Summer’s Almost Gone…Thank God.

Those of you who used to read my blog (when I used to write it, which was roughly twenty years ago) know I hate the heat.  I am also not fond of bugs.  Combine heat with bugs, mix with a hearty helping of dense, humid air, and you have summer.

I realize summer is far from gone, but it’s not 105 degrees today and it does not appear that my town is due for any uncomfortably high temperatures for at least the next ten days.  Add to that development the store ads for “Back to School” and the home decor catalogs previewing autumn decor and you have, in my mind, the beginning of the end where summer is concerned.  Thank God.

It’s not just the heat that has made this summer less than marvelous.  It’s my pregnant body trying to play with my daughter in this heat that has made for some unpleasant experiences.  The increase in my belly size has been directly proportional to the increase in temperature since May.  I look like I’m about seven or eight months pregnant.  News flash: I’m only barely five months pregnant.

I was at the park a few days ago with a fellow mom friend.  She brought along another mom whom I had not met previously, a lovely woman who is also pregnant.  When I saw her, I thought, “oh, she looks like she’s about as far along as I am!”.  I asked her when she was due and she said, “September 1″.  She asked me when I was due and I said, “mid-December”.  Her eyes widened – and no, I do not exaggerate – to the size of dinner plates.  I know what she was thinking…”if she’s this big now, how big will she be in a few months?”.  Good question.  Maybe I’ll sell tickets: “Come one, come all!  Come see the incredible growing belly!”.  Sigh.

Despite the awkward waddling walk I’ve developed, I am still beyond overjoyed to be having another baby.  Wait…let me be more specific.  To be having another baby girl. Another girl.  Two girls in our home.  Life will be more of an adventure (and melodrama) than ever!

But summer’s disappointments extend far beyond the oppressive heat this year.  As some of you know, I was a LeBron James fan for a number of years.  (Look at my tag cloud categories if you’re not yet familiar with my previous love for LeBron.)  And I’m from Ohio. So the “South Beach” announcement was met with tears, wailing, gnashing of teeth, and cursing in our home.  I kid.  There were only a few creative curses screamed at the television.   If you are interested in being the proud owner of a like-new copy of James’ (co-authored) autobiography, please contact me.  I’m not ready to part with my LeBron James #23 T-shirt just yet, but that’s only because it’s one of the few non-maternity T-shirts left in my closet that fully covers my belly.

But back to summer’s waning days….now that I see a light at the end of the tunnel (and that light is called “autumn”), I plan to write frequently.  I’ve missed writing, I’ve got a lot to say, and I think I really need the mental exercise.  Apparently I have a serious case of “pregnancy brain” according to my husband.  I think he may be right; my two-year-old daughter has started reminding me of things I need to do.

I Have a Good Excuse (Really).

When I taught high school students, I really enjoyed hearing their reasons for why they weren’t prepared for the day.  I almost admired the creativity these kids displayed as they very earnestly listed their excuses.  In honor of those students, I give you a list of reasons to explain my blog absenteeism:

1)  Daughter has had a wicked cold for the past 10 days (as have I).

2)  I’ve been ridiculously tired.

3)  I’ve been in a rather unpleasant mood.

4) I can’t indulge in my usual blog writing ritual (i.e., enjoying a glass or two of red wine while I write a post).

5)  I’ve spent the past five weeks clutching my stomach in an attempt to ward off nausea.  (Hasn’t worked.)

6)  I’ve devoted an inordinate amount of time to figuring out what foods I can tolerate cooking and eating.  (And even though nothing sounds good to me, I have still gained weight these past two months.)

7)  I can’t sleep at night for more than about three consecutive hours.

8 – As my dog gets progressively fatter and lazier, she takes up more of the bed (so sometimes I don’t even get those three consecutive hours).

9)  As it gets hotter and hotter here in the South, I am spending more time fighting the bugs (e.g., ants in the mailbox).

10) I have a severe case of mom-brain-itis.

So,  readers, if you read the list carefully, I’m sure you can deduce what’s going on in my life.  (Granted, items 1, 8, and 9 don’t really help you reach the right conclusion, but the others do.)

