several months. Living on the streets intermittently, getting high with his girlfriend and god knows who else, having the electricity and gas shut off in the home they rented together.
Desperate, he decided one day to steal some blank payroll checks from his employer. He told me he forged a check large enough to cover the utility payments, but I had my doubts about that. After all, he was an addict, and addicts will do just about anything to finance their habits.
Of course, he got caught. He lost his job and his employer pressed charges.
Sobbing, he told me that he was going to go away for a long time, and that he just wanted me to know about it.
I'd never heard him sound so distraught in all the years I'd known him. I immediately left work that day and went to see him.
His appearance shocked and terrified me. David had always been lanky, but now he was nearly skeletal. He looked so filthy that I even hesitated to hug him. His clothes were stained and pocked with cigarette burns. His work boots were blackened, and the soles were coming loose. His lips were cracked and his skin ashy. The thing that scared me the most was the wild look in his eyes. I'd never, ever seen him like that before.
I only spent about an hour with him that day. I took him to Wawa and, telling him that he looked like he needed a meal, bought him a hoagie and a soda, both of which he refused. Most of our visit was comprised of him sobbing and wailing and me feeling about a million different emotions and not knowing exactly how to respond to him.
When I left him, I told him to take care of himself and to let me know if he needed anything.
Twenty-four hours later, he attempted suicide.
He swallowed a large amount of several different kinds of prescription drugs. Mostly anti-psychotics. Lithium.
No one I've known (at least not to my knowledge) has ever tried to kill themselves. This was a life-changing event for me to witness. The most horrible thing about it for me was that I didn't even know about it until a week later.
I hadn't heard from him and figured that he had probably turned himself in to the police. But one morning, exactly a week after I'd seen him, I got a voicemail on my cell phone. In the message, he sounded completely out of it, and he stated that he'd had a "little accident" but that things were going to be fine.
On a hunch, I immediately called the hospital closest to his house and asked for him. For some reason I've always had a weird connection to him. Probably because we've known each other for so long.
My heart rate shot into hyperspeed when the operator confirmed that he was there and connected me to his room.
He told me what had happened, and I just sat there listening, open-mouthed. He told me that he knew what he'd have to do. No more drinking. No more drugs. No more girlfriend. He'd have to move back to his mom's house, maybe go to rehab, and work on rebuilding his life.
Gently, I asked, "What about NA? Are you going to start going to meetings?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "I need help. I finally realize that, Lori."
As of today, I am happy to report that he has been substance-free for almost seven months. This is a major accomplishment for him, as it's the first time he's been clean and sober since he was twelve years old.
He started going to NA meetings every day after he got out of the hospital. He got a sponsor there and has made friends with other recovering addicts.
Also, he has been rehired as a dialysis technician for a company that had previously fired him and had labeled him as "unrehireable."
He has started patching up relationships with his family.
And he went to court this summer and completely avoided jail time. Instead, he was made to pay fines and to perform sixty-four hours of community service, which I believe he has already completed.
He and I have drifted apart somewhat as he has been creating a new life for himself. But I am incredibly proud of him no matter what. I always believed in him, and I always knew that he could do this if he really, really wanted it badly enough.
So this agnostic has to admit to herself that sometimes, miracles really do happen.
Labels: deep thoughts, friends, life events, memories
Posted by Lori at 9/26/2007 08:40:00 PM
|
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
I busted out some of the old-school jams tonight while I was working on my 'puter. Right now I'm listening to "Rapper's Delight" by The Sugarhill Gang.
Back in the late 90s, there was a resurgence of interest in these forefathers of hip-hop and they did a small club tour. One of the stops was The Lagoon in Essington, PA, which was (sad but true) one of my haunts back in the day. I'll get to that in a future post.
Somehow, two of my girlfriends and I got pulled up onstage with The Sugarhill Gang by their bodyguards/roadies. It was surreal and hilarious. I got to do the Bump with Master Gee. I only wish I had pictures.
Since then, whenever I hear "Rapper's Delight" or "Apache," I just laugh.
Good times, y'all.
Back in the late 90s, there was a resurgence of interest in these forefathers of hip-hop and they did a small club tour. One of the stops was The Lagoon in Essington, PA, which was (sad but true) one of my haunts back in the day. I'll get to that in a future post.
Somehow, two of my girlfriends and I got pulled up onstage with The Sugarhill Gang by their bodyguards/roadies. It was surreal and hilarious. I got to do the Bump with Master Gee. I only wish I had pictures.
Since then, whenever I hear "Rapper's Delight" or "Apache," I just laugh.
Good times, y'all.
Labels: friends, funny stuff, memories, music
Posted by Lori at 9/25/2007 09:58:00 PM
|
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Teri's next question for me:
If the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World were still around, which one would you most like to see?
This one is a no-brainer for me! The only "ancient wonder" that is still in existence is the Great Pyramid at Giza, and that is definitely what I want to visit!
I've been interested in Egyptology since I was young. NERD ALERT!! From grades three through seven, I took part in a special supplementary program at school called ATP (Academically Talented Program...geez, wasn't I just SO SPECIAL? Not.). Once a week during the school day, I would get on a bus with three or four of my classmates and spend a few hours at the school district's Intermediate Unit.
ATP was so freaking cool. We got to do all kinds of stuff that we never would've had the chance to do in our "real" classes. In fourth grade, we spent half the year learning about the Milky Way. The final project required us to learn how to write a music program in Basic on the computer and to write a poem that tied into the specific planet of our choosing. I picked a piece from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" and somehow managed to write a Basic program on my little Radio Shack Tandy PC that synchronized my poem to the music.
Anyway, in fifth grade, we studied ancient Egyptian life and culture in ATP. Part of our studies included learning how to read and write basic hieroglyphics. It was unbelievably fun! Here's a site where you can see your name in hieroglyphics. One of these days, I'm going to get myself a little gold cartouche charm with my name in hieroglyphics.
Later, when I was 18, the second tattoo I got (of the five that I have) was a blue Egyptian ankh...the symbol for life and immortality. It's on my left shoulder blade.
My friend PJ has actually been to the Pyramids and I must admit I am incredibly envious of her for that reason! Someday I hope to make it there myself. The closest I've ever been to the Pyramid is when my mom and I stayed at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas in 2003! Not quite the same thing, though...
Hope everyone's well! And apologies to Teri for my serious slacking-off!
If the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World were still around, which one would you most like to see?
This one is a no-brainer for me! The only "ancient wonder" that is still in existence is the Great Pyramid at Giza, and that is definitely what I want to visit!
I've been interested in Egyptology since I was young. NERD ALERT!! From grades three through seven, I took part in a special supplementary program at school called ATP (Academically Talented Program...geez, wasn't I just SO SPECIAL? Not.). Once a week during the school day, I would get on a bus with three or four of my classmates and spend a few hours at the school district's Intermediate Unit.
ATP was so freaking cool. We got to do all kinds of stuff that we never would've had the chance to do in our "real" classes. In fourth grade, we spent half the year learning about the Milky Way. The final project required us to learn how to write a music program in Basic on the computer and to write a poem that tied into the specific planet of our choosing. I picked a piece from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" and somehow managed to write a Basic program on my little Radio Shack Tandy PC that synchronized my poem to the music.
Anyway, in fifth grade, we studied ancient Egyptian life and culture in ATP. Part of our studies included learning how to read and write basic hieroglyphics. It was unbelievably fun! Here's a site where you can see your name in hieroglyphics. One of these days, I'm going to get myself a little gold cartouche charm with my name in hieroglyphics.
Later, when I was 18, the second tattoo I got (of the five that I have) was a blue Egyptian ankh...the symbol for life and immortality. It's on my left shoulder blade.
My friend PJ has actually been to the Pyramids and I must admit I am incredibly envious of her for that reason! Someday I hope to make it there myself. The closest I've ever been to the Pyramid is when my mom and I stayed at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas in 2003! Not quite the same thing, though...
Hope everyone's well! And apologies to Teri for my serious slacking-off!
Labels: childhood, deep thoughts, friends, memories, tattoos
Posted by Lori at 5/16/2007 11:35:00 PM
|
Monday, April 23, 2007
I'm shamelessly taking this from Teri's blog...
Five Questions
What is the single best piece of advice you’ve ever been given, and who gave it?
Ha. I don’t take advice well…mostly because I’m the kind of person who likes to figure things out for herself. A few years back, I was taking a business management class online and had to read The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz for the class discussion. This book blew me right out of the frickin’ water. So here are the four agreements (and yes, I’m cheating because I consider it all one “piece” of advice!):
Be impeccable with your word - Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.
Don’t take anything personally - Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
Don’t make assumptions - Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
Always do your best - Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret.
What was the last thing you purchased for yourself, and what do you think you will purchase next?
I bought myself an automatic iced tea maker and love it. Yes, I’m a dork. My next major purchase will be either a mountain bike or satellite radio. Or both. Still not sure.
In your humble opinion, the Best! Invention! Ever! Is…
Modern plumbing. Gotta love it. I’m totally grateful for that every single day.
What makes Lori happy? What makes Lori sad?
I’m a fairly happy person, and I try to find joy in everything I do. Happiness is a choice, and it’s a brave choice, I think…it’s much easier to stay miserable and bitch about how unhappy you are than to consciously work at being happy. Don’t you think?
That being said, music makes me VERY, VERY happy, and I couldn’t imagine life without it. The internet makes me happy. My family and friends make me happy. Animals make me happy. Beautiful weather makes me happy. Reading a good book makes me happy. Writing makes me happy. Cooking, gardening, learning new things, working out, doing crossword puzzles, taking long walks…all very good stuff.
The older I get, the more I realize that material things don’t factor too much into the happiness equation. At least not for me.
Death of loved ones saddens me. Needless suffering. Child and animal abuse not only make me sad, but piss me the hell off, too. The news saddens me most of the time…I’ve voluntarily given that up for the moment…it’s just too much for me to handle.
What character on TV do you identify with most?
TV’s crap and I try to avoid it as much as I can, unless it’s educational. And let’s not broach the embarrassing topic of my American Idol addiction.
So I really couldn’t answer this question. Sorry!
I'm tagging anyone who wants to play...
Five Questions
What is the single best piece of advice you’ve ever been given, and who gave it?
Ha. I don’t take advice well…mostly because I’m the kind of person who likes to figure things out for herself. A few years back, I was taking a business management class online and had to read The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz for the class discussion. This book blew me right out of the frickin’ water. So here are the four agreements (and yes, I’m cheating because I consider it all one “piece” of advice!):
Be impeccable with your word - Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.
Don’t take anything personally - Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.
Don’t make assumptions - Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.
Always do your best - Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret.
