The official dictionary definition of flip flop: reversal: a decision to reverse an earlier decision.
My definition of flip flop: A summertime feeling of freedom, especially when wearing said open-toed sandal. A way of life from June to October.
Ah, summer. Flip flops, margaritas and Jimmy Buffet songs. Doesn’t get much better than that, does it? I was raised in Southern California, where flip flops are a lifestyle. We wore them everywhere, all the time. We called them thongs, zori’s, sandals…it didn’t matter; it was the closest we could get to going barefoot.
My husband - mid-west born and bred - decided he doesn’t like to have anything between his toes. If it wasn’t for me, he’d probably wear socks with his sandals.
He is pretty set in his ways, and I finally figured out I may as well give up on trying to change him. (Not that I would ever do that, mind you….). I tried to explain to him that he was really missing the boat. There are so many cool and different kinds of flip flops to choose from. You can have flip flops that are leather, flip flops that are rubber, flip flops that have palm trees on them or flip flops with bottle openers in the bottom of the sole. You can get your flip flops wet and it doesn’t matter. They are just as relaxing as changing into sweatpants. They are definitely a “go to” pair of shoes.
I have a ton of flip flops. Red, yellow, brown, silver, gold, and a couple of basic black. Flip flops made from an old yoga mat. Flip flops with rhinestones. Flip flops that have heels. Flip flops that I would gladly wear daily if I could. My sister and I send flip flop paraphernalia back and forth to each other; notepads, cocktail napkins, patio glasses, refrigerator magnets…you get the idea. For us it’s not just about footwear – it’s a symbol of our favorite place in the whole world…the beach.
So when my husband surprised me the other day and brought home not one, but two pairs of flip flops, my heart soared. He’s ready to join the ranks of beach bums…getting by with the least amount of shoe on their feet as possible. Barely skating by the restaurant rule of “no shoes” (I still insist on wearing shirts). Living on sponge cake and watching the sun bake. (Thanks Jimmy).
Margaritas or not, flip flops are the epitome of summertime, wherever you may live. Putting flip flops on your soles, will surely make your heart soar. Add a little salt and lime, and your feet will be doing the happy dance in no time. Fins, anyone?
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Public Swim
They were all lined up. There must have been five, maybe even six of them. Normally that’s way too many for my taste. Their brown bodies arched and splashed as they jumped into the pool at the same time, arms touching close enough to hold hands. Of course they wouldn’t consider holding hands, because unlike 4th grade girls, 4th grade boys wouldn’t be caught dead touching each other – unless of course it was to punch someone in the arm. They gleefully splashed into the pool, shaking their heads like dogs as they broke the surface. They’d jump up on the side, and do it again and again.
“No diving,” the lifeguard would yell, as one of the jumpers changed directions at the last minute and went in head-first. They would do it, over and over again – and each time the life guard would deepen his voice, puff out his tanned chest, glance at the 14 year old girls in their little bikinis giggling at him, and yell once again at the fourth grade boys.
Thankfully there was a “time-out” every hour and everyone under the age of 18 had to clear the pool for us old people to swim. Grandmas were there, doing their water walking, young moms had their babies in waterproof (I hoped) diapers, laughing and cheering them on as they felt the cold water creep up their young bodies. Moms and dads cooled off as they kept a close eye on their kids sitting on the edge, waiting for the time out to be over. I was grateful to be in the pool and not be splashed during adult swim…although the longer I hung out, the more I realized it didn’t matter.
At the pool, defenses seem to lower. Kids are just plain kids and I love that. They didn’t know they were splashing me as they dove down to fetch their treasure – a penny they’d thrown in just minutes before. They didn’t care if my hair got wet – so eventually, neither did I.
There is a definite culture at the pool – and I spent my entire time people watching. It also brought back so many memories – of every stage of my life. I distinctly remember diving off the high dive, begging my mom to “watch me” each time. I then remember my first two-piece, and around that time came recognizing boys, too. I remember having a crush on the life guard. I also remember being the life guard, hoping I looked cool to the younger kids. I then remember my teens, and glanced around the pool once again. High School girls met in the corner, trying to appear nonchalant as they posed their tanned bodies and snuck looks at the senior boys playing volleyball. The boys would glance back from time to time; glad their sunglasses didn’t show exactly which girl they were checking out.
Snow cones and potato chips, suntan lotion and tan lines. Starving for peanut butter sandwiches, fighting off a nap and losing track of all time. The feeling of a public pool is the same – no matter what town you are in, or what age you are. Even better, the memories are sweeter than ever. Cannonball contest anyone?
“No diving,” the lifeguard would yell, as one of the jumpers changed directions at the last minute and went in head-first. They would do it, over and over again – and each time the life guard would deepen his voice, puff out his tanned chest, glance at the 14 year old girls in their little bikinis giggling at him, and yell once again at the fourth grade boys.