Yep, I’m pregnant!  And I’m thrilled, as is my husband.   Our daughter has no clue what’s happening (she’s only two after all), and our dog seems gloomily suspicious.  So even though this first trimester has been less than magical, it’s almost over.  I am looking forward to the next two trimesters, to brewing up a beautiful baby, and to writing some blog posts again.

I hope all of you are well and I look forward to catching back up with you.

Soon…

I’ve been a very bad blogger of late.  My husband took a week of vacation last week and we had a lovely time just hanging around the house, spending time with our daughter, and being a happy little family.  After our girl was in bed each night last week, my husband and I had actual couple time.  We talked, watch TV together, played with the dog, and were just generally happy together.  I loved this evening time with my husband and I’ve decided to keep it going (even if he and I are not quite as rested now that we’re back in real life).  So, there’s been no recent blog post, since I usually write at night and I now realize that I really like spending my nights with my husband instead of the computer.

I’ll figure out a new blog routine and I’ll be back…soon.

This Happy Easter Was Brought to Me by My Mom.

A package from my mom was on my doorstep when I returned home today.  When I opened the box, the entire contents of all the Hallmark stores in Ohio spilled onto my floor.  Easter books for my daughter, Easter-themed stuffed animals, pastel clothes (for my daughter, thankfully…I look rather corpse-like in pastels), pastel chalk, bunny puzzles, and one oddly-shaped foil bag.

The mysterious foil bag. To give you an idea of its size, the couch behind it is quite big and overstuffed. (Let's put it this way. If I sit all the way back on the couch, my toes don't touch the floor. And I'm 5'5''.)

The bag was HUGE.  And heavy.  And the foil sheen really added to its mystique.  I already knew what waited for me inside that bag, but I kept thinking, “my mom didn’t really send me this much, did she?  Did she?“.

Oh, yeah….she did.  My mom filled that foil bag with Easter candy.  Every kind of Easter candy imaginable.  Classic milk chocolate eggs, peeps, peanut butter cup eggs (my favorite), truffles, two large chocolate bunnies, other assorted candies, and, what is sure to become my new favorite candy, chocolate covered peeps.  (Honestly, I think only bacon-covered, butter-dipped peeps could top these chocolate covered marshmallow confections.)

My mom seems to hold fast to the belief that my husband and I are either:  a) trapped in our house and need a two years’ supply of candy to survive, b) suffering from severe hypoglycemia, or c) unsure how to purchase candy on our own.  Because while this year’s haul certainly topped all past years’ candy bonanzas, my mother has been faithfully sending me lots of candy for every major holiday since I left for college fifteen years ago.

When I lived at home, I used to roll my eyes when my mom treated me like a kid, even though I was a kid at the time.  Now I miss those daily suggestions, reminders, and affirmations.  Now that I’m (kind of) grown up, there’s no one available at a moment’s notice to prop me up when I’m down, confused, or just plain scared.  My husband is supportive, but his work duties often keep him away from home.  My daughter isn’t really a lively conversationalist…yet.  I often talk to my dog, but those chats are usually one-sided (and usually end quickly because my dog prefers licking her nether regions to listening to my complaints.  Can’t say I blame her.)  My mom was always there for me.  I didn’t always like her constant presence when it was a reality, but some small part of me knew even then that it was nice to always have someone there.

I think my mom misses being part of my daily life.  I think that’s why she sends the packages, the notes, the newspaper clippings, the photos (she still adamantly uses a 35 mm), and, of course, the candy.

My husband and I dumped the pile of candy on the floor and decided that we would share some of it with his coworkers, rather than let it eventually go bad.  (Even though we both love candy, we really couldn’t see ourselves finishing this latest score until 2014.)  Here’s what we kept:

The makings of a very happy Easter.

If we exercise some restraint, this should last us through the Spring.  Not that we need to worry…I’m sure my mom will be sending us some Earth Day-themed candy soon.

