The Annual Family Vacation
I was in the store the other day listening to a child complain to his parents and it reminded me that it’s that wonderful time of year where dads start grinding their teeth and moms develop facial ticks. It’s why we work 50 weeks a year. It’s the chance we have to bond and renew our friendships with the kids. It’s the annual family vacation. When the kids were little, vacations were fun. Oh sure, they complained and whined while driving. They fought and kicked the back of the seat. But they WANTED to go. They wanted to be in the car, traveling to an exciting destination. They wanted to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the road and play license plates tag. It was truly an adventure.
Then they got to be in their mid-teens. And their tastes started to change. They refused to eat peanut butter and jelly, and couldn’t play the games because their iPods were turned up too loud. The trip to get there was usually uneventful, but then again, they usually slept the whole way. Once we were there they actually enjoyed it. And since they didn’t know anyone, they could show their interest and not pretend they didn’t know us. Then came the latter teen years. Does any of this sound familiar? “Vacation? With my PARENTS? Like, in the same car? What, leave my girlfriend and all the guys? Are you kidding? Look, I’ll stay with my buddy, his parents won’t mind. PULEEEEZ don’t make me go with you. How can you do this to me – are you trying to ruin my life? Let me stay home alone. I PROMISE I will take care of the house, feed the cat and NO parties – oh, absolutely not. What? I’m shocked – you don’t trust me? I’m almost 18. Well, almost. But I can do this. LET me do this. Oh, fine. I’ll go pack. But I’m not happy about this. I won’t be any fun, I promise. You’ll wish you left me home.” The last time I heard that speech, my son had an absolute blast, and wanted to go back again. I suppose vacations are kind of like childbirth. You forget how painful they are, and so you want to do it again. At least in childbirth you get drugs.
Now, my kids are actually adults. They are older and have jobs and they WANT me to pay for their vacation. Funny though – they don’t mention that they want me to go with them. Except now, my vacations are taken kid-free. By choice. And they really DO stay home and watch the cat. The main difference is we threaten them with their life. No friends. Stay out of the basement (meaning bar…), lock the door. Take phone messages. Water the plants. Geez, it may just be easier to take them with me. It’ll be like old times. Only this time, I plan to have an extra glass of wine and my own iPod. I’ll just smile and nod and soak up the sun. Anyway, aren’t vacations supposed to be fun? We’ll do whatever it takes.
So, wherever you plan on taking your family truckster this spring break or summer, happy trails to you. And don’t forget the Advil.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Sisterhood of the "Designer Jeans that Fit"
I am still on my quest, and I really thought I was getting somewhere. I cleaned out closets, drawers, garage and more. I am living the experience that “less is more”. I am realizing that I am not the slave of my stuff. I am exfoliating the unwanted things right out of my life. My new mantra is: my stuff does not define me. Pillows, vases and clothes do not make the woman. I strive for freedom from clutter and chaos.
So then why am I so darned tickled to find a pair of extremely expensive designer jeans for a steal at a thrift store? (Don’t ask why I was there, since I did announce I am giving up thrift store shopping….).
I really didn’t believe it. I mean, they are just jeans, right? Who cares if “all” the stars are wearing them, that they are “all” the rage, and that the price tag on a pair of new ones is upwards of a car payment?
I mean I wasn’t looking for them. They found me, I swear. I was innocently walking down the aisle when I heard a soft whisper: “You need me.” What? “I want to own you. I will make you feel amazing.” Of course, I looked around hoping to find George Clooney, Hugh Jackman or Eric Bana (google him, trust me), saying those compelling words. But no, it was a pair of equally gorgeous jeans…in my size.
Now, as far as “sizes” go, we all know that each designer is different, and the “true” designers seem to fit smaller than most. So I was a little wary about buying these jeans, since the thrift store didn’t have dressing rooms. But hey, they were calling for me! They wanted to own me! These jeans would change my life, no doubt about it. And they were less than two morning lattés! I mean I would still be the same down to earth, stuff doesn’t matter Karen. But a newer better version because I had these jeans. I tried to walk past once, but they beckoned me back. They were serious. They wanted to go home with me. Ah, they were just jeans, not Hugh. But I did it. I bought them and brought them home.
I am wearing them right now. I may never take them off. Because these very expensive designer jeans that fit smaller and would normally cost the same as a mortgage fit me! And I love them as much as they love me. I’m still on the less is more mode. I mean I may just give away something else and keep the jeans. Like my car.
I never really got it. I didn’t understand the draw of very expensive jeans. Until now. It’s not a pair of jeans – it’s a feeling. It’s an “aha” moment. It’s a new book. The Sisterhood of the Designer Pants that Fit. That’s my next novel. Even though I didn’t get a date with George or Eric (and I really believe that my husband would have totally been cool with it), I got the jeans. And as soon as he sees me in them, I think my husband will be cool with the fact that I added to my wardrobe and didn’t give away something. And tomorrow, no more stuff. I promise.
So then why am I so darned tickled to find a pair of extremely expensive designer jeans for a steal at a thrift store? (Don’t ask why I was there, since I did announce I am giving up thrift store shopping….).
I really didn’t believe it. I mean, they are just jeans, right? Who cares if “all” the stars are wearing them, that they are “all” the rage, and that the price tag on a pair of new ones is upwards of a car payment?
I mean I wasn’t looking for them. They found me, I swear. I was innocently walking down the aisle when I heard a soft whisper: “You need me.” What? “I want to own you. I will make you feel amazing.” Of course, I looked around hoping to find George Clooney, Hugh Jackman or Eric Bana (google him, trust me), saying those compelling words. But no, it was a pair of equally gorgeous jeans…in my size.
