I always used to wonder what it would be like to have that kind of "over the fence" or "down the hall" neighbor that seems to pop up in all sorts of movies and TV shoes. You know an Ethel to my Lucy. Well, I'll have you know that at long last I get to have one of my very own.
My backdoor neighbor is none other than the lovely Nikki, with whom I spent a lovely evening last night sitting in lawn chairs, surveying our respective kingdoms and exchanging thoughts on the state of pretty much everything. We worked together for about four years, so we have the kind of history, but more importantly, our boys are the same age, we find humor in the same kinds of things (mostly ourselves) and are just different enough to make things interesting.
Ethan has a crush on Nikki (as most people do who meet her). I think he pretty much has since the first time they met. For about the first year, he would grin shyly and call her "NikkiShovel" because he was for some reason unable to just call her Nikki, and he couldn't pronounce "Schaubel". One night as Nikki and I were meeting for one of the first of our clandestine necklace exchanges in the backyard (I used to sell jewelry--now she does), Ethan wandered out with me. He was just a little guy, before having a younger sister aged him considerably. He stood with us for a while as we went nuts over whatever sparkly we were discussing, and then suddenly announced "Aren't the stars lovely, NikkiShovel?" Yes. He said "lovely." To which she responded, "Yes, Ethan Green, they are lovely." And from then on, they were quite the best of friends, each using the other's full name whenever they stopped to chat.
Now Nikki has more or less adopted Ethan as one of her own. Now, thanks to Nikki's husband who must have a nickname for everyone, he is "E.G." and can do some little bump thing with his fists that I'm not cool enough to do. She takes him to school, on field trips with her boys and isn't the least bit surprised when he's suddenly playing in her backyard. She and Eme are becoming fast friends as well, especially since my daughter realized that, like herself, Nikki also likes polish on her toes. Even Dave joins in the mix, since Nikki likes to garden, and he likes to talk to other people who do. (I am not a big gardener, as you may assume.)
I'm not sure exactly what I did right in order to get a NikkiShovel next door. I think she's my reward for having some pretty lousy neighbors other times in my life. All I know is that I sure hope that all of you get to have one someday as well.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
My Bucket List (this one without a mop!)
Lately a few of the folks I know have talked about their "bucket lists". One talked about jumping out of airplanes (with a parachute, obviously), seeing the Sistine Chapel and taking tango lessons. Another friend's focused on seeing all of the grand slam thingamajigs (yeah, I know a lot about tennis) in a calendar year. Another--who at the ripe old age of 24 has already toured much of the world--is planning on painting one wall in her dining room with chalkboard paint so that she and her husband can write their lists and cross each of them off as they accomplish them.
It's strange--even though I've seen (and really loved) the movie--I guess I really haven't thought about the things that I'd like to do before...well, you know. When I was in my 20's, I was focused on my friends and my career. In my 30's, I got married, had babies and yes, still focused on earning a living. Now, in my 40's (egad!) it seems that the furthest I can think is getting the tile installed in my kitchen, getting Eme potty-trained and trying to get the next blog or website or story done (yep--still focused on the work thing).
If I could roll back time, I think that I would have tried to take the first few decades of my life a lot less seriously. Traveled more, tried more, laughed more and given myself time just to find out who I was. It's a little tougher now, especially with a few little people expecting me to provide food, shelter, clothing and some sense of stability. But at the same time, I don't want to look back 20 years from now and regret that I'd never at least made a list of some of the things I wanted to do in my life. So here, for everyone to see, are a few of mine, in no particular order:
~Publish a scrapbook layout in a major magazine. (Which, incidentally, would require me to actually finish a scrapbook layout.)
~Learn to dance (swing, ballroom, etc.) and not feel so worried about what people are thinking about me when I'm doing it.
~Be featured in a magazine rather than just writing for one. (In a good way.)
~Finish college.
~Be truly beautiful--even if it's just for a day.
~Learn how to use Photoshop, Illustrator and a lot of other cool graphics programs.
~Have enough money that I don't have to stress about work all the time, so that I can spend more time with my kids while they're still young and so that I can do the things that I enjoy without feeling guilty about it.
~Get elected to public office.
~Travel to Denmark.
~See my babies graduate from college, get married to somebody wonderful, and have amazing children of their own.
~Take an interior design class and make my home wow-worthy.
~Learn to ride a horse, ski and waterski--and actually a) be good at it and b) enjoy it.
~Spend an entire day without worrying.
I know, I know. But a girl can dream, can't she?
It's strange--even though I've seen (and really loved) the movie--I guess I really haven't thought about the things that I'd like to do before...well, you know. When I was in my 20's, I was focused on my friends and my career. In my 30's, I got married, had babies and yes, still focused on earning a living. Now, in my 40's (egad!) it seems that the furthest I can think is getting the tile installed in my kitchen, getting Eme potty-trained and trying to get the next blog or website or story done (yep--still focused on the work thing).