What was the last thing you purchased for yourself, and what do you think you will purchase next?
I bought myself an automatic iced tea maker and love it. Yes, I’m a dork. My next major purchase will be either a mountain bike or satellite radio. Or both. Still not sure.
In your humble opinion, the Best! Invention! Ever! Is…
Modern plumbing. Gotta love it. I’m totally grateful for that every single day.
What makes Lori happy? What makes Lori sad?
I’m a fairly happy person, and I try to find joy in everything I do. Happiness is a choice, and it’s a brave choice, I think…it’s much easier to stay miserable and bitch about how unhappy you are than to consciously work at being happy. Don’t you think?
That being said, music makes me VERY, VERY happy, and I couldn’t imagine life without it. The internet makes me happy. My family and friends make me happy. Animals make me happy. Beautiful weather makes me happy. Reading a good book makes me happy. Writing makes me happy. Cooking, gardening, learning new things, working out, doing crossword puzzles, taking long walks…all very good stuff.
The older I get, the more I realize that material things don’t factor too much into the happiness equation. At least not for me.
Death of loved ones saddens me. Needless suffering. Child and animal abuse not only make me sad, but piss me the hell off, too. The news saddens me most of the time…I’ve voluntarily given that up for the moment…it’s just too much for me to handle.
What character on TV do you identify with most?
TV’s crap and I try to avoid it as much as I can, unless it’s educational. And let’s not broach the embarrassing topic of my American Idol addiction.
So I really couldn’t answer this question. Sorry!
I'm tagging anyone who wants to play...
Posted by Lori at 4/23/2007 11:56:00 PM
|
Friday, March 16, 2007
Someone asked me to write about this, so here goes.
I began smoking cigarettes when I was fifteen. I was working during the summer at a Hallmark card store. There was another girl who worked with me who was a year or two older than I. Her name was Danette. We got friendly and started hanging out occasionally.
One night after we closed the store, Danette’s friends and I were hanging out at a park in Newtown Square. They were all smokers and they asked me if I wanted a cigarette.
I hesitated. My mother had just ended a twenty-five year smoking habit herself earlier that year. I vividly heard her voice echoing in my mind. “If you EVER touch a cigarette, I will break all ten of your fingers!”
Did that stop me? What do you think?
I shrugged as Mike, Danette’s sometimes-boyfriend, extended a Marlboro Red to me. I slid it between my lips as he held up his gold-plated Zippo lighter.
“Wait a minute,” I said, pulling the cigarette from my lips. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?”
They all laughed at my innocence.
“Just inhale it,” Danette instructed. “Breathe in real fast through your mouth when Mike lights it. Pretend like your mom just walked in on you doing it and gasp, like you're surprised. You might cough for a minute or two, but you’ll get used to it.”
So I did. And man, did I cough! I hacked like an old coalminer for a good ten minutes as I struggled to finish the cigarette. I remember thinking to myself, “Why would anyone enjoy this?” But it seemed like the thing to do…it seemed like everyone I knew smoked.
For several months, I was a weekend social smoker. Terrified that my parents might find me out, I didn’t buy my own packs of smokes for nearly a year after I had my first cigarette. But eventually I gave in to the impulse and began smoking every day. I never smoked at home, so I started spending lots of time at my friends’ houses, where I could enjoy my cigarettes without fear of parental rebuke.
It went on that way for eight years. After about a year, I became a standard pack-a-day smoker. Of course, my parents did find out about it. They were quite upset--particularly my mother, who'd had such a hard time giving it up herself--but they realized that they couldn’t prevent me from smoking when I was away from home.
I remember one time, when I was about seventeen, I lit up a cigarette at a family barbecue in front of everyone. At that point, my entire family knew I smoked, so I figured it was no big thing. My mother, who was sitting across the picnic table from me, took one look at me sucking on my beloved Parliament Light and promptly burst into tears. I quickly stamped it out under my sandal and never smoked in front of her again.
In the spring of 2001, when I was twenty-three, I started thinking about quitting. Nothing in particular made me consider it..I just felt like it was time. Ninety-eight percent of my friends were still smokers, and though my mother occasionally nagged me about it, no one ever seriously asked me to quit. By that time, I was dating Brian and he didn’t smoke, but he never complained about my smoking; in fact, after a few drinks on the weekend, he would usually bum a smoke or two from me! Smoking was never a true addiction for him, though, which is something that still puzzles me to this day. If you’re not gonna go full-tilt, why bother at all?
Anyway, I was up to almost two packs a day at that point due to major job stress. But inexplicably, the pleasure I’d always gotten from smoking was steadily waning. Every time I lit a cigarette, I wound up asking myself why I was doing it. Many times, I would stub it out before I had smoked even half of it. I had also recently joined a health club and was feeling like the world's biggest hypocrite when, as soon as my workout ended, I'd leave the gym and light up immediately in the parking lot on the way back to my car.
I am not an impulsive person. I don’t usually make snap judgments about anything. And I certainly didn’t decide in a split-second to quit smoking. I actually thought about it for months and months before I decided to do it. But I didn’t dare tell anyone; I didn’t want to commit to it out loud. It seemed safer if I kept it to myself. I didn’t want anyone throwing it in my face if I failed.
Friday, July 27, 2001 arrived, and I decided that that would be my quitting day. As luck (or in this case, bad luck) would have it, Brian and a bunch of my coworkers were going to a happy hour after work. They wanted me to come with them. All day long, I sat at my desk and contemplated it. I knew that if I went to happy hour and had a few cocktails, I’d wind up with a cigarette in my hand.
I quietly told Brian that I wouldn’t be joining him for happy hour that night, that I’d decided to quit smoking that day and that I was scared to death I’d fail. Not being a true nicotine addict, he really couldn’t understand what the problem was. He didn’t recognize the correlation between booze and cigarettes for me. Namely, booze = lowered inhibitions = me saying, “Awww, what the hell! I can quit tomorrow!” = cigarettes.
I managed to convince him that I wouldn’t be upset if he went to happy hour that night without me. I went home (I was still living with my parents then) and brooded. And by “brooded,” I mean that I sobbed inconsolably for five straight hours, crumpled up on a lawn chair in the backyard as night fell upon me. Seriously. I wept as if my best friend died. And in a way, I guess that was true; cigarettes had been my friend for eight long years. Cigarettes, and the rituals that I associated with them, had seen me through many good and bad times. I was completely devastated about my decision to quit smoking, as much as I understood (with the small amount of sanity I had left at the time) that it was the right thing to do.
That night, I wondered if my life would ever be the same again. I wondered if I’d ever be able to go out with my friends to happy hour again. I couldn’t imagine ever having fun again without being able to smoke. I couldn’t imagine getting through a stressful day at work without taking a few well-deserved cigarette breaks outside. I couldn’t imagine sitting in rush-hour traffic in my car without puffing away on a Parliament Light. ESPECIALLY when I was in my car; that was my favorite time and place to smoke…the windows and sunroof open, music blasting.
But life went on, as life does. And to my surprise, it got easier for me to not smoke. I learned to sit out the cravings. I figured that just because I felt like I wanted to have a cigarette didn’t mean that I had to give in to it. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, days turned to weeks. And the more time passed, the more determined I was to stick to my goal. I didn’t want to start from scratch all over again. What can I say? I’m very stubborn. When I set my mind to something, I don’t let anything get in my way.
My personal secret to quitting successfully? To never, ever, EVER smoke one more cigarette again. Ever.
I don’t mean to sound flip or cute. Not at all. But that’s what worked for me. It’s simple, but not at all easy. Not easy by a long stretch.
For a time after I quit, I had to stop hanging out with my smoker friends. This, as you might imagine, ruffled some feathers. And I did stop drinking for about six months after I stopped smoking. I just felt strangely incomplete with a cocktail in one hand but no cigarette in the other. Even now, I rarely drink.
Does that mean I’m not tempted to smoke now? Nope. Though it’s been almost six years since I quit, I still think about cigarettes every now and then. And I expect it will be that way for the rest of my life. It’s not often, but sometimes the urge to smoke hits me like a fucking stampede of cattle, and I have to take a few deep breaths until it passes.
Especially when I’m sitting in my car in traffic.
I began smoking cigarettes when I was fifteen. I was working during the summer at a Hallmark card store. There was another girl who worked with me who was a year or two older than I. Her name was Danette. We got friendly and started hanging out occasionally.
One night after we closed the store, Danette’s friends and I were hanging out at a park in Newtown Square. They were all smokers and they asked me if I wanted a cigarette.
I hesitated. My mother had just ended a twenty-five year smoking habit herself earlier that year. I vividly heard her voice echoing in my mind. “If you EVER touch a cigarette, I will break all ten of your fingers!”
Did that stop me? What do you think?
I shrugged as Mike, Danette’s sometimes-boyfriend, extended a Marlboro Red to me. I slid it between my lips as he held up his gold-plated Zippo lighter.
“Wait a minute,” I said, pulling the cigarette from my lips. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?”
They all laughed at my innocence.
“Just inhale it,” Danette instructed. “Breathe in real fast through your mouth when Mike lights it. Pretend like your mom just walked in on you doing it and gasp, like you're surprised. You might cough for a minute or two, but you’ll get used to it.”
So I did. And man, did I cough! I hacked like an old coalminer for a good ten minutes as I struggled to finish the cigarette. I remember thinking to myself, “Why would anyone enjoy this?” But it seemed like the thing to do…it seemed like everyone I knew smoked.
For several months, I was a weekend social smoker. Terrified that my parents might find me out, I didn’t buy my own packs of smokes for nearly a year after I had my first cigarette. But eventually I gave in to the impulse and began smoking every day. I never smoked at home, so I started spending lots of time at my friends’ houses, where I could enjoy my cigarettes without fear of parental rebuke.
It went on that way for eight years. After about a year, I became a standard pack-a-day smoker. Of course, my parents did find out about it. They were quite upset--particularly my mother, who'd had such a hard time giving it up herself--but they realized that they couldn’t prevent me from smoking when I was away from home.
I remember one time, when I was about seventeen, I lit up a cigarette at a family barbecue in front of everyone. At that point, my entire family knew I smoked, so I figured it was no big thing. My mother, who was sitting across the picnic table from me, took one look at me sucking on my beloved Parliament Light and promptly burst into tears. I quickly stamped it out under my sandal and never smoked in front of her again.
In the spring of 2001, when I was twenty-three, I started thinking about quitting. Nothing in particular made me consider it..I just felt like it was time. Ninety-eight percent of my friends were still smokers, and though my mother occasionally nagged me about it, no one ever seriously asked me to quit. By that time, I was dating Brian and he didn’t smoke, but he never complained about my smoking; in fact, after a few drinks on the weekend, he would usually bum a smoke or two from me! Smoking was never a true addiction for him, though, which is something that still puzzles me to this day. If you’re not gonna go full-tilt, why bother at all?