Thanks, Mom, for the books, the toys, the clothes, and the candy.  Thanks for being a part of our lives tonight, even though you’re miles and miles away.  Happy Easter, Mom.  I love you.

Says Who?

Image courtesy www.denningers.com/denningers-famous-hams.

I don’t like ham.  I don’t like its consistency, its taste, or its bubblegum-like color.  (Full disclosure:  I ate ham with frightening frequency when I was pregnant.  Warm ham sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise.  Oh, pregnant me, show some restraint, for God’s sake.)  I don’t look forward to eating an Easter feast, because ham is usually the star of the table.  I am lucky that my husband likes the food I make.  He is, however, an unabashed ham lover and I have never made him a ham.  He has bravely and silently endured many a ham-free Easter when we’ve celebrated at home and I feel (mildly) bad about this.

I was trying to get excited about planning this year’s Easter dinner and I just couldn’t bring myself to planning a ham-centric repast.  But I really wanted to make a meal that my husband would eagerly anticipate.  I didn’t want him to mope around the house all week, lamenting the appalling lack of ham.  So, I suggested to him that I stage a reprise of my standard Thanksgiving feast (with a few season-appropriate tweaks).  His response was far more enthusiastic than I expected; I think I’m quickly making my husband as food-obsessive as I am.

So, yeah, we’re having turkey and stuffing on Easter Sunday.  No mashed potatoes, because that seems to make the already rich meal a little too rich for a warm April day.  (And I’ve checked the weather reports; it’s supposed to be about eighty degrees this Sunday.  Yuck.)  We’ll have a nice green-bean side dish and for dessert, a lemon pecan pie.

I still couldn’t ignore the quiet but maddeningly nagging voice in my head.  ”Turkey on Easter?  You’re supposed to serve ham, lady!  Ham.  H-A-M.”  The voice finally stopped when I responded to it (in my imagination only, I swear) with a hearty, “says who?”.

Says who?  There are so many things we’re all supposed to do.  Some of them are important and necessary in order to keep us out of jail.  We are supposed to pay our taxes, pay our bills, buy car insurance, and leash our dogs (and I do leash my dog, but I can hardly ever walk her since she immediately morphs into a Cujo-Cerberus hybrid as soon as she spots a neighbor).

But there are other things that have somehow earned a spot on the “stuff you’re supposed to do” list that, in reality, we don’t have to do at all.  None of these other things are legally actionable and yet we all adhere to these rules and rituals as though they’re gospel.  Life’s too short to do this other nonsense if you don’t enjoy doing it.  If skipping one of the “supposed-to-dos” isn’t going to land you in prison or some other unpleasant fate, perhaps you should go your own way and just respond with a simple, “says who?” to anyone who questions your choices.

What are some of these other, non-legally-binding items on the supposed-to-do list?

Bridal and baby showers. I could go on and on about my hatred of all things shower.  I tried, in vain, mind you, to express my disdain for bridal showers when I was engaged, but my sister and my mother-in-law were determined to each have a shower for me.   So that meant two showers.  All I could think was, “Two showers?  Oh, Mother of God, please find a way to get me out of these parties, or, at the very least, please create a reasonable likeness of me to send to the showers as a proxy.”

I’m a grown woman now and I was seven years ago when I was engaged and therefore I had no interest in attending a girls-only, heavy on the cute, light on the fun party (let alone two). Actually, being officially grown-up doesn’t really count as a good reason for not liking showers.  I didn’t particularly enjoy girls-only, cute, non-fun parties when I was a tike either.  I don’t like playing nonsensical games, I don’t like eating foods that fall under the disgraceful category of “finger foods”, and I don’t like making small talk with females.

Once I knew the showers were inevitable, I tried to voice my preferences.  I wanted a co-ed, pizza-and-beer kind of gathering.  No such luck.  I was given two very girlie showers, complete with games and finger foods and small talk.  (I know I sound ungrateful.  I realize that I was given many lovely gifts at these showers, and I appreciate the generosity of the attendees.  However, looking back, I’ve used two of those eight china settings – one for my husband and one for me – a total of four times in the past seven years, so I think I would have persevered without the gifts.)