Thankfully there was a “time-out” every hour and everyone under the age of 18 had to clear the pool for us old people to swim. Grandmas were there, doing their water walking, young moms had their babies in waterproof (I hoped) diapers, laughing and cheering them on as they felt the cold water creep up their young bodies. Moms and dads cooled off as they kept a close eye on their kids sitting on the edge, waiting for the time out to be over. I was grateful to be in the pool and not be splashed during adult swim…although the longer I hung out, the more I realized it didn’t matter.
At the pool, defenses seem to lower. Kids are just plain kids and I love that. They didn’t know they were splashing me as they dove down to fetch their treasure – a penny they’d thrown in just minutes before. They didn’t care if my hair got wet – so eventually, neither did I.
There is a definite culture at the pool – and I spent my entire time people watching. It also brought back so many memories – of every stage of my life. I distinctly remember diving off the high dive, begging my mom to “watch me” each time. I then remember my first two-piece, and around that time came recognizing boys, too. I remember having a crush on the life guard. I also remember being the life guard, hoping I looked cool to the younger kids. I then remember my teens, and glanced around the pool once again. High School girls met in the corner, trying to appear nonchalant as they posed their tanned bodies and snuck looks at the senior boys playing volleyball. The boys would glance back from time to time; glad their sunglasses didn’t show exactly which girl they were checking out.
Snow cones and potato chips, suntan lotion and tan lines. Starving for peanut butter sandwiches, fighting off a nap and losing track of all time. The feeling of a public pool is the same – no matter what town you are in, or what age you are. Even better, the memories are sweeter than ever. Cannonball contest anyone?
Monday, June 14, 2010
What Makes a House Just a House, and Not a Home
What makes a house just a house and not a “home”? I am finding that out as I purge my home of its contents, making it “sellable” and “open house worthy”.
Apparently potential buyers don’t want to see the pictures of my sons wedding or of my granddaughter, or of our trip to Key West. Nobody wants to see the fish my husband caught or the picture of me hugging my dad. Except me that is.
Getting my house ready for sale has been an adventure in excavating. We went through the garage sale experience. We donated bags and bags of stuff to the Goodwill. We cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And we made it very low key on the décor. I had to store vases and books and pictures and clocks and signs and things that to me made our house a home.
“My house is not decorated – It is a showplace for my favorite things”. That is a sign that I had to hide in a cupboard, along with the one that says “Wine is liquid poetry”.
We are “right-sizing” our lives. We are (at least if we sell) moving to a smaller home with less space to clean, smaller heating bills and little or no grass to mow. I will only be able to display one of my three Christmas trees in a smaller home, and won’t even have stairs (hopefully) for the garland.
The dog bed for my 165 pound Newfoundland will have to be stored or sold, since it takes up the same amount of space as a twin bed. I am going to have to find some storage room for all the pictures, letters and cards that I have yet had the heart to part with.
I know it’s all just “stuff”. I don’t need the stuff. I have wonderful memories of family, trips, animals, high school friends and other important (or not so much) events in my life.
I don’t need boxes and boxes of the same 3rd grade picture of my son. I don’t need the old collars of dogs gone by. I don’t need the broken ornaments, lovingly made in kindergarten. I don’t need them, but parting with them is kind of hard. I’m doing it though, box by box, teardrop by teardrop.
We are “rightsizing” our life. We are moving on to our next adventure, whatever that may be. So even though I feel like my home has less personality, the memories are still here. And I am the one that knows where I have hidden all the pictures.
So if and when we sell this home, I will eagerly await for another one. It will start out as a house – four walls and no personality. But I will dig out the family photos, hang up my signs and turn it into a home, one more time.
Apparently potential buyers don’t want to see the pictures of my sons wedding or of my granddaughter, or of our trip to Key West. Nobody wants to see the fish my husband caught or the picture of me hugging my dad. Except me that is.
Getting my house ready for sale has been an adventure in excavating. We went through the garage sale experience. We donated bags and bags of stuff to the Goodwill. We cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. And we made it very low key on the décor. I had to store vases and books and pictures and clocks and signs and things that to me made our house a home.
“My house is not decorated – It is a showplace for my favorite things”. That is a sign that I had to hide in a cupboard, along with the one that says “Wine is liquid poetry”.
We are “right-sizing” our lives. We are (at least if we sell) moving to a smaller home with less space to clean, smaller heating bills and little or no grass to mow. I will only be able to display one of my three Christmas trees in a smaller home, and won’t even have stairs (hopefully) for the garland.