Anyway, I was up to almost two packs a day at that point due to major job stress. But inexplicably, the pleasure I’d always gotten from smoking was steadily waning. Every time I lit a cigarette, I wound up asking myself why I was doing it. Many times, I would stub it out before I had smoked even half of it. I had also recently joined a health club and was feeling like the world's biggest hypocrite when, as soon as my workout ended, I'd leave the gym and light up immediately in the parking lot on the way back to my car.
I am not an impulsive person. I don’t usually make snap judgments about anything. And I certainly didn’t decide in a split-second to quit smoking. I actually thought about it for months and months before I decided to do it. But I didn’t dare tell anyone; I didn’t want to commit to it out loud. It seemed safer if I kept it to myself. I didn’t want anyone throwing it in my face if I failed.
Friday, July 27, 2001 arrived, and I decided that that would be my quitting day. As luck (or in this case, bad luck) would have it, Brian and a bunch of my coworkers were going to a happy hour after work. They wanted me to come with them. All day long, I sat at my desk and contemplated it. I knew that if I went to happy hour and had a few cocktails, I’d wind up with a cigarette in my hand.
I quietly told Brian that I wouldn’t be joining him for happy hour that night, that I’d decided to quit smoking that day and that I was scared to death I’d fail. Not being a true nicotine addict, he really couldn’t understand what the problem was. He didn’t recognize the correlation between booze and cigarettes for me. Namely, booze = lowered inhibitions = me saying, “Awww, what the hell! I can quit tomorrow!” = cigarettes.
I managed to convince him that I wouldn’t be upset if he went to happy hour that night without me. I went home (I was still living with my parents then) and brooded. And by “brooded,” I mean that I sobbed inconsolably for five straight hours, crumpled up on a lawn chair in the backyard as night fell upon me. Seriously. I wept as if my best friend died. And in a way, I guess that was true; cigarettes had been my friend for eight long years. Cigarettes, and the rituals that I associated with them, had seen me through many good and bad times. I was completely devastated about my decision to quit smoking, as much as I understood (with the small amount of sanity I had left at the time) that it was the right thing to do.
That night, I wondered if my life would ever be the same again. I wondered if I’d ever be able to go out with my friends to happy hour again. I couldn’t imagine ever having fun again without being able to smoke. I couldn’t imagine getting through a stressful day at work without taking a few well-deserved cigarette breaks outside. I couldn’t imagine sitting in rush-hour traffic in my car without puffing away on a Parliament Light. ESPECIALLY when I was in my car; that was my favorite time and place to smoke…the windows and sunroof open, music blasting.
But life went on, as life does. And to my surprise, it got easier for me to not smoke. I learned to sit out the cravings. I figured that just because I felt like I wanted to have a cigarette didn’t mean that I had to give in to it. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, days turned to weeks. And the more time passed, the more determined I was to stick to my goal. I didn’t want to start from scratch all over again. What can I say? I’m very stubborn. When I set my mind to something, I don’t let anything get in my way.
My personal secret to quitting successfully? To never, ever, EVER smoke one more cigarette again. Ever.
I don’t mean to sound flip or cute. Not at all. But that’s what worked for me. It’s simple, but not at all easy. Not easy by a long stretch.
For a time after I quit, I had to stop hanging out with my smoker friends. This, as you might imagine, ruffled some feathers. And I did stop drinking for about six months after I stopped smoking. I just felt strangely incomplete with a cocktail in one hand but no cigarette in the other. Even now, I rarely drink.
Does that mean I’m not tempted to smoke now? Nope. Though it’s been almost six years since I quit, I still think about cigarettes every now and then. And I expect it will be that way for the rest of my life. It’s not often, but sometimes the urge to smoke hits me like a fucking stampede of cattle, and I have to take a few deep breaths until it passes.
Especially when I’m sitting in my car in traffic.
Labels: accomplishments, family, friends, health, life events, memories
Posted by Lori at 3/16/2007 10:00:00 PM
|
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
I'm officially tagging MYSELF from LiveLee's meme. So without further ado, here are TEN THINGS ABOUT ME:
1. I am a reformed smoker. July 30, 2007 will be my sixth year of being nicotine-free. Quitting smoking was definitely the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life. And I still get the odd urge every once in a great while. But I know that I don't have to give in to it.
2. I've kept a diary since I was in second grade. I have stacks of books at home that track my life from pretty much age 8. Sometimes I read back on my very first diary and laugh my ass off. I was a pretty precocious child.
3. Keeping on the writing theme: I've been working on something (not sure how I want to categorize it at the moment, so I'm not going to label it) for the past several months. I've written around 42,000 words so far. Fiction. We'll see where it goes. I haven't shown it to anyone yet, not even my husband. It's kind of like my baby. I'm not sure I want anyone to scrutinize it just yet.
4. Living in a hotel for the past two weeks for my new job hasn't been bad, but I'll tell you what has been really difficult: eating out at restaurants three meals a day, five days a week! I never thought I'd say it, but I'm about ready for a home-cooked meal.
5. I love to sing and I sing constantly. I'm not very good, but what I lack in talent, I like to think I make up for in enthusiasm. I especially like to sing in the car. At the top of my lungs. Currently I've been singing along with Alicia Keys' Unplugged on my iPod.
6. For most of my life, I've been pretty certain that I wasn't interested in having kids, but in the past several months I've started feeling like I'm ready. Not sure what's prompted this change, but I'm hoping that 2007 is the year for procreation. (Hear that, honey? Step it up!!)
7. My greatest fear in life is losing loved ones, especially my parents. I'm not really afraid of dying, but sometimes I think about my parents' inevitable deaths and I get very upset. So I try to enjoy every moment that I can with them because I know someday they won't be around.
8. My biggest goal in life is to be happy. In every possible way. I'd like to think that I've been pretty successful in that regard. Overall, I'm pretty damn cheerful and I think of myself as a positive realist.
9. One emotion that I just cannot understand is envy/jealousy. I have rarely felt either. I don't pay much attention to what other people have versus what I have. It's a very foreign concept to me. I guess I'm lucky that way. I tend to focus more on living a life that is meaningful to me, and the only person I'm really interested in competing against is myself. If that makes any sense.
10. The thing that makes me most angry is when people don't listen. That includes people who interrupt, people who try to conduct a conversation with someone else when you're on the phone with them, and people who don't make a sincere effort to understand where someone else is coming from.
I'm tagging anyone who wants to be tagged. Good night!
1. I am a reformed smoker. July 30, 2007 will be my sixth year of being nicotine-free. Quitting smoking was definitely the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life. And I still get the odd urge every once in a great while. But I know that I don't have to give in to it.
2. I've kept a diary since I was in second grade. I have stacks of books at home that track my life from pretty much age 8. Sometimes I read back on my very first diary and laugh my ass off. I was a pretty precocious child.
3. Keeping on the writing theme: I've been working on something (not sure how I want to categorize it at the moment, so I'm not going to label it) for the past several months. I've written around 42,000 words so far. Fiction. We'll see where it goes. I haven't shown it to anyone yet, not even my husband. It's kind of like my baby. I'm not sure I want anyone to scrutinize it just yet.
4. Living in a hotel for the past two weeks for my new job hasn't been bad, but I'll tell you what has been really difficult: eating out at restaurants three meals a day, five days a week! I never thought I'd say it, but I'm about ready for a home-cooked meal.
5. I love to sing and I sing constantly. I'm not very good, but what I lack in talent, I like to think I make up for in enthusiasm. I especially like to sing in the car. At the top of my lungs. Currently I've been singing along with Alicia Keys' Unplugged on my iPod.
6. For most of my life, I've been pretty certain that I wasn't interested in having kids, but in the past several months I've started feeling like I'm ready. Not sure what's prompted this change, but I'm hoping that 2007 is the year for procreation. (Hear that, honey? Step it up!!)
7. My greatest fear in life is losing loved ones, especially my parents. I'm not really afraid of dying, but sometimes I think about my parents' inevitable deaths and I get very upset. So I try to enjoy every moment that I can with them because I know someday they won't be around.
8. My biggest goal in life is to be happy. In every possible way. I'd like to think that I've been pretty successful in that regard. Overall, I'm pretty damn cheerful and I think of myself as a positive realist.
9. One emotion that I just cannot understand is envy/jealousy. I have rarely felt either. I don't pay much attention to what other people have versus what I have. It's a very foreign concept to me. I guess I'm lucky that way. I tend to focus more on living a life that is meaningful to me, and the only person I'm really interested in competing against is myself. If that makes any sense.
10. The thing that makes me most angry is when people don't listen. That includes people who interrupt, people who try to conduct a conversation with someone else when you're on the phone with them, and people who don't make a sincere effort to understand where someone else is coming from.
I'm tagging anyone who wants to be tagged. Good night!
Labels: accomplishments, deep thoughts, family, friends, life events, meme, memories, writing
Posted by Lori at 1/31/2007 10:49:00 PM
|
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Today I had the privilege of spending most of the morning and early afternoon at the Philadelphia Marathon. It was the most inspiring, affirming, positive experience I have had in a very, very long time. One of my friends was running in it, so two of my girlfriends and I headed downtown to cheer her on and offer her some moral support.
I've never been a spectator at a marathon, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. It was a clear, sunny, crisp day (thankfully!), and Megan, PJ and I got down to the city around 10 a.m. We pushed our way through the crowds and found a place to stand at the halfway mark/finish line, which was just in front on the Philadelphia Museum of Art on the Ben Franklin Parkway.
At first, we just stood there and watched as the runners plodded their course past us. All around us, the crowds were cheering the runners on, but I felt very self-conscious; I didn't know any of these people, and I've never been much of a cheerleader anyway.
But soon enough, inspiration struck, and the three of us were hooting and screaming for everyone who ran past us. There were all types of people there--many races, nationalities, some very young people, some very, very old people--all with the same goal: just to keep putting one foot in front of the other and to cross the finish line. Because when you set out to run 26.2 miles, that's really your ultimate goal...to just finish the run.
About three and a half hours into the race, we moved further down Kelly Drive and stood in the middle of the street, about a quarter-mile from the finish line. The runners amazed me! A few who passed us were literally crying in pain. Others were limping along, trying to massage their calves or quadriceps and keep the pace at the same time. Some were smiling broadly and clapping for themselves and their competitors as we cheered them on. Many of them had their names written on homemade t-shirts, so we could yell out to them personally as they made their way to the finish line. Because we were standing right next to the course, I could stick my arm out as they passed us. I gave so many high-fives to runners today that I eventually lost count.
