Holy Sheet

Today is my ex-husband’s birthday. I wouldn’t remark on this, but I was thinking of him the other day because… well, because despite his faults (please note my heroic effort not to make a snarky comment here. YAY ME!) he also had a super power. This one amazing, inexplicable ability.

He could … and I’m not even kidding here … fold a fitted sheet.

He’s the only person I’ve ever known with this ability. He claimed he learned it while in the Marines, which is funny to me.

“BALENTINE!”

“YES DRILL SARGEANT!”

“ARE YOUR WHITES WHITER THAN WHITE?”

“SIR YES SIR!”

“IS YOUR FITTED SHEET FOLDED INTO A PERFECT FLAT SQUARE?”

“SIR YES SIR!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“YES SIR, DRILL SARGEANT SIR!”

“CARRY ON THEN, BALENTINE!”

Marines, schmarines, I say. It was an innate super power, like Superman’s ability to fly. Here’s how I know: I couldn’t learn to do it. I worked retail for years and am a CHAMPION folder. (Sad, sad, fact: sometimes I board-fold my t-shirts in the privacy of my own home, just because they look so flat and perfect that way. Yes, I know I have issues.) However, every time I try to fold a fitted sheet, it looks like I wadded it up into a ball. It’s like a fabric origami project gone horribly, horribly wrong.

I’ve tried to learn. I’ve watched the Martha Stewart “fold a flatted sheet” tutorial many times. Oh, so many times. Martha and my ex are apparently from the same planet that causes its inhabitants to be born with this gift (or it may be a genetic mutation. I haven’t ruled that out) because they both make it look so easy, so SIMPLE. Grab this corner, fold in that direction, snap out, refold. Flat, perfectly folded fitted sheet.

Yeah, right.

Sometimes I don’t even try. I fold the flat sheet, I fold the pillowcases, and then I just jam the wadded up fitted sheet on top of them in a lump of defeat. It offends my sensibility (did I mention the board folding?) but what’s a girl to do? THEY DON’T FOLD NEATLY.

At least, not for me. They did for the sheet whisperer.

It’s nice, though, to remember that everyone has one redeeming quality. Maybe especially when a relationship goes so bad that it resembles Dante’s seventh circle of hell, it can be worthwhile to try to find that little nugget of something that is nice to remember. “Yeah, it ended badly, but MAN could he fold a fitted sheet. It was MAGICAL.”

(I still think he might be an alien, though. Him and Martha. You just never know.)

Three Cheers for Charlene!

Today is my mom’s birthday.

I was about to say that my mom is awesome and then say something about how we’re a lot alike, but then I realized that is a backhanded way of saying I’m  awesome, which is kind of conceited, don’t you think?

However, my mom? Awesome.

And it’s true that we’re a lot alike.  We look alike. We finish each other’s sentences. We love the same places, the same music, and many of the same foods.

Heck, we work together. It’s not the first time we’ve worked together, either. I’ve been my mom’s boss more than once.  (She's ALWAYS the boss of me, she'll tell you. It's kind of true.)

My mom helped me to become a person who loves music, and art, and writing. She taught me that I was valuable, that I should believe in myself, that I am capable. She believes that I am beautiful, so sometimes I believe it. She taught me how to be strong. How to have courage. How to have faith.

My mom, man. She's pretty freaking amazing.

She's also my favorite person on this earth. She just is. There’s no one I’d rather hear the words “I’m proud of you” from; no one I’d rather make laugh; no one I’d rather sing along in the car with; and no one I’m more worried about disappointing. My mom is a rock star.

So if you know my mom, wish her a happy birthday. And tell her she’s awesome. It will embarrass her, but it’s true.

Hellllllloooooo, Jerry

A while back (which is code for, um, sometime last summer but I’m not sure when) I looked into becoming a part of a couple of blogging networks. I like writing, I thought, and I keep plugging away at this little venture (with the occasional vacation) and it might be nice to explore other opportunities – where oh where could this take me?

Turns out, nowhere. REJECTED. It was like a high school dance all over again. All of the other blogs were slow dancing with each other, and I was sitting in a chair by the wall, telling myself that I TOTALLY didn’t care.

It was a lie then and it’s a lie now. The difference is that back then I meekly accepted my fate. Now, however, I don’t have to. So I asked: I’d like to use this as a learning opportunity, so if you could let me know why my blog can’t be included in your network, that would be greatly helpful to me as I move forward. Thanks.

The overwhelming response was: Well, your blog isn’t about anything, really. It’s not about parenting and it’s not about marriage and it’s not about dating. It’s sometimes political, but it’s not about politics. It’s sometimes about things, but it has no theme. It’s not ABOUT anything.

This, of course, made me think of Seinfeld. “It’s a blog about NOTHING!”