I did stand my ground when I was pregnant and I had no baby shower.  And I was a very content pregnant lady as a result.  No games in which the guests tried to guess the circumference of my waist (humiliating), no finger foods (seriously?  Once I was seven months pregnant, I was only sated if I could eat an entire pot roast at every meal), and no small talk.  I’m sure lots of people thought it odd that I had no baby shower.  ”But you’re supposed to have a baby shower!  Everyone has a baby shower!”  Oh, yeah?  Says who?

Matching dresses for bridesmaids. Chalk it up to laziness, but I wasn’t interested in figuring out the attire for my bridesmaids.  I told my lovely girls to find black dresses.  I didn’t care about length, cut, or style.  (Really, who was I to dictate my friends’ style?  I spent most of my engagement dressed in stained sweat pants and a “1994 Prom Rocks!” T-shirt.)  Each girl decided for herself whether she would buy new or wear an already-owned gown.  Maybe my bridesmaids found this decision unconventional, but I think each lady was thrilled to be able to choose a dress that made her feel beautiful.  ”But your bridesmaids should match!”  Really?  Says who?

My daughter's art.

Keep the kiddie decor to a minimum in central living areas. I actually do adhere to this rule in part.  The downstairs portion of our home looks somewhat respectable, and that’s mainly because you can walk from one room to the next without stepping on a plastic Big Bird, a mound of play-doh, or a musical cookie jar.  (I’m this close to taking the batteries out of that damned cookie jar, by the way.  That voice is enough to push me over the already alarmingly close edge.)  But my daughter’s drawings are, to me, breathtaking works of art.  So, they have earned a prized spot on the focal wall in our kitchen.  ”But kiddie decor disrupts the flow!  Kiddie decor doesn’t belong in a common area!”  Come on.  Says who?

I swear, I only put the dog in bed like this to annoy my husband. She sleeps at the foot of the bed. I swear.

You shouldn’t treat your pets like people. Too late.  Way, way too late.  I have committed every sin in the dog-training bible with my schnauzer.  She eats too much people-food, she sleeps in our bed, she doesn’t seem to understand that it is indeed possible to sit on a floor (she requires a fluffy pillow), she herds my husband, daughter, and me with military-like precision, and she lets me know, with loud sighs and grunts, when it’s time for bed (and, sadly enough, sometimes I listen to her even if I have other things to do before I sleep).  But she’s kind (to us, not to the neighbors), she’s lovable (again, with us, not with others), and she’s an incredibly important part of our family.  ”You really need to treat your dog like a dog.”  Huh.  Says who?

So, buck tradition and serve what you want to serve at your next holiday feast.  Serve ham, turkey, beef, fish, corn dogs, pizza, hot pockets, or doughnuts (or, if many relatives are in attendance, just serve alcohol).  When a guest tries to diminish your culinary accomplishments by making a “supposed-to” comment, you now know that you can simply reply, “says who?”.  (Of course, you are welcome to respond with any number of more colorful, and possibly more effective, expletives.)

What Gives, WordPress?

Maybe it’s Spring break at WordPress headquarters.  Or maybe there’s a really grave reason for the lack of new blogs featured on Freshly Pressed.  If the latter is the case, then I apologize for the following words.

The front page of WordPress (called “Freshly Pressed”), where blogs are featured, hasn’t changed in several days.  Usually, new blogs are posted on this page daily (except for the weekends).

The Freshly Pressed page, largely unchanged for the past several days.

It’s not that the blogs currently featured on Freshly Pressed aren’t good.  Quite the contrary.  They’re all worthy of recognition.  But I can only read about Kanter, the next iPhone, wine tastings, denim, car shows, health care reform, crawfish, film festivals, the ten places I don’t want to visit, and cherry blossoms (v. plum blossoms) so many times.