"Good job!"
"Keep it up, runners! You can do it!"
"Kick some ass, guys! You look great!"
"You're almost at the finish line...bring it home!"
"Come on, Lisa! You got it! Great run!"
The most incredibly moving thing about the event was how complete strangers came together to motivate and encourage the runners. There were many moments today in which I found my eyes welling up with tears. It was just so emotional to watch the runners slog along to the finish line, and even more emotional to watch and listen to the spectators screaming for them, giving them the little push they needed to get to the end of the race. Strangers cheering for strangers: what a lovely thing to witness. I felt so fortunate today to have had that experience, because it reaffirmed my faith in humanity, even if just in a small way.
Shortly after the five hour mark, we saw our friend Colleen coming up Kelly Drive. PJ started screaming and waving the neon-green poster she'd made for Colleen. Megan and I looked at each other and decided that we would run the last quarter-mile with Colleen. We jumped onto the course and flanked her, falling into pace with her as she ran, screaming, "You can do it, Colleen! You're almost there...good job! Let's do it!" It was such a surreal moment, running next to her while people on the sidelines yelled and cheered her on. She was hurting--as soon as we fell in next to her, she panted, "I fucking hate this! I'm fucking done right now!" but we kept her going to the end, yelling for her until we went hoarse. I've never tried running and screaming at the top of my lungs at the same time before--it was quite the challenge!
We ran with Colleen until just short of the finish line, at which point we fell back and let her finish alone.
I pulled PJ's camera out of my coat pocket and snapped a photo of Colleen crossing the line. Five hours and ten minutes.
Good run, Colleen!
I've never been a spectator at a marathon, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. It was a clear, sunny, crisp day (thankfully!), and Megan, PJ and I got down to the city around 10 a.m. We pushed our way through the crowds and found a place to stand at the halfway mark/finish line, which was just in front on the Philadelphia Museum of Art on the Ben Franklin Parkway.
At first, we just stood there and watched as the runners plodded their course past us. All around us, the crowds were cheering the runners on, but I felt very self-conscious; I didn't know any of these people, and I've never been much of a cheerleader anyway.
But soon enough, inspiration struck, and the three of us were hooting and screaming for everyone who ran past us. There were all types of people there--many races, nationalities, some very young people, some very, very old people--all with the same goal: just to keep putting one foot in front of the other and to cross the finish line. Because when you set out to run 26.2 miles, that's really your ultimate goal...to just finish the run.
About three and a half hours into the race, we moved further down Kelly Drive and stood in the middle of the street, about a quarter-mile from the finish line. The runners amazed me! A few who passed us were literally crying in pain. Others were limping along, trying to massage their calves or quadriceps and keep the pace at the same time. Some were smiling broadly and clapping for themselves and their competitors as we cheered them on. Many of them had their names written on homemade t-shirts, so we could yell out to them personally as they made their way to the finish line. Because we were standing right next to the course, I could stick my arm out as they passed us. I gave so many high-fives to runners today that I eventually lost count.
"Good job!"
"Keep it up, runners! You can do it!"
"Kick some ass, guys! You look great!"
"You're almost at the finish line...bring it home!"
"Come on, Lisa! You got it! Great run!"
The most incredibly moving thing about the event was how complete strangers came together to motivate and encourage the runners. There were many moments today in which I found my eyes welling up with tears. It was just so emotional to watch the runners slog along to the finish line, and even more emotional to watch and listen to the spectators screaming for them, giving them the little push they needed to get to the end of the race. Strangers cheering for strangers: what a lovely thing to witness. I felt so fortunate today to have had that experience, because it reaffirmed my faith in humanity, even if just in a small way.
Shortly after the five hour mark, we saw our friend Colleen coming up Kelly Drive. PJ started screaming and waving the neon-green poster she'd made for Colleen. Megan and I looked at each other and decided that we would run the last quarter-mile with Colleen. We jumped onto the course and flanked her, falling into pace with her as she ran, screaming, "You can do it, Colleen! You're almost there...good job! Let's do it!" It was such a surreal moment, running next to her while people on the sidelines yelled and cheered her on. She was hurting--as soon as we fell in next to her, she panted, "I fucking hate this! I'm fucking done right now!" but we kept her going to the end, yelling for her until we went hoarse. I've never tried running and screaming at the top of my lungs at the same time before--it was quite the challenge!
We ran with Colleen until just short of the finish line, at which point we fell back and let her finish alone.
I pulled PJ's camera out of my coat pocket and snapped a photo of Colleen crossing the line. Five hours and ten minutes.
Good run, Colleen!
Labels: friends, Philadelphia, sports
Posted by Lori at 11/19/2006 08:58:00 PM
|
Monday, November 13, 2006
One of my dearest, wisest, oldest friends bought six copies of the novel in which my essay on friendship is published. She has asked me to autograph them, as she will be giving them to a bunch of her other friends as Christmas gifts.
???
???
Labels: friends, funny stuff, holidays, writing
Posted by Lori at 11/13/2006 02:05:00 PM
|
Thursday, November 02, 2006
If you had to pick one album to sum up your college years, what would it be?
(If you didn't go to college, answer it anyway, applying the standard college age range of 18-21).
This morning I'm burning some of my CDs into iTunes on my PC at work. Right now I'm listening to Ben Folds' Five's "Whatever and Ever, Amen." This entire album is so evocative of my college years. I got it as a birthday gift when I turned twenty from one of my friends, Big Jon, who attended Widener University.
I partied more at Widener than I did at my own school (which is amazing, considering that West Chester University has a nearly legendary reputation as a huge party school). I even had more friends at Widener and UDel than I did at West Chester! I don't think I could name a single person from West Chester. Oh well. I guess that's what happens when you're NEVER in class. Hee.
Anyway, whenever I hear any song from this album, I am sent back to that time in my life. I remember the good times: sneaking into The Bent Elbo, Abilene and Manny Brown's on South Street, and Walio's Frog Pond (Widener's campus bar) to celebrate their 21st birthdays while I was still underage; smoking bongs in the absolutely decrepit bathroom of the off-campus rowhouse where Jon lived with his two roommates, Pat and Bob; playing Beirut and "Think While You Drink" with them, going to strip bars with them (yes, I did!); going glo-bowling at midnight at Conchester Lanes in Aston.
I also remember the not-so-good times: being in love with David, my ex-boyfriend with the serious drug problem, who never wanted to hang out with my other friends; the handful of one-night stands I had with guys I really liked but who wouldn't commit; watching all my Widener friends graduate (they were a year ahead of me, remember?) and move on with their lives while I was still unhappily stuck at West Chester; and oh yeah--failing out of college. How could I forget that one?
Still, this album never fails to put a smile on my face. All those experiences made me who I am today, and I will always look back fondly on those days.
So tell me about your musical memories from college.
(If you didn't go to college, answer it anyway, applying the standard college age range of 18-21).
This morning I'm burning some of my CDs into iTunes on my PC at work. Right now I'm listening to Ben Folds' Five's "Whatever and Ever, Amen." This entire album is so evocative of my college years. I got it as a birthday gift when I turned twenty from one of my friends, Big Jon, who attended Widener University.
I partied more at Widener than I did at my own school (which is amazing, considering that West Chester University has a nearly legendary reputation as a huge party school). I even had more friends at Widener and UDel than I did at West Chester! I don't think I could name a single person from West Chester. Oh well. I guess that's what happens when you're NEVER in class. Hee.
Anyway, whenever I hear any song from this album, I am sent back to that time in my life. I remember the good times: sneaking into The Bent Elbo, Abilene and Manny Brown's on South Street, and Walio's Frog Pond (Widener's campus bar) to celebrate their 21st birthdays while I was still underage; smoking bongs in the absolutely decrepit bathroom of the off-campus rowhouse where Jon lived with his two roommates, Pat and Bob; playing Beirut and "Think While You Drink" with them, going to strip bars with them (yes, I did!); going glo-bowling at midnight at Conchester Lanes in Aston.
I also remember the not-so-good times: being in love with David, my ex-boyfriend with the serious drug problem, who never wanted to hang out with my other friends; the handful of one-night stands I had with guys I really liked but who wouldn't commit; watching all my Widener friends graduate (they were a year ahead of me, remember?) and move on with their lives while I was still unhappily stuck at West Chester; and oh yeah--failing out of college. How could I forget that one?
Still, this album never fails to put a smile on my face. All those experiences made me who I am today, and I will always look back fondly on those days.
So tell me about your musical memories from college.
Posted by Lori at 11/02/2006 09:55:00 AM
|
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Hmmm. Seems I have a reader who logged in from a business located at 500 Monument Road...wonder who that could be?
Actually, I do have an idea who that might be.
Edited to add: actually, the address is 150 Monument Road, not 500 Monument Road. Thanks, anonymous commenter, for reminding me!
Let me tell you a nice little story. This is my homage to Ted Casablancas, the gossip columnist from E! That should clear up any questions about the language used in the story.
ONCE upon a time, there were two girls, Dizzy and Lulu, who were best friends from way back. They went to high school together, hung out all the time, were closer than sisters.
Dizzy had the unfortunate habit of dropping her friends every time a new guy entered her life. Lulu overlooked it for a while, because she enjoyed Dizzy's friendship and figured she would grow out of that behavior.
One day, Dizzy met a guy named Vittorio who came along and just swept her off her feet. Like always, Dizzy pulled away from her girlfriends in order to spend every waking moment with Vittorio. At first, Lulu put up with it, but soon she grew tired of Dizzy's disappearing act. Not only that, but Dizzy also shared some not-so-savory things about Vittorio with Lulu. Such as his penchant for calling her fat (Dizzy was a size 10! and was beautiful and statuesque), dicking Dizzy over when they had dates scheduled, and being generally abusive verbally and unavailable emotionally. Yet Dizzy would drop everything and run to Vittorio's beck and call every single time.
Well, Lulu eventually had heard and seen enough. She hated to see her best friend allowing herself to be mistreated, so she began making some noises about Vittorio. As you might imagine, Dizzy didn't take too kindly to this, and even though Lulu had been friends with Dizzy waaaay longer than Vittorio had been in Dizzy's life, guess whose side Dizzy took? Yeah, I know. The man always wins, right?