If I could roll back time, I think that I would have tried to take the first few decades of my life a lot less seriously. Traveled more, tried more, laughed more and given myself time just to find out who I was. It's a little tougher now, especially with a few little people expecting me to provide food, shelter, clothing and some sense of stability. But at the same time, I don't want to look back 20 years from now and regret that I'd never at least made a list of some of the things I wanted to do in my life. So here, for everyone to see, are a few of mine, in no particular order:
~Publish a scrapbook layout in a major magazine. (Which, incidentally, would require me to actually finish a scrapbook layout.)
~Learn to dance (swing, ballroom, etc.) and not feel so worried about what people are thinking about me when I'm doing it.
~Be featured in a magazine rather than just writing for one. (In a good way.)
~Finish college.
~Be truly beautiful--even if it's just for a day.
~Learn how to use Photoshop, Illustrator and a lot of other cool graphics programs.
~Have enough money that I don't have to stress about work all the time, so that I can spend more time with my kids while they're still young and so that I can do the things that I enjoy without feeling guilty about it.
~Get elected to public office.
~Travel to Denmark.
~See my babies graduate from college, get married to somebody wonderful, and have amazing children of their own.
~Take an interior design class and make my home wow-worthy.
~Learn to ride a horse, ski and waterski--and actually a) be good at it and b) enjoy it.
~Spend an entire day without worrying.
I know, I know. But a girl can dream, can't she?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Thomas the Train and Seahorses
On Saturday, Mr. Green and I took the kids for a ride on Thomas the Train, thus ratcheting our popularity up at least a couple of notches with our offspring. We rode the rails, met the conductor, got pictures taken with Thomas and Sir Topham Hat and generally had a lovely day.
Now here’s what I really want to talk about. As we waited in line in the early morning hours, I looked around to see all of the other families. After gazing at the plethora of parents, grandparents and children I suddenly found myself wondering if I was at Thomas the Train or at a tattoo festival. Everywhere I looked, I found another tattoo on a shoulder, a leg, a foot and everywhere else in between. And I was irritated.
I know a lot of folks who have elected to get tattoos. At least a handful of them I know and love. But for the life of me I cannot figure out this obsession that was once largely left to Marines, convicts and Cher. Now, I rather forgive my grandfather, who served in the Navy and had the requisite adornments. I never knew the man and hold him no grudge. Likewise, for my friends of Polynesian descent, for whom tattooing is a cultural matter, I have no malice. And for one of my friends who recently got a discreet tattoo as a personal victory over a life-threatening accident, I even say “okay, I get that one.”
But to everyone else, I say “poppycock”. Yes, that’s right: “poppycock”.
Especially those who claim that their Cinderella boob tattoo holds some sacred meaning to them. Really? I think that the sacred meaning is “look at what I did on spring break while I was inebriated”. Or the seahorse on the ankle? What—you’re a mermaid who once lost your voice to an evil sea witch? Or the purple butterfly/fairy combo “tramp stamp” that appears every time a woman bend down to tie her shoe? Why not just tattoo “Hey, look at my bum!”?
Oh--and for those who drone on and on about how this spot of blue represents karma and that spot of red represents man’s conquering of earth, I do not believe that I am alone when I say: “You are full of crap. Choose a color that symbolizes that. Oh wait--I have a suggestion.”
One of my friends told me today about a relative who has a tattoo on his back in Japanese and one on his leg in Hebrew. He is neither Japanese or Jewish, but my friend and I have determined that he must be a Japew based on his choices. He also apparently has scriptures tattooed on the inside of his arms. May I suggest that, in lieu of jabbing a Bic pen in your arm repeatedly, you simply carry a New Testament? I have one you can borrow if you need it.
I think that we need to pass an Amendment to our Constitution (hey—we’re passing all sorts of ridiculous laws at the moment, why not this one?) which requires certain signage to be posted in tattoo shops nationwide. Such signage would read:
We the People, of the United States of America, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice and ensure that we don’t have to look at stupid tattoos when we take our children to family-friendly train events, do declare the following:
1. If you do not belong to a tribe, you may not have a tribal band. If you get one, you’ll just look like a white guy who’s trying to look cool and is failing miserably.
2. We do not tattoo Disney characters. Walt Disney did not create the world’s most famous mouse so that it could appear on your buttock.
3. If you are going to get a tattoo on your boob, make it a rose. It looks trashy regardless, so go ahead and go for the complete look. Afterwards, be sure to go braless to complete the overall effect.
4. If you’re going to get “sleeves”, don’t be surprised or irritated if people look at you funny when you wear a tank top. You did it on purpose, they have a right to stare at you like the idiot you are.
5. If you don’t speak a foreign language, you can’t blame us if we on-purpose-accidentally screw up the Google translation on your Chinese peace character to make it into something that would make a Chinese call girl blush. Perhaps you could just write “peace” in a language that you can actually spell check. Provided, of course, that you can actually spell.