It’s also not that I need to be featured.  I’m fortunate enough to have been on the Freshly Pressed page and I’m happy with my short-lived flirtation with fame.  But there are lots of bloggers out there who haven’t been featured on Freshly Pressed.  Bloggers who faithfully write and/or post beautiful photos, who pour their hearts into their work, and who would probably love a little acknowledgement of their efforts.  And I know, I know, we all write our blogs for ourselves, but it’s still nice to get a little pat on the back (and a little increase in those stats) every so often.

So, WordPress, if you’re looking for some blogs to feature, may I suggest the following:

right in front of me – great pictures accompanied by equally great writing.

live life. addicted. – funny, honest, journal-style writing and quirky, fun photos.

Lakia Gordon – smart, inspirational, interesting posts.

Mayonnaise and Moonlight – well crafted posts by a very talented young writer.

My Average Adventures – also journal-style; very sincere, sweet, and humorous writing.

Sea of Serenity – deep, thought-provoking, posts (with which I sometimes disagree, but that’s what makes life interesting).

A caveat:  I don’t know any of the above bloggers in real life.  I don’t think any of them have been featured yet by WordPress.  But they’re all creating some good stuff and are deserving of a moment in the spotlight.  (By the way, the blog Highly Irritable has, I think, been featured before, but it is so well written and so stinking hilarious that it should be featured as often as possible.  Same goes for The Problem Today with Young People Is…. .  I could actually list several more outstanding blogs, WordPress, but I suspect you’re growing weary of me.  Just check out my blogroll; any blog there would look fabulous on your Freshly Pressed page.)

But even if you don’t feature these bloggers, WordPress, please feature something different soon!  Some of us don’t have very exciting lives and we rely on you (only a little bit, I swear) to provide us with new blogs to read.

Did I Really Just Read That?

I was flipping through a magazine this evening and I came upon this advertisement:

Image Copyright 2010 Kohler Co. Kohler: As I See It, #87 in a series. Artist: Mark Holthusen.

This is an ad for a Kohler shower.  The text describing the shower’s many capabilities reads:

Multiple shimmering tiles – digitally controlled and beautifully affordable – that give you water, sound, light and steam.

Um…what???  Is it just me, or does that seem, I don’t know, a bit much for a shower?  If you look at the picture, you see there are multiple shower heads.  OK, that’s fine.  My husband and I have a very sub-par shower that barely produces one decent stream of water for more than five minutes, so the multiple shower head feature sounds heavenly.

But the other bells and whistles?  The shimmering tiles?  The sound?  The lighting effects???  Unless I’m dressed like the people in the above ad when I’m about to bathe, I don’t see myself ever being fancy enough for a shower like that.

When I shower, my mission is to remove the collective funk from my skin – the baby drool, the dog drool, the grease spatters from a failed cooking experiment, the poorly applied makeup, and the general stench that comes from doing battle with ill-tempered children (of both the human and dog variety).

What I’m trying to say is that my shower is not a luxurious escape.  I would probably want to linger longer in my shower if I had decent water pressure and those showy multiple shower heads.  But I’m quite certain that I don’t want the other stuff.  If I had lighting and sound effects in my shower, I would constantly be looking over my shoulder to see if Cirque du Soleil performers were rappelling down the walls (using some kind of glowing rope, of course…does Kohler have that feature available?).

Maybe I’m too uptight or too lacking in imagination to understand why someone would want a near-theatrical experience in his or her shower.  Maybe.  But I think we should keep lighting and sound effects and “shimmering tiles” where they belong…in a dance club.

Hell, add a fog machine to this shower and you’ve pretty much recreated every dance I attended in junior high.

One Hot Mama (Literally, Alas)

I am going to have to accept that Spring/Summer weather arrives earlier here in the southern United States than in the midwest.  For the past two days, the temperature reached 80 degrees in our new town.  Most people would be thrilled with this premature warmth.  Probably everyone would be thrilled.  Everyone but me.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t like warm weather.  I’ve been told that I may have reverse seasonal affective disorder, because I get much more irritable when the temperature starts to climb.  Warm weather, how do I loathe thee?  Let me count the ways…

My flip-flops. Possibly the only thing I like about warm weather. (Please try to ignore the pasty color of my skin and my lovely home pedicure.)