Then another complication arose: several months after Dizzy began dating Vittorio, Lulu herself began dating a very nice guy named BJ. Dizzy took it upon herself to begin some kind of completely fucked up competition, unbeknownst to Lulu, to see who would get engaged first. Lulu was completely unaware of this competition and in fact wasn't even THINKING of marriage at this point in her life. BJ, however, was. So when BJ popped the question to Lulu, and she said yes, guess who threw a hissy fit because she was NOT the winner of this imaginary contest? Yup. Dizzy was pissed with a capital P. She had been waiting and hoping and scheming and pretty much doing everything in her power to get Vittorio to propose to her, but Lulu (who couldn't have cared less about getting married in the first place!) went and got engaged first, even though BJ and Lulu had been dating five months' shorter than Dizzy and Vittorio. The nerve!!
Lulu, unaware of Dizzy's unhappiness with her betrothal, asked Dizzy to be in her wedding. Dizzy hemmed and hawed, refusing to give Lulu an answer for several weeks. In the meantime, Lulu designed a wedding website for BJ and her. The website was mostly for the benefit of BJ's mother and female relatives, who all lived out-of-state and who felt "out of the loop" of the wedding planning. Because Dizzy had not given Lulu a definitive "yes" or "no" answer about being in her wedding, Lulu didn't include Dizzy's name in the bridal party section of the wedding website.
Dizzy saw this as the perfect excuse to end the friendship. She called Lulu and told her "I just can't take this anymore. You designed a wedding website and didn't even put my name on it for the bridal party, so that does it. I will NOT be in your wedding, since you obviously don't want me to be in it."
Lulu had no idea how to react to this announcement. She felt like she was damned-if-she-did and damned-if-she-didn't. She wouldn't have dreamt of putting Dizzy's name in the bridal party section of her wedding website because Dizzy never committed to it, and Lulu didn't want to put Dizzy in an uncomfortable position. Yet Dizzy took offense to being excluded from the website anyway, even though she never did give Lulu an answer.
Unfortunately, Dizzy never even gave Lulu a chance to explain all this. She stopped taking Lulu's calls and never responded to Lulu's emailed pleas to discuss it.
THE END.
Pretty immature, huh?
Actually, I do have an idea who that might be.
Edited to add: actually, the address is 150 Monument Road, not 500 Monument Road. Thanks, anonymous commenter, for reminding me!
Let me tell you a nice little story. This is my homage to Ted Casablancas, the gossip columnist from E! That should clear up any questions about the language used in the story.
ONCE upon a time, there were two girls, Dizzy and Lulu, who were best friends from way back. They went to high school together, hung out all the time, were closer than sisters.
Dizzy had the unfortunate habit of dropping her friends every time a new guy entered her life. Lulu overlooked it for a while, because she enjoyed Dizzy's friendship and figured she would grow out of that behavior.
One day, Dizzy met a guy named Vittorio who came along and just swept her off her feet. Like always, Dizzy pulled away from her girlfriends in order to spend every waking moment with Vittorio. At first, Lulu put up with it, but soon she grew tired of Dizzy's disappearing act. Not only that, but Dizzy also shared some not-so-savory things about Vittorio with Lulu. Such as his penchant for calling her fat (Dizzy was a size 10! and was beautiful and statuesque), dicking Dizzy over when they had dates scheduled, and being generally abusive verbally and unavailable emotionally. Yet Dizzy would drop everything and run to Vittorio's beck and call every single time.
Well, Lulu eventually had heard and seen enough. She hated to see her best friend allowing herself to be mistreated, so she began making some noises about Vittorio. As you might imagine, Dizzy didn't take too kindly to this, and even though Lulu had been friends with Dizzy waaaay longer than Vittorio had been in Dizzy's life, guess whose side Dizzy took? Yeah, I know. The man always wins, right?
Then another complication arose: several months after Dizzy began dating Vittorio, Lulu herself began dating a very nice guy named BJ. Dizzy took it upon herself to begin some kind of completely fucked up competition, unbeknownst to Lulu, to see who would get engaged first. Lulu was completely unaware of this competition and in fact wasn't even THINKING of marriage at this point in her life. BJ, however, was. So when BJ popped the question to Lulu, and she said yes, guess who threw a hissy fit because she was NOT the winner of this imaginary contest? Yup. Dizzy was pissed with a capital P. She had been waiting and hoping and scheming and pretty much doing everything in her power to get Vittorio to propose to her, but Lulu (who couldn't have cared less about getting married in the first place!) went and got engaged first, even though BJ and Lulu had been dating five months' shorter than Dizzy and Vittorio. The nerve!!
Lulu, unaware of Dizzy's unhappiness with her betrothal, asked Dizzy to be in her wedding. Dizzy hemmed and hawed, refusing to give Lulu an answer for several weeks. In the meantime, Lulu designed a wedding website for BJ and her. The website was mostly for the benefit of BJ's mother and female relatives, who all lived out-of-state and who felt "out of the loop" of the wedding planning. Because Dizzy had not given Lulu a definitive "yes" or "no" answer about being in her wedding, Lulu didn't include Dizzy's name in the bridal party section of the wedding website.
Dizzy saw this as the perfect excuse to end the friendship. She called Lulu and told her "I just can't take this anymore. You designed a wedding website and didn't even put my name on it for the bridal party, so that does it. I will NOT be in your wedding, since you obviously don't want me to be in it."
Lulu had no idea how to react to this announcement. She felt like she was damned-if-she-did and damned-if-she-didn't. She wouldn't have dreamt of putting Dizzy's name in the bridal party section of her wedding website because Dizzy never committed to it, and Lulu didn't want to put Dizzy in an uncomfortable position. Yet Dizzy took offense to being excluded from the website anyway, even though she never did give Lulu an answer.
Unfortunately, Dizzy never even gave Lulu a chance to explain all this. She stopped taking Lulu's calls and never responded to Lulu's emailed pleas to discuss it.
THE END.
Pretty immature, huh?
Labels: friends, memories, technology, weird, writing
Posted by Lori at 10/17/2006 12:06:00 PM
|
Monday, September 11, 2006
I'll admit it: I was a few minutes late to work that morning. Walking across the parking lot to my office building, I stared up at the sky, which was bright blue, cloudless and still. It was a perfect late summer day. I wished I'd called out sick that day. It was just too beautiful to be cooped up inside.
I entered one of the elevators with another woman who had a cell phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. She was listening intently to whomever was on the other end of the line, occasionally inserting a gasp or a murmured "Oh my god." I rolled my eyes.
I had just sat down at my desk and taken my telephone off the auto-answer setting when it rang. The caller ID displayed my parents' phone number.
"Lori? Are you at work? Have you turned on the television?" My mother was so breathless I could hardly understand her.
I responded, "Of course I'm at work--you just called me here! Slow down. What are you talking about?"
"A plane hit the World Trade Center...I'm watching it now on Good Morning America...oh my god, it's terrible!" she babbled. I assumed she meant a small prop plane. Hmmm. There must have been some kind of awful accident, which was a shame...but hey, life goes on.
She kept me on the phone for over ten minutes, giving me a play-by-play of what was happening. I kept trying to log on to MSNBC or CNN to see it for myself, but those sites were totally locked up.
Finally, around 9 a.m., I told her that I'd call her back in a minute. Our friend Phil lived and worked in Manhattan, and I figured I'd call him to see what was up. But before I had a chance to even dial his number, I heard a scream from one of the sales rep's offices at the far end of our suite.
Another plane--a jet--had hit the second tower. Immediately, all business ceased in the office. We gathered around the radio of a senior sales rep and listened to the news broadcast. Two or three of my coworkers kept whispering the same word, over and over again: terrorism. It must be.
I glanced over at my friend Christina, who was pale and visibly shaken, moreso than the rest of us. I approached her and asked her if she was okay.
Her eyes were glassy as she answered, "My mother might be in one of the towers this morning."
"What? Does she work there?" I asked, grabbing her hand.
Christina nodded. "Kind of. My mother lives in New York. She has her own dry cleaning delivery service and she has a lot of clients at the World Trade Center. I know that she's supposed to be there this morning--she stops there every morning to pick up and drop off people's clothes."
"Have you been able to get a hold of her?"
"No," she whispered. "All the lines are busy. I just can't get through to her cell phone." Her lower lip trembled and a single tear wound its way down her cheek.
Closing my eyes, I tried desperately to envision Christina's mother, a woman I'd never met before, alive and well and safe. When I opened my eyes, Christina was back at her desk, crumpled over like a forlorn ragdoll.
I returned to my desk and decided to call Phil. Of course, the entire telephone system was down in New York. I thought about my best friend, who was scheduled to fly home from a business trip in Orlando that morning.
I spent the next thirty minutes watching live webcasts on MSNBC and CNN and talking to Brian on the phone. We'd just gotten engaged ten days ago. The entire situation seemed unreal. Then the latest breaking news appeared on my monitor: the Pentagon was on fire. The White House was being evacuated. The Washington Mall was on fire. The stock exchange was closed. Airports around the country were shutting down. This must be the end of the world, I thought.
My phone rang again. It was my friend who was in Orlando for a business trip. She told me that she and her coworkers were going to rent a car and drive home to Philadelphia, since the airports were shut down.
I trotted back to the sales rep's office to listen to KYW. By this point, speculation was flying around the room. Were we at war now? With whom? Was this another act of domestic terrorism, like the Oklahoma City bombing?
Shortly after that, we watched in horror as the first tower, and then the second tower, collapsed. The vice president of our office announced that we were free to go home for the remainder of the day and be with our families.
I looked over at Christina and my heart ached for her. She had no family to go home to--her father had died within the last year, and she still had not heard from her mother. I walked over to her desk and asked her what she planned to do. She replied that she was not going to leave the office until she got a hold of her mother.
"I'll stay with you," I volunteered. I couldn't leave her alone in an empty office, waiting to hear about her mother's fate. Everyone else left as Christina and I sat together at her desk, watching the chaos unfold on CNN's website. Another plane was reported down in a field in Pennsylvania. Other than Christina's occasional shaky breaths, we passed an hour in silence.
Shortly before noon, Christina's telephone rang. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to answer it. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the receiver and picked it up, not even daring to say hello.
I was greeted by a torrent of frantic, jumbled English and Greek. It was Christina's mother. She had been delivering dry cleaning to a client in the second tower when the first plane hit. She told me that everyone thought it was either a bomb or an earthquake. The floor that she was on began evacuating almost immediately, and it was a damn good thing. Ten minutes later, the second plane hit her building, and she would have been trapped on the floors above the plane had she not started down the stairs just then.
She passed many people in the stairwell who could not continue. She tried to encourage people to keep going, but they simply refused and sat down. They were too tired or too out of shape to do it. Sprinklers were spraying water all over the place, drenching everyone. Then the building lost power.
In all, she climbed down sixty-some flights of stairs, and spent over an hour getting out of the building and onto the street. Once outside, she watched as people began jumping out of windows from the ninetieth floor (or higher!) of the towers. She decided to head home on foot, and was standing mid-span on the Brooklyn Bridge when the first tower collapsed.