The dog bed for my 165 pound Newfoundland will have to be stored or sold, since it takes up the same amount of space as a twin bed. I am going to have to find some storage room for all the pictures, letters and cards that I have yet had the heart to part with.
I know it’s all just “stuff”. I don’t need the stuff. I have wonderful memories of family, trips, animals, high school friends and other important (or not so much) events in my life.
I don’t need boxes and boxes of the same 3rd grade picture of my son. I don’t need the old collars of dogs gone by. I don’t need the broken ornaments, lovingly made in kindergarten. I don’t need them, but parting with them is kind of hard. I’m doing it though, box by box, teardrop by teardrop.
We are “rightsizing” our life. We are moving on to our next adventure, whatever that may be. So even though I feel like my home has less personality, the memories are still here. And I am the one that knows where I have hidden all the pictures.
So if and when we sell this home, I will eagerly await for another one. It will start out as a house – four walls and no personality. But I will dig out the family photos, hang up my signs and turn it into a home, one more time.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
To Friend or Not to Friend
To friend or not to friend: that is the question. Unlike Hamlet, my choice won’t lead me to death…for no matter how many Facebook friends I have, I definitely like “being”.
I had no worldly idea I had 526 friends. Wow. My house isn’t that big. When I started questioning if it was time to purge some of my friends, I did a little research. I went through the list, and surprise – I do have a connection with them all. I mean I don’t have a glass of wine or lunch or even exchange forwarded emails with them all, but I do have a connection with them.
The friend-types vary: I went so 2nd grade with them. I dated their best friend’s brother in High School. I sang with them in 6th grade choir. I lived next door to their uncle. I worked with them at Disneyland but never knew them. We like the same music. We like Newfoundland dogs. We like inspirational quotes. They are my mother’s friend’s neighbor’s sister. The list goes on and on and on.
They are semi-close friends, every 526 of them. How could I even think about purging them, even if I do think that Facebook is a little self-serving? I really don’t care what my “friends” had for their mid-morning snack or if they went to bed a half hour late. I have enough of my own issues. But on the other hand, it’s fun to catch up with a Facebook thread and throw in my two cents worth. Many of my friends are very witty. At times it’s fun to read some of the comments, and even to “chat” with a “friend” that I have never met. It’s also fun to catch up with the people I really do care about.
What I don’t want Facebook to be for me is an emotional crutch. I don’t want to be the Sally Field of Facebook – “You like me, you really do!” I don’t want to depend on my 526 friends for validation that someone cares or someone is paying attention to me. However, it is nice to know they are there for me if I am struggling with something, want to share a funny joke or an inspirational quote. It’s fun to see pictures of my friends from High School, most who look totally amazing. It’s nice to hear about new networking groups and restaurants and events in my area. So for now, the 526 friends stay. I’m not in the right frame of mind to “unfriend” anyone.
So if you are among the throng, you are still my friend. Nobody was cut. I mean, how else will I find out which of my friends had Fruitloops for breakfast?
Karen Kelly is a freelance writer and welcomes your comment at karenkellybrown@aol.com or http://bleachblondemind.blogspot.com/. Oh, you can also “friend” her on Facebook.
I had no worldly idea I had 526 friends. Wow. My house isn’t that big. When I started questioning if it was time to purge some of my friends, I did a little research. I went through the list, and surprise – I do have a connection with them all. I mean I don’t have a glass of wine or lunch or even exchange forwarded emails with them all, but I do have a connection with them.
The friend-types vary: I went so 2nd grade with them. I dated their best friend’s brother in High School. I sang with them in 6th grade choir. I lived next door to their uncle. I worked with them at Disneyland but never knew them. We like the same music. We like Newfoundland dogs. We like inspirational quotes. They are my mother’s friend’s neighbor’s sister. The list goes on and on and on.
They are semi-close friends, every 526 of them. How could I even think about purging them, even if I do think that Facebook is a little self-serving? I really don’t care what my “friends” had for their mid-morning snack or if they went to bed a half hour late. I have enough of my own issues. But on the other hand, it’s fun to catch up with a Facebook thread and throw in my two cents worth. Many of my friends are very witty. At times it’s fun to read some of the comments, and even to “chat” with a “friend” that I have never met. It’s also fun to catch up with the people I really do care about.
What I don’t want Facebook to be for me is an emotional crutch. I don’t want to be the Sally Field of Facebook – “You like me, you really do!” I don’t want to depend on my 526 friends for validation that someone cares or someone is paying attention to me. However, it is nice to know they are there for me if I am struggling with something, want to share a funny joke or an inspirational quote. It’s fun to see pictures of my friends from High School, most who look totally amazing. It’s nice to hear about new networking groups and restaurants and events in my area. So for now, the 526 friends stay. I’m not in the right frame of mind to “unfriend” anyone.