Warm weather means more revealing clothing. I don’t have body-image issues.  Sure, I would like to be ten pounds lighter and a little (or a lot) more toned, but I’m basically happy with my physical appearance.  Even so, I don’t care for spring and summer attire.  I’m a jeans and sweatshirt kind of girl.  Tank tops and shorts make me feel a little too exposed.  Again, not because I think I’m overweight, but because I have very, very pale skin.  I should be proud of my pale skin; it hopefully is a harbinger of a skin-cancer-free future.  But when your skin practically reflects the sunlight, thus making you look as though you have congenital albinism, you start to get a little self-conscious.

My husband tries to encourage me to wear shorts; he tells me that my long legs are attractive.  (I don’t really know if my legs are all that long or all that attractive.  I do know that my husband is contractually obligated to tell me such things.  The contract in question is our marriage certificate.)  Even with my wonderful husband’s confidence-boosting, I just don’t feel it’s right to subject the world to my whiter-than-alabaster skin.

So, get a tan, you say.  Well, I could try to get a tan, but I do like the idea of remaining skin-cancer-free.  Also, when I have tried to tan in the past, I don’t turn brown.  I turn pink.  Pink skin is cute on babies and piglets.  It’s not a hue that belongs on the skin of a woman in her mid-thirties.  Try tanning lotions, you say. Gee, that’s a great suggestion.  Too bad I’ve already tried every skin-bronzer out there.  Maybe I’m not smart enough to apply the stuff correctly, but I have yet to emerge from a bronzer application without looking like I have a very bad case of jaundice.

The whole tanning process brings me to another reason I dislike warm weather…

Warm weather makes me sweat profusely. Oh, come on, you’re probably saying.  Warm weather makes everyone sweat!  Sure.  But I don’t sweat like a girl, all glistening and glowing.  I sweat like a prepubescent boy, all drenched and smelly.  Which is why I don’t like to lay out in the sun.  I don’t care for the sensation of drowning I get when I’m lying in a pool of my own sweat.  I don’t mind sweating if I’m accomplishing something through manual labor, but I don’t want to look like I just ran a marathon across the Sahara if all I’ve done is sit outside reading a magazine.  Also, when it’s warm outside, my morning shower is completely negated by the time I walk three blocks to the playground with my daughter.  By the time we get to the swings, I look (and possibly smell) as though I haven’t bathed in at least three weeks.

Warm weather means more revealing clothing. Wait, you say.  You already discussed this!  Yes, but only as it relates to me.  Warm weather means more revealing clothing for everyone.  I guess that’s OK, but I don’t really like seeing my male neighbors in jean shorts and no shirts.  Perhaps I would feel differently if my male neighbors were LeBron James and Brad Pitt.  Trust me, my male neighbors, though generally all very nice, do not remotely resemble LeBron or Brad.  (And yes, I fully realize that I’m not a supermodel, but I don’t do yard work in clothes that reveal all my less-than-lovely parts.)  I also don’t want to go the grocery store and see grown women prancing around in far-too-skimpy-for-comfort (both my and their comfort) halter tops and short sweat shorts with some inane word printed on the butt (“angel”, “cute”, “sexy”, etc.).

Warm weather makes me question my facial appearance. So, like I said before, I’m rather pale.  (The nice word for pale is “fair”, but if I’m being honest, I’m just plain pale, pale, pale.)  When it gets warm outside, I start noticing how bronze and healthy everyone looks.  I’m not going to tan (see above), so my only option is to use some kind of powder-bronzer.  (I’ve tried the liquid facial bronzers, but the result was both comical and horrifying.)  The powder-bronzer works fairly well, but I’ve noticed that it seems to make the dark circles under my eyes more prominent.  To fix the eye circles, I apply concealer.  The contrast of the concealer against the bronzer makes me look like I’m ready for my big audition at the local Kabuki theatre.  At best, after tweaking the concealer to bronzer ratio, I look like Bette Davis in her Baby Jane role.

