I switch to part-time hours on Aug. 25. I'm giving up benefits. I'm giving up paid vacation. And I'm also giving up perpetual exhaustion and the sense that I'm not giving Elijah what he needs most from me at this point in his development -- a mom who is working with him and interacting with him in a meaningful way rather than trying desperately to catch up on sleep every afternoon before heading downtown for a work shift that doesn't end until at least midnight.
I'm not certain yet, but I think I'll be working my regular 4 til slightly-after-midnight shifts on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, plus a shortened shift (5:30 til 9:30) on Thursdays. Yes, those are some mighty crappy hours, but it's fewer mighty crappy hours than I have been working for many years now! Once I make the shift to part-time, working these hours completely eliminates the need for us to pay for any child care for Elijah, which is good since saving money will obviously become a priority for us at this point. (Note to immediate family: Don't expect Christmas/Hanukkah gifts this year. Probably not even those calendars plastered with pictures of Elijah that you've all graciously displayed in prominent places in your kitchens, at least when we are visiting!)
Of everything I'm giving up, somehow the paid vacation is the hardest. It's not just that I will very rarely be able to take any time off at all or to travel anywhere. It's the fact that for so many years, I anticipated hitting my 10-year mark and therefore becoming eligible for the maximum number of paid vacation/sick days (it's now the same thing at most companies). The maximum number is 29, and this is the first year I've been eligible for all of them. AND NOW I'M NOT TAKING THEM! For those of you who work in more flexible industries, 29 days might not seem like much. After all, to a teacher, 29 days off is ...... July. But to a copy editor, it's nirvana, even though we still work on days most people wouldn't even consider working after age 21 or so -- Christmas, July 4, Thanksgiving, etc.
But with my new schedule, I'll have three entire days off each week, and I'll be able to get to bed by 10:30 four out of every seven nights. So until some lottery jackpot comes our way, that will have to be my own sad little version of nirvana.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Go Ask Alice.......
This past week Elijah had his first swim lessons and the best that can be said is that they were not a disaster. Although Michael Phelps will not lose any sleep before the Olympics worrying about possible competition from Elijah, Virgnie Dedieu (known as the French Solo Queen of synchronized swimming - a four time champion) should be looking over her shoulder. The reason for this is as the instructor constantly tried to get our little guy to practice his strokes in the water, he was more interest
ed in interpretive dancing using elaborate arm gestures that would have made Twyla Tharp proud.
ed in interpretive dancing using elaborate arm gestures that would have made Twyla Tharp proud. Which brings up an issue that Sarah and I have talked about many times knowing it will be broached by his school, medication to help him focus. I am NOT opposed to the idea for some children. I have seen it do wonders for kids of family and friends, getting them through school successfully. But focus is not Elijah's problem. If he is "writing" one of his books or recreating a strip mall using tinkertoys and paper, nothing can distract him. His teachers have said that if he is working on a project at school and it's time to move on to another area, he is adamant about completing the task at hand. As I said, focus, when it involves something he enjoys, is not an issue.
So when the subject is mentioned, both Sarah and I agree that path is better left not taken. Though our reasons may differ, we both want to see where this voyage takes us without any chemical interference. So when at swim lessons while some of children look dour as they attempt to follow the teacher and Elijah dances and sings, smiles and laughs and has the time of his life, I have to ask myself one question....When I was younger I took drugs to feel the way he does now, so why would I give him anything that would take that euphoria away? Years fr
om now I could change my mind, but for the time being I'll take my happy anarchist.
om now I could change my mind, but for the time being I'll take my happy anarchist.Friday, July 25, 2008
Spam I am
There ought to be a Pulitzer category for this stuff.
If you have a good spam filter, you may not be aware of the "spam filter poetry" phenomenon, which consists of various senders of junk e-mail trying to outdo one another in the writing of nonsensical passages designed to throw off spam filters and thereby deliver their e-mails to your in-box.
I've been keeping examples of these, which often made it to my in-box at work before my company upgraded its filters. They're great fun to read and would actually be somewhat challenging to write, given that they can't include any words or phrases likely to send up a red flag, such as "opportunity," "rich," "sales," "once in a lifetime," etc. A simple line of random letters and symbols won't do, either -- after all, this is poetry! You have to get creative with word combinations that don't often occur. Like "annoying paycheck," for example. As we all learned in high school English, true poetry (well, actually, it's prose) is an art form.
So, for your reading pleasure ...... here are some of my favorite lines of "spam filter poetry":
Most people believe that a sheriff near a buzzard makes a truce with the spider about another grain of sand, but they need to remember how knowingly a dust bunny daydreams. The lover defined by another hole puncher secretly finds subtle faults with a psychotic sheriff. The familiar vacuum cleaner negotiates a prenuptial agreement with the green dust bunny. Indeed, the barely highly paid salad dressing nonchalantly borrows money from the impromptu CEO, while the industrial complex inside an eggplant trades baseball cards with a secretly annoying paycheck.