Now, as far as “sizes” go, we all know that each designer is different, and the “true” designers seem to fit smaller than most. So I was a little wary about buying these jeans, since the thrift store didn’t have dressing rooms. But hey, they were calling for me! They wanted to own me! These jeans would change my life, no doubt about it. And they were less than two morning lattés! I mean I would still be the same down to earth, stuff doesn’t matter Karen. But a newer better version because I had these jeans. I tried to walk past once, but they beckoned me back. They were serious. They wanted to go home with me. Ah, they were just jeans, not Hugh. But I did it. I bought them and brought them home.
I am wearing them right now. I may never take them off. Because these very expensive designer jeans that fit smaller and would normally cost the same as a mortgage fit me! And I love them as much as they love me. I’m still on the less is more mode. I mean I may just give away something else and keep the jeans. Like my car.
I never really got it. I didn’t understand the draw of very expensive jeans. Until now. It’s not a pair of jeans – it’s a feeling. It’s an “aha” moment. It’s a new book. The Sisterhood of the Designer Pants that Fit. That’s my next novel. Even though I didn’t get a date with George or Eric (and I really believe that my husband would have totally been cool with it), I got the jeans. And as soon as he sees me in them, I think my husband will be cool with the fact that I added to my wardrobe and didn’t give away something. And tomorrow, no more stuff. I promise.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Ok, so I consider myself pretty technologically savvy. I can Twitter, Tweet, email, text and I even have my own blog. I just joined the 12-step program for those that Facebook too often.
So why then, is my so-called “smart phone” making me feel so very stupid?
I mean if you watch the commercials, this thing has an application for just about everything but washing your car – and you can almost bet those techies are working on that as we speak. I really like all the things that they say it can do. But the only problem is: I can’t do them!
My husband says it’s operator error. He also said I have to actually research it online AND read the directions. What? I mean c’mon. Why can’t I just pick it up and push a few buttons and it will do what I want it to do. Like, for example, make a phone call.
Now, in my household, we are having a “phone war”. He has an iPhone. I swear if there was a bumper sticker that said “Don’t Hate me Just Because I have an iPhone” he would get it. I mean this is the man that had a “Starfleet Command” bumper sticker on his vehicle when I first met him. I’ve since learned to not judge a person by their bumper sticker, but that’s another story.
Anyway, I have the new DROID. Yes, it is supposed to be in all caps. I mean it is, after all, a DROID. It is new, hip, cool, Google-powered and is working on that carwash app. But here is the problem. I can’t figure out how to use the dang thing! There is actually an online community called “Fan-Droid” (yes, I am serious) that I plan on researching. In my spare time. It will show me how to use those all important apps like 1001 Cocktails, Calorie Counter and Cheap Gas. It will teach me how to apply the new girly “skin” I downloaded but don’t know how to access. It will allow me to text in one window, place a call in another and Google the definition for application in another. I mean with a phone like this, you know my husband has to be totally envious.
My husband is truly a techie “savant” and I know darned well that he can spend 20 minutes with my phone, have it all figured out and then teach me. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. But I guess I took the phone-wars thing a little too seriously, because when I ask him a question, he will text the answer to my DROID and then watch with laughter as I use every four letter word I know trying to figure out the dang thing. I don’t mean to sound ancient, but at times I do crave for the not so distant past when my phone, of all things, wasn’t smarter than me. Even though I am perturbed at Mr. iPhone User, it’s time for me to go make him dinner. There’s a great new Recipe app on my phone…now if I can just figure out how to open it. Or maybe I will just use the actual phone to call for pizza. Does anyone have a regular phone I can borrow?
So why then, is my so-called “smart phone” making me feel so very stupid?
I mean if you watch the commercials, this thing has an application for just about everything but washing your car – and you can almost bet those techies are working on that as we speak. I really like all the things that they say it can do. But the only problem is: I can’t do them!
My husband says it’s operator error. He also said I have to actually research it online AND read the directions. What? I mean c’mon. Why can’t I just pick it up and push a few buttons and it will do what I want it to do. Like, for example, make a phone call.
Now, in my household, we are having a “phone war”. He has an iPhone. I swear if there was a bumper sticker that said “Don’t Hate me Just Because I have an iPhone” he would get it. I mean this is the man that had a “Starfleet Command” bumper sticker on his vehicle when I first met him. I’ve since learned to not judge a person by their bumper sticker, but that’s another story.
Anyway, I have the new DROID. Yes, it is supposed to be in all caps. I mean it is, after all, a DROID. It is new, hip, cool, Google-powered and is working on that carwash app. But here is the problem. I can’t figure out how to use the dang thing! There is actually an online community called “Fan-Droid” (yes, I am serious) that I plan on researching. In my spare time. It will show me how to use those all important apps like 1001 Cocktails, Calorie Counter and Cheap Gas. It will teach me how to apply the new girly “skin” I downloaded but don’t know how to access. It will allow me to text in one window, place a call in another and Google the definition for application in another. I mean with a phone like this, you know my husband has to be totally envious.
My husband is truly a techie “savant” and I know darned well that he can spend 20 minutes with my phone, have it all figured out and then teach me. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. But I guess I took the phone-wars thing a little too seriously, because when I ask him a question, he will text the answer to my DROID and then watch with laughter as I use every four letter word I know trying to figure out the dang thing. I don’t mean to sound ancient, but at times I do crave for the not so distant past when my phone, of all things, wasn’t smarter than me. Even though I am perturbed at Mr. iPhone User, it’s time for me to go make him dinner. There’s a great new Recipe app on my phone…now if I can just figure out how to open it. Or maybe I will just use the actual phone to call for pizza. Does anyone have a regular phone I can borrow?
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