Except, of course, that it’s kind of about my life.  Which is apparently lacking in a theme. I guess that if I wanted it to have a theme, a central idea that all of the posts swirl around, that would be do-able.

Do-able, but boring as hell for me, and probably for you to read. Oh goody, another blog about body image. Or loss. Or … WHATEVER. Dull. Dull as toast. Dry, characterless toast.

So I’m putting it out there to you, dear reader folk. Do you want a theme? Do you want to have an idea of what you’ll see here on any given day? Or do you like the randomness? I’m curious because, if people like the random, then what would be the point to insisting on a theme? That seems silly to me.

In the meantime, you won’t see any badges indicating that I belong to any networks. No blogging conferences for me, no bloggy fame or fortune. No book deal and no quitting my day job. Just the continual daily natterings for your day.

It works for me. I hope it’s working for you as well.

Measuring Systems

I was on the Sky Ride at Canobie Lake Park this summer with one of my dearest friends and having an unexpectedly serious discussion while simultaneously trying to keep my flip flops from falling off and landing on the heads of the unsuspecting park attendees below.

She’s a mom and a homeowner and has her stuff TOGETHER.

I am … me.

However, as we slowly cruised over the trees and pathways in our carriage, she also proved to be a major champion of my me-ness as I tried to explain why, at 36, I feel like I don’t  have a handle on life.

“WHATEVER,” she said, “You’re doing fine.  You can date – or not. You can change jobs or not. You can rent or not. It’s only up to you. “

Basically, she said, if I don’t like the system that people – including me – are using to measure what I’m doing with my life, I should try out a new system. Go metric, if you will.

“You’re right,” I said. My right flip flop dangled dangerously.

“Of course I am,” she said. “Do you want to go ride a roller coaster now?”

“Yes, please!”

I’m mentioning it now because I’d like to make a formal declaration of a change of measuring system.

As such:

If I am making changes as regards to my life, and I ask for advice, I would LOVE to hear what you think.  The unsolicited commentary, however, is no fun. Let me ask you: the next time you go out for drinks with your friends, think about how awesome it would be if they all ganged up on you to list the things that they thought you could be doing better.

It would make you want to drown yourself in a scorpion bowl. TRUST ME ON THIS ONE.

I am not shy about asking people what they think. Believe me, I know a lot of intelligent people. I respect them. I frequently request their perspective on situations, and appreciate that they all want the best for me.

I love them for that.

But I’m starting not to love the constant barrage, of being told what I NEED – MUST! RIGHT NOW! – to do.

Please allow me to list them:

1.       You need to dress like a grown up. Here’s the deal: I’m an adult.  If I want to wear some sort of snarky t-shirt and a hoodie every day in my WORK FROM HOME job, I will. And that WILL be dressing like an adult, because I’m an adult and that’s how I’m dressed. If I worked in an office, I would clearly conform to their dress codes. I GET IT.

2.        You need to get out more.  I go out when I want to go out. If I don’t have every minute of my life scheduled? I’m okay with that. 

3.       You need to be dating. I’m so tired of this. If I meet someone (YOU NEED TO GO OUT MORE) and am interested, and the Someone is interested(YOU NEED TO DRESS LIKE A GROWN UP)? Then perhaps I will date.  Otherwise? I like being single. All of the closet space is mine. The entire bed is mine. You know who I have to check in with? No one. EVER. Um, that doesn’t exactly suck.

4.       You need to go back to school/decide what you want to be when you grow up/career career career. I do need to do some career related things. I’m doing them. I’m not necessarily talking about them, but I’m DOING them. Here’s why I don’t want to talk about them: when I’m done spending 11 plus hours a day at work? I don’t want to talk about work. If I DO want to talk about work, then I’ll talk about it. And we can discuss it. But can we not have a lecture, please? It’s not enjoyable, and if you think I’m stressed out now, check my blood pressure after you get done telling me all of the stuff you think I should be doing instead. (Hint: it won’t be lower.)

Look, my life isn’t perfect. As it turns out, no one’s is. I’m working really hard to make some positive, long overdue changes and I’m EXCITED about them.  I will ask for help. I will listen to advice. I will know that all of the above come from a place of love and good intent.  But I’m probably not  using your measuring system for what it means for me to be a success. It turns out that it doesn’t work for me.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some snarky t-shirts to fold and put away.

Birthday Presents

It’s my best friend’s birthday today. One does not discuss a lady’s age without her permission, but I will say it’s a Big Deal Birthday. A Milestone birthday, as it were.

Not that it matters. As far as I’m concerned, every single one of her birthdays should be a milestone.

And so, every year, I end up playing the “What do I get you for your birthday” game. (Well, in my head, at least. I don’t actually ASK her that. Figuring out her present is my job, not hers.)