6. When you are old and in a care facility, the nurses will laugh at you even more than most people are laughing at you now. Drooping, wrinkled tattoos are just sad.
7. If you want a picture of your children, get a camera and take one. Really, putting your daughter’s face on your chest and then letting her get whiskers (and I’m not just talking about the guys here) is just wrong.
8. If you are not the grim reaper, don’t have one tattooed anywhere on your body. Seriously, you don’t look scary. It’s just silly.
9. What looks great on paper when you draw it while schnockered will not come out well. In fact, it will look like…something you drew on paper while you were schnockered.
On second thought, perhaps I shall head out to my local parlor for some ink of my own. I’m thinking it will symbolize how stupid I think tattoos are. Or maybe I'll just get a seahorse on my ankle.
Now here’s what I really want to talk about. As we waited in line in the early morning hours, I looked around to see all of the other families. After gazing at the plethora of parents, grandparents and children I suddenly found myself wondering if I was at Thomas the Train or at a tattoo festival. Everywhere I looked, I found another tattoo on a shoulder, a leg, a foot and everywhere else in between. And I was irritated.
I know a lot of folks who have elected to get tattoos. At least a handful of them I know and love. But for the life of me I cannot figure out this obsession that was once largely left to Marines, convicts and Cher. Now, I rather forgive my grandfather, who served in the Navy and had the requisite adornments. I never knew the man and hold him no grudge. Likewise, for my friends of Polynesian descent, for whom tattooing is a cultural matter, I have no malice. And for one of my friends who recently got a discreet tattoo as a personal victory over a life-threatening accident, I even say “okay, I get that one.”
But to everyone else, I say “poppycock”. Yes, that’s right: “poppycock”.
Especially those who claim that their Cinderella boob tattoo holds some sacred meaning to them. Really? I think that the sacred meaning is “look at what I did on spring break while I was inebriated”. Or the seahorse on the ankle? What—you’re a mermaid who once lost your voice to an evil sea witch? Or the purple butterfly/fairy combo “tramp stamp” that appears every time a woman bend down to tie her shoe? Why not just tattoo “Hey, look at my bum!”?
Oh--and for those who drone on and on about how this spot of blue represents karma and that spot of red represents man’s conquering of earth, I do not believe that I am alone when I say: “You are full of crap. Choose a color that symbolizes that. Oh wait--I have a suggestion.”
One of my friends told me today about a relative who has a tattoo on his back in Japanese and one on his leg in Hebrew. He is neither Japanese or Jewish, but my friend and I have determined that he must be a Japew based on his choices. He also apparently has scriptures tattooed on the inside of his arms. May I suggest that, in lieu of jabbing a Bic pen in your arm repeatedly, you simply carry a New Testament? I have one you can borrow if you need it.
I think that we need to pass an Amendment to our Constitution (hey—we’re passing all sorts of ridiculous laws at the moment, why not this one?) which requires certain signage to be posted in tattoo shops nationwide. Such signage would read:
We the People, of the United States of America, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice and ensure that we don’t have to look at stupid tattoos when we take our children to family-friendly train events, do declare the following:
1. If you do not belong to a tribe, you may not have a tribal band. If you get one, you’ll just look like a white guy who’s trying to look cool and is failing miserably.
2. We do not tattoo Disney characters. Walt Disney did not create the world’s most famous mouse so that it could appear on your buttock.
3. If you are going to get a tattoo on your boob, make it a rose. It looks trashy regardless, so go ahead and go for the complete look. Afterwards, be sure to go braless to complete the overall effect.
4. If you’re going to get “sleeves”, don’t be surprised or irritated if people look at you funny when you wear a tank top. You did it on purpose, they have a right to stare at you like the idiot you are.
5. If you don’t speak a foreign language, you can’t blame us if we on-purpose-accidentally screw up the Google translation on your Chinese peace character to make it into something that would make a Chinese call girl blush. Perhaps you could just write “peace” in a language that you can actually spell check. Provided, of course, that you can actually spell.
6. When you are old and in a care facility, the nurses will laugh at you even more than most people are laughing at you now. Drooping, wrinkled tattoos are just sad.
7. If you want a picture of your children, get a camera and take one. Really, putting your daughter’s face on your chest and then letting her get whiskers (and I’m not just talking about the guys here) is just wrong.
8. If you are not the grim reaper, don’t have one tattooed anywhere on your body. Seriously, you don’t look scary. It’s just silly.
9. What looks great on paper when you draw it while schnockered will not come out well. In fact, it will look like…something you drew on paper while you were schnockered.
On second thought, perhaps I shall head out to my local parlor for some ink of my own. I’m thinking it will symbolize how stupid I think tattoos are. Or maybe I'll just get a seahorse on my ankle.
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