Warm weather means more bugs. Like many people, I don’t like bugs.  Why everyone gets so excited about warm weather when all that warmth will just bring more bees, flies, and mosquitoes is beyond me.  I spray a liberal coat of Deep Woods Off on my skin whenever I go to our backyard in the summer (because our backyard is apparently the cool hangout for all the mosquitoes in the county). I’m convinced I must be buying the Designer Imposters version of the bug repellent, because the mosquitoes can’t keep their hands (?) off me.

There is a warm weather bias on the local news. Hear me out.  Did you ever notice how happy the news anchors are when they can announce that it’s going to be 80+ degrees all week?  And how disgruntled they sound when they tell you that it’s going to be in the 20s all week?  Also, if there’s an odd weather day in January, a day that is, say, 60 degrees, the news anchors are giddy with excitement.  But if there’s an odd weather day in August, a day that is, say, 60 degrees, those same anchors are morose and apologetic.  There’s a bias, I tell you.

My list goes on, if you can believe it.  I’m always more tired when it’s warm than when it’s cold outside.  There is no college football on TV during the spring and summer.  Warm weather doesn’t lend itself to the kind of meals I cook best (butter-laden fare, to be specific).  My dog pants so dramatically in the heat that I’m convinced she’s going to die of dehydration if she spends more than five minutes outside.

I rest my case.  Come on, November.

Now the onus is on you, readers, to convince me that I am wrong.  Why do you like warm weather?

Red

My husband and I never painted any walls in our first home.  We always knew this house was a temporary stop and so we decided to leave the walls white.  Now that we’re in a house where we plan/hope to stay for a while, we’ve finally ventured into the great world of color.  My husband painted a focal wall in our living room red yesterday and I really like the end result.  

The room looks so much cozier now, so much more welcoming.  My husband wasn’t sold on using red, but he didn’t have a strong preference for any other color, so red won.

I love red.  It’s my favorite color.  It’s the color of so many of the cherished things and memories in my life.

Red is the color of cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving Day.  Without that splash of color, the Thanksgiving dinner would be almost completely beige (except for the green beans, which most of my guests skip in favor of more stuffing).

Red was the color of 90% of my wardrobe in high school.  The director of a play in which I participated in high school looked at me during a dress rehearsal (I was bedecked in red) and said, “you look really nice in red”.  At that point in my life, I was in a very awkward, all-elbows, growing-out-an-unfortunate-perm stage and I didn’t think there was any color in the world that could make me look nice.  Once I was told that red improved my appearance, my fourteen-year-old self did the logical thing and wore red as often as possible.  Red made me feel confident and happy and those are rare feelings in a teenager.

My first prom dress was red.  Most of my classmates opted for sedate black, but I (of course) chose red and it was one of the few times in my life when I didn’t mind standing out.

My lipstick of choice for most of my high school and college years was red.  Looking back, this was probably a mistake.  No, this was absolutely a mistake.  I have dark hair and fair skin, so I’m quite certain the red lipstick made me look like an understudy for a Robert Palmer girl.  (I graduated from high school in 1995.  The Robert Palmer girls were cool in the 1980s.  Sigh.  I am always woefully out-of-the-loop when it comes to trends.  Which brings me to an aside…who in the hell is this Lady Gaga everyone’s discussing?  I have yet to hear one of her songs.  See what I mean about being out-of -the-loop?)

Red foods are almost always good.  Tomatoes, strawberries, a nice rare steak, red licorice, cherry-flavored popsicles (which consist of nothing remotely resembling cherries, but they’re still exquisite on a hot day), and the list goes on.  And while I’m on the subject of food, I would be remiss to not include another important red accompaniment to all this lovely food…red wine.  (Though I will admit that a nice Chianti probably doesn’t pair that well with licorice or popsicles.)

There is nothing more attractive in the world to me than my husband when he’s dressed for one of his formal work days.  He often wears a dress light-blue shirt with a red tie and he couldn’t look handsomer if he tried. (Of course, what’s frustrating is that my husband never has to try to look handsome…he only uses his hands to brush his hair and he has the metabolism of a twelve-year-old track athlete.  Ridiculous.  And unfair.)