It’s tricky, because as I said, every one of her birthdays should be a milestone. It’s not an exaggeration to say that she saved my life. I was in a dark place and she showed up with some candles, looked around at the cave I had backed myself into, and declared, “This sucks. We’re going to the beach. Get your stuff.” I didn’t really WANT to go to the beach … or the mall … or out for burritos … at first, but you don’t argue with this woman, so I went. And before I knew it, I DID want to go out. Before I knew it, I was moving out of my cave – squinting in the sunlight, but outside. And laughing. Sometimes crying, but mostly laughing and remembering what it felt like to feel happy and ALIVE.

What do you give someone who’s given you THAT?

What do you give someone who thinks your stupid jokes are all funny? Who laughs every time – EVERY TIME – you say, “Hey, you know who’s in that movie? Matthew McConaughey-hey-HEY-hey!”?  Who believes that you deserve the best and that anyone who doesn’t agree with that statement is a complete asshole? Who not only tolerates your cat, but actually loves her as though she’s her own? Who isn’t afraid to tell you the truth gently when it’s required, and bluntly when it’s not getting through? What do you get that person?

I can’t tell you what I did get her (because I didn’t give it to her yet) but I can tell you this: whatever it is, it’s never enough.

Happy Birthday, Kristen Flink.

You’re the best.

SUMMAH! (That's "Summer" to You From-Away-ers)

It’s the last week of summer! I mean, not officially – I think that technically, summer doesn’t end until mid September or something? – but it’s the last week before Labour Day and back to school and all of that. So in my head, that makes it the last week of summer.

I have a lot of stuff to do this week. Good stuff, but man, a lot of STUFF. You probably do too.

So there won’t really be posts this week. Unless, of course, some whacked out politician type says something that makes me off the charts crazy. But that’s not likely to happen, right?*

In the meantime, go outside. Run around. Enjoy the last week of summer. And I’ll be back next week.

 

*I am so expecting this to happen.

Come On, Vogue

Something you may not know about me (especially if you’ve seen me lately, since my new favorite uniform is knee length skirt, t shirt, hoodie, flip flops) is that I get Vogue magazine.

 

I’m faintly embarrassed by this, mostly because of WHY I get it. You know how a lot of fine upstanding fellas say that they read Playboy for the articles?

I read Vogue for the … ads.

I know it’s weird. I’ve mostly cancelled my fashion magazine subscriptions because I (again, mostly) don’t care what someone in New York or LA thinks that my New Hampshire dwelling self should be wearing. As much as I like pretty clothes, I don’t care that this is the year of the wedge boot, or the whatever else it’s the year of, since I’m pretty much going to be wearing my Wellies all winter long to keep my feet dry and cozy.

But oh MAN do I love a fashion advertisement. I love the choices involved – where does the product go? How is it featured? What’s the colour palette? Is there text? What does it say? Where is the text placed? I LOVE this kind of thing; I think it’s a holdover from my stint as the editor of my high school newspaper when I had to think about where the words and images would go on the page. It was fascinating. I loved it almost as much as I loved the writing.

The writing in Vogue? I don’t love. It annoys me. It’s the 1% writing for the 99% as though we should care about what the 1% do, where they go, and what they have. Frankly, most of that makes me feel gross about getting the magazine at all, like I’m lightly coated with slime. HAMPTONS slime, no less. Tossed at me from a Birkin bag by a woman who’s only famous because her daddy has money. Wheee! It’s off-putting.

The ads though. They’re amazing.

When I went to my mailbox this morning, the new issue of Vogue was hogging up the inside, forcing the rest of my mail to cower resentfully in the corner (the Kittery Trading Post flyer looked MAD) behind the 916 page (yes, you read that properly: nine hundred and sixteen pages) beast that is the fall fashion spectacular. 

 

I do love me some Lady Gaga, I won't lie

 

It’s thicker than my phone book, and frankly – since I mentioned the 1% -- I feel like it’s a demonstration of the excess and frivolity that both the 1% and Vogue itself represent.  There is NO REASON for a fashion magazine – especially a high fashion magazine, which includes clothes the average subscriber couldn’t possibly afford, especially in this economy -- to be 916 pages. NONE.  It’s a gross waste of trees.

Even if it is 80% of glorious, pretty, brilliantly designed ads. (Oh and it is—let’s not kid ourselves.)

So, I’m embarrassed.  I realize that by purchasing the magazine, I’m perpetuating what it stands for and also, sort of saying that I’m okay with cutting down an entire rainforest so that I can see the newest Chanel ad. (Which, by the way, is visual POETRY. I’m just saying.)

When this subscription ends next month, I’m not going to renew. It’s too much. I’m too embarrassed.

But until then? Prada ads for everyone!