So if you are among the throng, you are still my friend. Nobody was cut. I mean, how else will I find out which of my friends had Fruitloops for breakfast?
Karen Kelly is a freelance writer and welcomes your comment at karenkellybrown@aol.com or http://bleachblondemind.blogspot.com/. Oh, you can also “friend” her on Facebook.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bleached Blonde Mind: Being a Princess
Princess. Noun.
1. A woman member of a royal family other than the monarch, especially a daughter of a monarch.
2. A woman regarded as having the status or qualities of a princess.
Princess. Adjective.
1. Me.
2. My granddaughter.
3. My future granddaughters.
4. Several of my friends.
There are times when people use the term “princess” like it’s a bad thing. I mean what in the world could be bad about being a princess? I own three tiaras. Being a princess is just the right place to be. If I were a Queen, I’d have to make all sorts of decisions, and it would cut into party-time. Besides, the crown isn’t as pretty as a tiara.
Being a princess in this day and age is a wonderful frame of mind. I don’t expect to have anything handed to me on a silver (or silver plated) platter. I don’t expect to wear ball gowns all the time. I don’t even expect to have a servant. Although someone to do the dishes and laundry every once in awhile would be nice. (Oh wait, that’s called my husband, also known as the prince- just don’t tell him I said that).
In the past, being a princess would infer that someone is spoiled. And being spoiled means you get every little thing you want and ask for. Not the case in those of us that are modern day princesses. Most of us work for a living. We can’t have fake nails because we scrub our own toilets and wash the dog. We buy our clothes on sale or at the Goodwill. We wait a few extra weeks to get our roots touched up. We change diapers and we drive cars that have dog slobber on the windows and Happy Meal toys strewn about.
Being a modern day princess definitely has its’ pluses. It means you don’t run into the grocery store in the rain – your prince will drop you off and meet you with the umbrella. It means the bartender will pour you an extra ounce or two of red wine at the tasting. It means eating dessert before your dinner. It means that when you start dancing alone on the dance floor, all your fellow princesses will join you. Being a princess means your granddaughter looks at you with adoring eyes as you paint her tiny fingernails blue. Being a princess means your dog can wear a rhinestone collar. Being a princess gives me an excuse to wear glitter on New Years.
Most of all, being a princess means you get to hang out with all the other wonderful princesses in your life. I am blessed to have quite a few – young and old. And for those that just don’t get it yet, they can gladly be my princess in training.
After all, if we didn’t have modern day princesses, who would wear the pink boas and drink out of wine glasses with crystals on them? It’s a tough job, but it beats being called a commoner!
1. A woman member of a royal family other than the monarch, especially a daughter of a monarch.
2. A woman regarded as having the status or qualities of a princess.
Princess. Adjective.
1. Me.
2. My granddaughter.
3. My future granddaughters.
4. Several of my friends.
There are times when people use the term “princess” like it’s a bad thing. I mean what in the world could be bad about being a princess? I own three tiaras. Being a princess is just the right place to be. If I were a Queen, I’d have to make all sorts of decisions, and it would cut into party-time. Besides, the crown isn’t as pretty as a tiara.
Being a princess in this day and age is a wonderful frame of mind. I don’t expect to have anything handed to me on a silver (or silver plated) platter. I don’t expect to wear ball gowns all the time. I don’t even expect to have a servant. Although someone to do the dishes and laundry every once in awhile would be nice. (Oh wait, that’s called my husband, also known as the prince- just don’t tell him I said that).
In the past, being a princess would infer that someone is spoiled. And being spoiled means you get every little thing you want and ask for. Not the case in those of us that are modern day princesses. Most of us work for a living. We can’t have fake nails because we scrub our own toilets and wash the dog. We buy our clothes on sale or at the Goodwill. We wait a few extra weeks to get our roots touched up. We change diapers and we drive cars that have dog slobber on the windows and Happy Meal toys strewn about.
Being a modern day princess definitely has its’ pluses. It means you don’t run into the grocery store in the rain – your prince will drop you off and meet you with the umbrella. It means the bartender will pour you an extra ounce or two of red wine at the tasting. It means eating dessert before your dinner. It means that when you start dancing alone on the dance floor, all your fellow princesses will join you. Being a princess means your granddaughter looks at you with adoring eyes as you paint her tiny fingernails blue. Being a princess means your dog can wear a rhinestone collar. Being a princess gives me an excuse to wear glitter on New Years.
Most of all, being a princess means you get to hang out with all the other wonderful princesses in your life. I am blessed to have quite a few – young and old. And for those that just don’t get it yet, they can gladly be my princess in training.
After all, if we didn’t have modern day princesses, who would wear the pink boas and drink out of wine glasses with crystals on them? It’s a tough job, but it beats being called a commoner!
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