I handed the telephone to Christina, who spoke to her mother for a few minutes before being disconnected. I stayed with Christina for another half-hour, just to make sure she was okay to drive herself back to her apartment. Then I went home.
For the rest of my life, I know that I will no longer be able to look at a perfect late summer/early autumn sky without thinking about all the death and the horror that took place that day.
I entered one of the elevators with another woman who had a cell phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. She was listening intently to whomever was on the other end of the line, occasionally inserting a gasp or a murmured "Oh my god." I rolled my eyes.
I had just sat down at my desk and taken my telephone off the auto-answer setting when it rang. The caller ID displayed my parents' phone number.
"Lori? Are you at work? Have you turned on the television?" My mother was so breathless I could hardly understand her.
I responded, "Of course I'm at work--you just called me here! Slow down. What are you talking about?"
"A plane hit the World Trade Center...I'm watching it now on Good Morning America...oh my god, it's terrible!" she babbled. I assumed she meant a small prop plane. Hmmm. There must have been some kind of awful accident, which was a shame...but hey, life goes on.
She kept me on the phone for over ten minutes, giving me a play-by-play of what was happening. I kept trying to log on to MSNBC or CNN to see it for myself, but those sites were totally locked up.
Finally, around 9 a.m., I told her that I'd call her back in a minute. Our friend Phil lived and worked in Manhattan, and I figured I'd call him to see what was up. But before I had a chance to even dial his number, I heard a scream from one of the sales rep's offices at the far end of our suite.
Another plane--a jet--had hit the second tower. Immediately, all business ceased in the office. We gathered around the radio of a senior sales rep and listened to the news broadcast. Two or three of my coworkers kept whispering the same word, over and over again: terrorism. It must be.
I glanced over at my friend Christina, who was pale and visibly shaken, moreso than the rest of us. I approached her and asked her if she was okay.
Her eyes were glassy as she answered, "My mother might be in one of the towers this morning."
"What? Does she work there?" I asked, grabbing her hand.
Christina nodded. "Kind of. My mother lives in New York. She has her own dry cleaning delivery service and she has a lot of clients at the World Trade Center. I know that she's supposed to be there this morning--she stops there every morning to pick up and drop off people's clothes."
"Have you been able to get a hold of her?"
"No," she whispered. "All the lines are busy. I just can't get through to her cell phone." Her lower lip trembled and a single tear wound its way down her cheek.
Closing my eyes, I tried desperately to envision Christina's mother, a woman I'd never met before, alive and well and safe. When I opened my eyes, Christina was back at her desk, crumpled over like a forlorn ragdoll.
I returned to my desk and decided to call Phil. Of course, the entire telephone system was down in New York. I thought about my best friend, who was scheduled to fly home from a business trip in Orlando that morning.
I spent the next thirty minutes watching live webcasts on MSNBC and CNN and talking to Brian on the phone. We'd just gotten engaged ten days ago. The entire situation seemed unreal. Then the latest breaking news appeared on my monitor: the Pentagon was on fire. The White House was being evacuated. The Washington Mall was on fire. The stock exchange was closed. Airports around the country were shutting down. This must be the end of the world, I thought.
My phone rang again. It was my friend who was in Orlando for a business trip. She told me that she and her coworkers were going to rent a car and drive home to Philadelphia, since the airports were shut down.
I trotted back to the sales rep's office to listen to KYW. By this point, speculation was flying around the room. Were we at war now? With whom? Was this another act of domestic terrorism, like the Oklahoma City bombing?
Shortly after that, we watched in horror as the first tower, and then the second tower, collapsed. The vice president of our office announced that we were free to go home for the remainder of the day and be with our families.
I looked over at Christina and my heart ached for her. She had no family to go home to--her father had died within the last year, and she still had not heard from her mother. I walked over to her desk and asked her what she planned to do. She replied that she was not going to leave the office until she got a hold of her mother.
"I'll stay with you," I volunteered. I couldn't leave her alone in an empty office, waiting to hear about her mother's fate. Everyone else left as Christina and I sat together at her desk, watching the chaos unfold on CNN's website. Another plane was reported down in a field in Pennsylvania. Other than Christina's occasional shaky breaths, we passed an hour in silence.
Shortly before noon, Christina's telephone rang. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to answer it. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the receiver and picked it up, not even daring to say hello.
I was greeted by a torrent of frantic, jumbled English and Greek. It was Christina's mother. She had been delivering dry cleaning to a client in the second tower when the first plane hit. She told me that everyone thought it was either a bomb or an earthquake. The floor that she was on began evacuating almost immediately, and it was a damn good thing. Ten minutes later, the second plane hit her building, and she would have been trapped on the floors above the plane had she not started down the stairs just then.
She passed many people in the stairwell who could not continue. She tried to encourage people to keep going, but they simply refused and sat down. They were too tired or too out of shape to do it. Sprinklers were spraying water all over the place, drenching everyone. Then the building lost power.
In all, she climbed down sixty-some flights of stairs, and spent over an hour getting out of the building and onto the street. Once outside, she watched as people began jumping out of windows from the ninetieth floor (or higher!) of the towers. She decided to head home on foot, and was standing mid-span on the Brooklyn Bridge when the first tower collapsed.
I handed the telephone to Christina, who spoke to her mother for a few minutes before being disconnected. I stayed with Christina for another half-hour, just to make sure she was okay to drive herself back to her apartment. Then I went home.
For the rest of my life, I know that I will no longer be able to look at a perfect late summer/early autumn sky without thinking about all the death and the horror that took place that day.
Labels: bad news, family, friends, life events, memories, scary, work, writing
Posted by Lori at 9/11/2006 11:10:00 AM
|
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
If you know me, then you know that I like to keep myself occupied at all times. I'm truly happiest when I have some kind of project to tackle. Nothing excites me more than a to-do list. It keeps me out of trouble (read: distracts me from my shopping addiction).
Obviously, home improvement projects have been keeping me considerably busy for the past year. We've done a lot of work to the house since we moved in last August: some basic landscaping, upgrades in the forms of new ceiling fans, lighting fixtures, and plumbing work, and TONS of painting. That's all well and good, but lately I've found myself wanting to engage in more cerebral pursuits.
My friend Christina recently emailed me and asked me to join her book club. I've also been investigating an advanced non-credit Spanish class at a local college, just because I love foreign languages and I miss using that part of my brain.
And then there's Toastmasters.
My career will soon be taking a turn that will require quite a bit of public speaking. I find that prospect at once exciting and utterly terrifying. Contrary to all outward appearances, I am really very quiet. Unless, of course, there are copious amounts of Bacardi involved. Last year, I blogged about the results of my Myers-Briggs personality type indicator (which I found to be DEAD-ON for me, incidentally) and I am a true INTJ--introverted to the extreme. Most days, my job requires me to be the total opposite of who I naturally am. It's almost like flipping a switch.
Anyway, back to the public speaking thing. I'm wondering if any of my (laughably few! but very loyal!!) readers has experience with Toastmasters. Are they really as cultish as they seem? I guess I should check out a few of my local chapters, just to see what exactly goes on in there.
Obviously, home improvement projects have been keeping me considerably busy for the past year. We've done a lot of work to the house since we moved in last August: some basic landscaping, upgrades in the forms of new ceiling fans, lighting fixtures, and plumbing work, and TONS of painting. That's all well and good, but lately I've found myself wanting to engage in more cerebral pursuits.
My friend Christina recently emailed me and asked me to join her book club. I've also been investigating an advanced non-credit Spanish class at a local college, just because I love foreign languages and I miss using that part of my brain.
And then there's Toastmasters.
My career will soon be taking a turn that will require quite a bit of public speaking. I find that prospect at once exciting and utterly terrifying. Contrary to all outward appearances, I am really very quiet. Unless, of course, there are copious amounts of Bacardi involved. Last year, I blogged about the results of my Myers-Briggs personality type indicator (which I found to be DEAD-ON for me, incidentally) and I am a true INTJ--introverted to the extreme. Most days, my job requires me to be the total opposite of who I naturally am. It's almost like flipping a switch.
Anyway, back to the public speaking thing. I'm wondering if any of my (laughably few! but very loyal!!) readers has experience with Toastmasters. Are they really as cultish as they seem? I guess I should check out a few of my local chapters, just to see what exactly goes on in there.
Labels: friends, home improvement, Toastmasters, work
Posted by Lori at 8/30/2006 03:10:00 PM
|
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
My friend sent me this link to a story about an American woman living in England who wrote that motherhood bores her. The comment my friend sent me with the link was "No, these kids won't be too scarred for life." After reading the article, I have to say I disagree with her.
When I was a kid, my mom didn't play with me all that much. Instead, she encouraged me to go outside and knock up for the other kids on my street and play with them. There were days that I hardly saw my mother, except at meal times, because I was so busy playing with the kids in my neighborhood. Yes, there were times she took me to the playground and pushed me on the swings, or occasionally treated me by taking me to Chuck E. Cheese--and that was HUGE deal; it wasn't an everyday occurrence. Hell, it wasn't even a MONTHLY occurrence. I had to do something pretty damn spectacular in order to spend the day at Chuck E. Cheese--like get very high marks on my report card.
But my mom didn't stop her life because of me. She worked part-time as an ER nurse, and if she had errands to run on her days off, she took me with her. I didn't have a choice about how we passed our days together. If we weren't out grocery shopping or going to the bank or the post office, she spent most of our time at home with her nose in a book. I was made to understand that adults were entitled to having some time away from kids, and I was perfectly OK with that. My mother often told me, in a most loving way, that it was not her job to entertain me constantly. So I learned to entertain myself. Sometimes it was hard, because I was an only child, so there weren't any siblings around to play with. Yet I found things to keep myself busy, by reading books and playing games by myself if the neighborhood kids weren't available. I give full credit to my parents for making me the independent person I am today.
From my observations, I would agree that many parents I've seen these days have become too child-centric. Children should learn to amuse and occupy themselves. I think it helps them grow. It's not good for kids to believe that it's all about them 24/7. Because when they grow up, their expectations are completely skewed.
I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't be a good parent. If you do read the linked article, be sure to click on the reader commentary -- I'm amazed by how divisive this piece is. There are some really harsh comments and it's clear how passionate people are on both sides of the issue.
But do you think the backlash this article is getting would be anywhere near as severe if it were written by a father? I don't think so!!!