Red is the color of Elmo.  Though I don’t find his high-pitched, raspy voice as captivating as my daughter does, I do enjoy watching her face light up whenever I put her in her crib and she sees her Elmo doll patiently waiting for her.

We’ve only painted one wall in our house,  but we’ve used red wall decor in our recreation room.  Our non-Ohio guests might find this room a bit off-putting.

Ohio State flag. The color is actually scarlet, but close enough. Go Bucks.

Red is also one of the colors of my other favorite Ohio team:

Also in our recreation room. As are about twenty other banners for various Ohio teams. Awesome.

(Of course, the Cavs may not hold the same cachet for me if LeBron James leaves after this season.  LeBron, as your (imaginary) girlfriend, I urge you to stay in Cleveland.  Do it for me.)

Yeah, I really like red.  Hell, I would paint the whole house red if I could, but that would probably ruin red’s beauty for me.  Oh, and it would be incredibly creepy.

What’s your favorite color?  Why?

A Strange Dichotomy

I am a lucky woman.  My Facebook friends provide me with daily entertainment.  Sometimes, their posts aren’t even that funny, but when I compare the posts of one group of my friends to another’s, I often find comedy gold.

See, I have lots of adult friends who are my age, friends from my high school and college days, former coworkers, family members, etc.  But I also have a small group of friends composed of former students.  I taught at an all boys’ high school for several years, and a few of my now college-aged students have requested me to be their “friend”.  They have done this in part because they liked me (kind of) when I taught them and in part because they occasionally still ask me for letters of reference for jobs.  (I don’t kid myself.  I think the latter reason is why most of them found me on Facebook.)

My younger acquaintances’ status updates on Facebook are markedly different from my adult friends’ posts.  The differences between the thoughts of the whippersnappers and those of the (rapidly becoming) elderly are often entertaining.  This strange dichotomy is really an uncanny reflection of the shift in worries and priorities we all experience as we grow up.

I’ve got some great examples of these posts for you, but first let me provide a disclaimer.  Some of you may find these posts funny, some of you may find them to be a sad representation of the younger generation.  Funny or sad, I still think these contrasting posts are, at the very least, pretty damned intriguing.

I should also note that from my college-aged friend pool, I’ve used posts that don’t reflect these boys in the most flattering light.  Let me say that these young men are all very bright and very capable, as are many young people (but their more intelligent status updates wouldn’t make for amusing writing).

The following Facebook posts were all written in the past 24 hours.  (All grammatical and spelling errors were part of the original posts.)

A 30-something friend with a 30-something complaint:

13 days straight 12+ hours a day = plum wore out

A college-aged friend with a college-aged complaint:

Mom and Dad… remind me why I took Honors (classes) again

A 30-something friend engaging in some critical thinking:

rumor has it that honda has decided to take manufacturing for their automobile parts overseas. thus following the “domestic” manufacturer’s business model of take every last penny out of the economy that supports you. if this is true, this is a sad day… I had hoped that others would adopt the honda model but quarterly gains won again.

A college-aged friend’s reaction to critical thinking:

So all i can say is suck it critical thinking. i dropped yo ass

(The friend above is referring to a college course in critical thinking.)

A 30-something friend’s reflection on her day:

the things kids say that are so wonderful – we keep seeing rainbows…and from the back seat (my son) says in his sweet voice, “a rainbow is Gods promise to never flood the earth again”, he melts my heart.

A college-aged friend’s reflection on his day:

got some big exams comin up but i say f*** that s*** st pattys day only comes once a year and im a better test taker when im drunk anyways.

(I suppose this explains why this particular student didn’t test all that well in my class.  I kid.  Actually, he was one of my brightest students and I can assure you, he was never chemically altered in class.  Also, I rarely comment on my former students’ posts, but I was so tempted to tell this young man that St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow.)

A 30-something friend’s one-word status update:

home

A college-aged friend’s one-word status update:

BALLS!

Man, I really miss teaching.