When I was a kid, my mom didn't play with me all that much. Instead, she encouraged me to go outside and knock up for the other kids on my street and play with them. There were days that I hardly saw my mother, except at meal times, because I was so busy playing with the kids in my neighborhood. Yes, there were times she took me to the playground and pushed me on the swings, or occasionally treated me by taking me to Chuck E. Cheese--and that was HUGE deal; it wasn't an everyday occurrence. Hell, it wasn't even a MONTHLY occurrence. I had to do something pretty damn spectacular in order to spend the day at Chuck E. Cheese--like get very high marks on my report card.
But my mom didn't stop her life because of me. She worked part-time as an ER nurse, and if she had errands to run on her days off, she took me with her. I didn't have a choice about how we passed our days together. If we weren't out grocery shopping or going to the bank or the post office, she spent most of our time at home with her nose in a book. I was made to understand that adults were entitled to having some time away from kids, and I was perfectly OK with that. My mother often told me, in a most loving way, that it was not her job to entertain me constantly. So I learned to entertain myself. Sometimes it was hard, because I was an only child, so there weren't any siblings around to play with. Yet I found things to keep myself busy, by reading books and playing games by myself if the neighborhood kids weren't available. I give full credit to my parents for making me the independent person I am today.
From my observations, I would agree that many parents I've seen these days have become too child-centric. Children should learn to amuse and occupy themselves. I think it helps them grow. It's not good for kids to believe that it's all about them 24/7. Because when they grow up, their expectations are completely skewed.
I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't be a good parent. If you do read the linked article, be sure to click on the reader commentary -- I'm amazed by how divisive this piece is. There are some really harsh comments and it's clear how passionate people are on both sides of the issue.
But do you think the backlash this article is getting would be anywhere near as severe if it were written by a father? I don't think so!!!
Posted by Lori at 8/01/2006 09:15:00 AM
|
Friday, July 28, 2006
The 80s was a pretty good decade to be a kid.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I feel bad for kids these days. It seems to me like there are so many more problems for them now than the people of my generation had.
One of my coworkers sends his two kids (ages 4 and just over 1 year) to a very swanky daycare in our area. They’re learning Spanish and Mandarin Chinese. Some of these children have their very own laptop computers. Their parents are already beginning to talk about getting into the “right” colleges. It seems a bit excessive to me. Not to mention downright scary at times.
When I was 4 years old, I went to the pre-K program at our local YMCA. We didn’t learn Mandarin Chinese. We learned how to make homemade applesauce and peanut butter. We put on incredible, heartwrenchingly dramatic productions of “The Little Train That Could.” But mostly, we just played with Legos and Tinker Toys and Lite Brite and Fisher-Price Little People. Because isn’t that what the crux of being a kid is? To play all day long and not have to worry about the real world?
Now I admit that learning Spanish makes sense to a point—after all, I watched a whole lot of Sesame Street when I was a kid and learned how to count to ten in Spanish, along with other random words (“agua” was a big one, if I recall). But Mandarin Chinese? Exactly how will these kids practice speaking Mandarin, anyway? I don’t get it. Maybe the daycares are teaching this now because they believe that someday the Chinese will own all of us. Hee.
Another thing—what’s up with designer clothes for first graders these days? Not to mention those repugnant message t-shirts for little girls. The day I dress my hypothetical kid in a shirt that has “Spoiled Brat” emblazoned in pink sequins across the front is the day I’ll die. I wasn’t even decked out in clothes from The Children’s Place—they were too expensive.
(That was the one store in the mall I used to BEG my mother to take me to. They had a really neat playhouse with a sliding board and a closed-circuit TV that played episodes of “Steampipe Alley” on an endless loop. Yes, that show was hosted by Mario Cantone, way before he was Charlotte’s flamingly gay wedding planner on Sex and the City.)
No, my clothes came from stores like Jefferson Ward (later Bradlees), Clover, and Burlington Coat Factory. I didn’t have pint-sized versions of designer jeans. I didn’t have my own laptop computer. I didn’t have a VCR, or even a television, in my bedroom. I did have a Speak-n-Spell, though. And Alphie. Remember those?
My friends and I didn’t sit around inside all summer to play video games. We were outside playing from the minute breakfast ended until the streetlights came on. Our parents didn’t have to watch us like hawks because it was (or seemed, at least) so much safer back then. Child molesters were something that we saw on after-school specials—not something we had to contend with every day of our lives. The most we worried about was who was going to be “It” when we started an impromptu game of Tag.
Man. I loved being a child of the 80s. You can read a couple of essays here and here that bring back some terrific memories of those times.
Happy Friday!
I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I feel bad for kids these days. It seems to me like there are so many more problems for them now than the people of my generation had.
One of my coworkers sends his two kids (ages 4 and just over 1 year) to a very swanky daycare in our area. They’re learning Spanish and Mandarin Chinese. Some of these children have their very own laptop computers. Their parents are already beginning to talk about getting into the “right” colleges. It seems a bit excessive to me. Not to mention downright scary at times.
When I was 4 years old, I went to the pre-K program at our local YMCA. We didn’t learn Mandarin Chinese. We learned how to make homemade applesauce and peanut butter. We put on incredible, heartwrenchingly dramatic productions of “The Little Train That Could.” But mostly, we just played with Legos and Tinker Toys and Lite Brite and Fisher-Price Little People. Because isn’t that what the crux of being a kid is? To play all day long and not have to worry about the real world?
Now I admit that learning Spanish makes sense to a point—after all, I watched a whole lot of Sesame Street when I was a kid and learned how to count to ten in Spanish, along with other random words (“agua” was a big one, if I recall). But Mandarin Chinese? Exactly how will these kids practice speaking Mandarin, anyway? I don’t get it. Maybe the daycares are teaching this now because they believe that someday the Chinese will own all of us. Hee.
Another thing—what’s up with designer clothes for first graders these days? Not to mention those repugnant message t-shirts for little girls. The day I dress my hypothetical kid in a shirt that has “Spoiled Brat” emblazoned in pink sequins across the front is the day I’ll die. I wasn’t even decked out in clothes from The Children’s Place—they were too expensive.
(That was the one store in the mall I used to BEG my mother to take me to. They had a really neat playhouse with a sliding board and a closed-circuit TV that played episodes of “Steampipe Alley” on an endless loop. Yes, that show was hosted by Mario Cantone, way before he was Charlotte’s flamingly gay wedding planner on Sex and the City.)
No, my clothes came from stores like Jefferson Ward (later Bradlees), Clover, and Burlington Coat Factory. I didn’t have pint-sized versions of designer jeans. I didn’t have my own laptop computer. I didn’t have a VCR, or even a television, in my bedroom. I did have a Speak-n-Spell, though. And Alphie. Remember those?
My friends and I didn’t sit around inside all summer to play video games. We were outside playing from the minute breakfast ended until the streetlights came on. Our parents didn’t have to watch us like hawks because it was (or seemed, at least) so much safer back then. Child molesters were something that we saw on after-school specials—not something we had to contend with every day of our lives. The most we worried about was who was going to be “It” when we started an impromptu game of Tag.
Man. I loved being a child of the 80s. You can read a couple of essays here and here that bring back some terrific memories of those times.
Happy Friday!
Labels: childhood, fashion, friends, memories, nostalgia, school, technology
Posted by Lori at 7/28/2006 02:26:00 PM
|
Monday, June 26, 2006
As I have mentioned about a thousand times already, I went to see Journey and Def Leppard in concert at the Tweeter Center in Camden, NJ on Friday night. My observations of the concert, in no specific order…
• First of all, Journey was fantastic—much better than I had expected. Many people were saying that their set wasn’t long enough, but I thought that playing for one and a half hours was plenty. The big surprise? They didn’t play “Open Arms.” The hell?!? How can you go to a Journey concert and NOT hear “Open Arms?” Other than that, they played all their big hits of the 80s, plus a slew of newer songs that I didn’t know.
• Where did all these mulletheads come from? I never see any guys with mullets these days, but there were TONS of ‘em at that concert. And women with huge, mall-chick hair and many acid-washed denim accessories: jackets, jeans, purses, backpacks.
• Def Leppard: fucking brilliant! They sounded great. Played all their hits, and some stuff from their latest album, YEAH!, in which they reworked 60s and 70s classics from Sweet, David Essex, and Badfinger. They looked great—especially Phil Collen, who I later learned is a kick-boxing vegan. Seriously, the man has the body of a 30-year old. Unbelievable! I was totally drooling. Joe still looks good, too.
• At one point during the show, the fortysomething guy to my right turns to me and says, “Wow! You sure are a big fan, huh? You’ve been singing every word to every song they’ve played so far!” OH YEAH, I replied. “So do you think they’ll do an encore?” he asks. Well, of COURSE they’ll do an encore, I told him. “What song do you think they’ll do?” Duh. Pour Some Sugar on Me, I shouted. Is there any other song that is more encore-appropriate than that???? Sure enough, after they exit the stage and the audience begins chanting, they reappear and do a fab rendition of “Sugar.” Am I good or what?!?!
• I am ever so glad that we had reserved seating. It started thunderstorming around 9 p.m. and I was concerned for the throng of people sitting in the lawn seats. Lightning scares me and I probably would’ve left the concert altogether if we were out in the open.
• $12.50 for a frozen strawberry daiquiri in a “souvenir” plastic guitar-shaped cup is way too much money, but I will still gladly pay it when it is 90 degrees and 100% humidity. Yuck.
• I got home around 2 a.m., waaaay later than I’ve stayed out (or even stayed up when I’m at home) in a very long time. I’m getting old. Seriously.
• First of all, Journey was fantastic—much better than I had expected. Many people were saying that their set wasn’t long enough, but I thought that playing for one and a half hours was plenty. The big surprise? They didn’t play “Open Arms.” The hell?!? How can you go to a Journey concert and NOT hear “Open Arms?” Other than that, they played all their big hits of the 80s, plus a slew of newer songs that I didn’t know.
• Where did all these mulletheads come from? I never see any guys with mullets these days, but there were TONS of ‘em at that concert. And women with huge, mall-chick hair and many acid-washed denim accessories: jackets, jeans, purses, backpacks.
• Def Leppard: fucking brilliant! They sounded great. Played all their hits, and some stuff from their latest album, YEAH!, in which they reworked 60s and 70s classics from Sweet, David Essex, and Badfinger. They looked great—especially Phil Collen, who I later learned is a kick-boxing vegan. Seriously, the man has the body of a 30-year old. Unbelievable! I was totally drooling. Joe still looks good, too.
• At one point during the show, the fortysomething guy to my right turns to me and says, “Wow! You sure are a big fan, huh? You’ve been singing every word to every song they’ve played so far!” OH YEAH, I replied. “So do you think they’ll do an encore?” he asks. Well, of COURSE they’ll do an encore, I told him. “What song do you think they’ll do?” Duh. Pour Some Sugar on Me, I shouted. Is there any other song that is more encore-appropriate than that???? Sure enough, after they exit the stage and the audience begins chanting, they reappear and do a fab rendition of “Sugar.” Am I good or what?!?!
• I am ever so glad that we had reserved seating. It started thunderstorming around 9 p.m. and I was concerned for the throng of people sitting in the lawn seats. Lightning scares me and I probably would’ve left the concert altogether if we were out in the open.
• $12.50 for a frozen strawberry daiquiri in a “souvenir” plastic guitar-shaped cup is way too much money, but I will still gladly pay it when it is 90 degrees and 100% humidity. Yuck.
• I got home around 2 a.m., waaaay later than I’ve stayed out (or even stayed up when I’m at home) in a very long time. I’m getting old. Seriously.
Labels: concerts, deep thoughts, Def Leppard, friends, music
Posted by Lori at 6/26/2006 10:09:00 AM
|
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Note: I updated this post with a link to the original post from January here.
When I got home from work last night, there was a brown Fed Ex package waiting for me on my doorstep. The address label bore the Random House logo.
I brought it in to the kitchen and opened it. Two copies of the paperback edition of The Myth of You and Me slid out onto the kitchen table, along with a lovely cover letter from Sally Kim, a senior editor at RH.
I have to tell ya, it was pretty exciting to see my very own words printed inside a book, alongside my name. The only bummer is that they didn't use my full name--for legal reasons, I suppose . I was also asked to change the name of the person about whom I wrote (again, for legal reasons).
But I guess that doesn't matter. It shows my name, my town, and my story.
The thing that tickled me the most was that not a single word of my writing was edited. I am truly shocked by that. As a writer, one becomes accustomed to having their material ripped to pieces and reconstructed for clarity and conciseness and grammar. But this time, my story was captured exactly as I'd dashed it off on Leah's website.
As for the novel, I began reading it around 10:30 p.m. and was nearly finished by midnight, when my tired eyes finally gave out on me. So far, it's an excellent story about intense female friendship. The protagonist is realistic, accessible and to me, eerily relatable.
I highly recommend this book, and not just because I'm a little biased.
When I got home from work last night, there was a brown Fed Ex package waiting for me on my doorstep. The address label bore the Random House logo.
I brought it in to the kitchen and opened it. Two copies of the paperback edition of The Myth of You and Me slid out onto the kitchen table, along with a lovely cover letter from Sally Kim, a senior editor at RH.
I have to tell ya, it was pretty exciting to see my very own words printed inside a book, alongside my name. The only bummer is that they didn't use my full name--for legal reasons, I suppose . I was also asked to change the name of the person about whom I wrote (again, for legal reasons).
But I guess that doesn't matter. It shows my name, my town, and my story.
The thing that tickled me the most was that not a single word of my writing was edited. I am truly shocked by that. As a writer, one becomes accustomed to having their material ripped to pieces and reconstructed for clarity and conciseness and grammar. But this time, my story was captured exactly as I'd dashed it off on Leah's website.
As for the novel, I began reading it around 10:30 p.m. and was nearly finished by midnight, when my tired eyes finally gave out on me. So far, it's an excellent story about intense female friendship. The protagonist is realistic, accessible and to me, eerily relatable.
I highly recommend this book, and not just because I'm a little biased.
Labels: accomplishments, books, friends, writing
Posted by Lori at 4/27/2006 10:27:00 AM
|
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
My friend (and partner-in-crime) PJ and I have decided to go for a free private Krav Maga lesson next week.
What is Krav Maga, you ask? It's the method of self-defense used by the Israeli Army, who are clearly a bunch of bad-ass mofos.
Krav Maga is also what J-Lo used in her movie Angel Eyes. Or was it her movie Enough? I can never seem to get those two straight. Mostly because they both sucked. Oh well. It's the one where she's married to a really abusive guy and she finally decides she's had it and learns to fight, then totally cleans his clock. I think it's Enough.
PJ and I have been talking about doing this for at least the last three years, but we just never got around to doing anything about it. She recently brought it up again in conversation, and I had just seen a special interest story on our local news about it, so I believe the Universe is trying to tell us something.
So has anyone ever taken Krav Maga? What should I expect? Obviously, we're going for a beginner's free trial, so I know that I'm not going to morph into Elektra by the end of the session.
Hiiiii-yah!
Posted by Lori at 4/05/2006 04:20:00 PM
|
Friday, March 31, 2006
...but going to see Def Leppard in concert most definitely takes some of the sting out of it!!
WOOHOO! A few friends and I are going to the Def Leppard/Journey concert in June at the Tweeter Center in Camden. You cannot possibly imagine how much this excites me. Going to see DL live represents the fulfillment of a lifelong dream for me. I can barely sit still, I am that amped!!
When I was a kid, my parents were pretty much like the Gestapo. Every television program, movie, and album I wanted was heavily scrutinzed before my parents decided whether or not I could watch it or listen to it. For example, I was not allowed to watch MTV (then again, the MTV of my youth was like Mr. Fucking Rogers' Neighborhood compared to the soft porn they broadcast these days!). I was not allowed to own any cassette tapes with the parental warning labels on them. I was not allowed to talk on the phone on school nights after 7 p.m.
Yeah, it sucked. And yeah, they had hell to pay for it in later years, when I rebelled by sneaking my boyfriends into my bedroom in the middle of the night and spending almost two straight years stoned off my ass. Let me tell ya, I could roll the TIGHTEST joint ever! Ahem. But those are stories for another post...
Anyhoo. In 1987, my cousin Tracie, who is eight years my senior and was, in my eyes, the arbiter of all things cool, turned me on to Def Leppard. I was about 10 years old. This was around the time when Hysteria was first released. For me, it was love at first listen. Not only did I immediately adore their music, but I also developed an extreme prepubescent crush on Rick Allen, the one-armed drummer.
All of my weekly allowance was funneled to the purchase of magazines like Metal Edge and Hit Parader, as I began to accumulate photos of the band. At one point, I had over four hundred posters and pictures of Def Leppard taped to the walls of my bedroom. My parents were suspicious, but they never made me take down those posters. Tracie, knowing how strict my parents were, made me a copy of Hysteria on a blank, unmarked cassette tape. I listened to it nearly every waking minute of each day, until it eventually was eaten by my Walkman.
I decided to take the chance and buy my own copy of Hysteria at Wall to Wall Sound and Video (remember that store?). Shortly thereafter, my parents were on to me. They read the playlist and saw song titles like "Women," "Pour Some Sugar on Me," and "Armageddon It" (my mother: "Is this that SATANIC music?!?") and immediately took the tape away from me. I was crushed. I begged and pleaded with them to give me back the tape, to no avail. They wouldn't even reimburse me the damn allowance money that I spent to buy it. I was crushed...but only briefly.
You see, what they DIDN'T realize was that I knew that they'd hidden the tape in one of the drawers of my father's dresser. So as soon as my parents weren't around, I snatched the tape and dubbed another copy of it for myself. Then I replaced the original back in my dad's dresser, and they were never the wiser.
I was a sneaky, underhanded, conniving child. Indeed.
So going to see Def Leppard in concert now is guaranteed to bring back all of those fond memories for me.
Plus, they're playing with Journey. Freaking Journey! DON'T STOP...BELIEVIN'!
(I know, Steve Perry hasn't been with Journey in years, so I'm kinda bummed out about that, but still. There is NO way I would miss this show.)
My real concern is, should I break out the acidwashed denim and curl my bangs sky-high for this show?
WOOHOO! A few friends and I are going to the Def Leppard/Journey concert in June at the Tweeter Center in Camden. You cannot possibly imagine how much this excites me. Going to see DL live represents the fulfillment of a lifelong dream for me. I can barely sit still, I am that amped!!
When I was a kid, my parents were pretty much like the Gestapo. Every television program, movie, and album I wanted was heavily scrutinzed before my parents decided whether or not I could watch it or listen to it. For example, I was not allowed to watch MTV (then again, the MTV of my youth was like Mr. Fucking Rogers' Neighborhood compared to the soft porn they broadcast these days!). I was not allowed to own any cassette tapes with the parental warning labels on them. I was not allowed to talk on the phone on school nights after 7 p.m.
Yeah, it sucked. And yeah, they had hell to pay for it in later years, when I rebelled by sneaking my boyfriends into my bedroom in the middle of the night and spending almost two straight years stoned off my ass. Let me tell ya, I could roll the TIGHTEST joint ever! Ahem. But those are stories for another post...
Anyhoo. In 1987, my cousin Tracie, who is eight years my senior and was, in my eyes, the arbiter of all things cool, turned me on to Def Leppard. I was about 10 years old. This was around the time when Hysteria was first released. For me, it was love at first listen. Not only did I immediately adore their music, but I also developed an extreme prepubescent crush on Rick Allen, the one-armed drummer.
All of my weekly allowance was funneled to the purchase of magazines like Metal Edge and Hit Parader, as I began to accumulate photos of the band. At one point, I had over four hundred posters and pictures of Def Leppard taped to the walls of my bedroom. My parents were suspicious, but they never made me take down those posters. Tracie, knowing how strict my parents were, made me a copy of Hysteria on a blank, unmarked cassette tape. I listened to it nearly every waking minute of each day, until it eventually was eaten by my Walkman.
I decided to take the chance and buy my own copy of Hysteria at Wall to Wall Sound and Video (remember that store?). Shortly thereafter, my parents were on to me. They read the playlist and saw song titles like "Women," "Pour Some Sugar on Me," and "Armageddon It" (my mother: "Is this that SATANIC music?!?") and immediately took the tape away from me. I was crushed. I begged and pleaded with them to give me back the tape, to no avail. They wouldn't even reimburse me the damn allowance money that I spent to buy it. I was crushed...but only briefly.
You see, what they DIDN'T realize was that I knew that they'd hidden the tape in one of the drawers of my father's dresser. So as soon as my parents weren't around, I snatched the tape and dubbed another copy of it for myself. Then I replaced the original back in my dad's dresser, and they were never the wiser.
I was a sneaky, underhanded, conniving child. Indeed.
So going to see Def Leppard in concert now is guaranteed to bring back all of those fond memories for me.
Plus, they're playing with Journey. Freaking Journey! DON'T STOP...BELIEVIN'!
(I know, Steve Perry hasn't been with Journey in years, so I'm kinda bummed out about that, but still. There is NO way I would miss this show.)
My real concern is, should I break out the acidwashed denim and curl my bangs sky-high for this show?
Labels: childhood, concerts, decisions, Def Leppard, family, friends, memories, music
Posted by Lori at 3/31/2006 04:28:00 PM
|