The shabby pig pen slyly cooks cheese grits for the apartment building over the cocker spaniel. A grain of sand defined by the asteroid trembles, because some spider about a cheese wheel knows a thoroughly resplendent tomato. Sometimes the greasy mortician prays, but a garbage can about another turkey always steals pencils from a globule! Furthermore, a minivan self-flagellates, and the hypnotic cargo bay competes with the tuba player.
If you have a good spam filter, you may not be aware of the "spam filter poetry" phenomenon, which consists of various senders of junk e-mail trying to outdo one another in the writing of nonsensical passages designed to throw off spam filters and thereby deliver their e-mails to your in-box.
I've been keeping examples of these, which often made it to my in-box at work before my company upgraded its filters. They're great fun to read and would actually be somewhat challenging to write, given that they can't include any words or phrases likely to send up a red flag, such as "opportunity," "rich," "sales," "once in a lifetime," etc. A simple line of random letters and symbols won't do, either -- after all, this is poetry! You have to get creative with word combinations that don't often occur. Like "annoying paycheck," for example. As we all learned in high school English, true poetry (well, actually, it's prose) is an art form.
So, for your reading pleasure ...... here are some of my favorite lines of "spam filter poetry":
Most people believe that a sheriff near a buzzard makes a truce with the spider about another grain of sand, but they need to remember how knowingly a dust bunny daydreams. The lover defined by another hole puncher secretly finds subtle faults with a psychotic sheriff. The familiar vacuum cleaner negotiates a prenuptial agreement with the green dust bunny. Indeed, the barely highly paid salad dressing nonchalantly borrows money from the impromptu CEO, while the industrial complex inside an eggplant trades baseball cards with a secretly annoying paycheck.
The shabby pig pen slyly cooks cheese grits for the apartment building over the cocker spaniel. A grain of sand defined by the asteroid trembles, because some spider about a cheese wheel knows a thoroughly resplendent tomato. Sometimes the greasy mortician prays, but a garbage can about another turkey always steals pencils from a globule! Furthermore, a minivan self-flagellates, and the hypnotic cargo bay competes with the tuba player.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Whatever happened to the Zombies, anyway?
"It's the time of the season for loving," Elijah informed me the other day at breakfast.
Most mothers of 5-year-olds might be shocked, but I dismissed it as yet another sign that the poor little guy has been subjected to too much of his baby-boomer father's 1960s-era music. Belting out lyrics that were popular nearly 40 years before your birth is just one of the hazards of being born to "late-in-life" parents.
Several hours later, as I was trying to deal with a tedious matter at our local bank branch, one of the tellers walked by the chairs where Elijah and I were sitting.
Teller: "Hi there, cutie! What beautiful red hair! How old are you?"
Elijah: (Silence)
Teller (leaning down to look directly into Elijah's eyes): "Well! Let's try another question. What's your name?"
Elijah (with a big smile and direct eye contact): "WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!"
Most mothers of 5-year-olds might be shocked, but I dismissed it as yet another sign that the poor little guy has been subjected to too much of his baby-boomer father's 1960s-era music. Belting out lyrics that were popular nearly 40 years before your birth is just one of the hazards of being born to "late-in-life" parents.
Several hours later, as I was trying to deal with a tedious matter at our local bank branch, one of the tellers walked by the chairs where Elijah and I were sitting.
Teller: "Hi there, cutie! What beautiful red hair! How old are you?"
Elijah: (Silence)
Teller (leaning down to look directly into Elijah's eyes): "Well! Let's try another question. What's your name?"
Elijah (with a big smile and direct eye contact): "WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!"
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Stuff we all hate
Just a thought before I crash in bed after spending far more time than I'd like to on estate planning matters: If you have not yet dealt with this tedious but crucial task, please do. Jeff and I are working on it now, and let's just say it is not a quick process. We've met twice with an estate planning attorney, established a living trust and signed countless notarized documents, and we still are just at the very beginning of getting everything squared away. Transferring all of our (modest) assets into the trust will take months, given how little time I have to work on this, and getting all the other paperwork together will also take a long time.
But if we don't get this done, and something happens to both of us, the implications for Elijah -- and for everyone else in our family -- would be huge.
If you've been putting this off, do yourself and your heirs a huge favor and contact an estate planning attorney. Because if you don't, your death (you do know you'll die someday, right?) will be the beginning of a long and very costly ordeal for your surviving family members. The probate process can take years and drain huge chunks of the estate away.
If that doesn't persuade you to get moving on this, remember that estate planning isn't just about possessions and bank accounts -- it's also about end-of-life medical decisions and powers of attorney should you become incapacitated. So if you don't want to become the next Teri Schiavo, get this done!
And if you happen to be related to us, this message is even more important(!)
So don't delay this any longer. Get it done. As one of Elijah's little girly-girl preschool classmates says, pretty, pretty please, with sugar on top!
But if we don't get this done, and something happens to both of us, the implications for Elijah -- and for everyone else in our family -- would be huge.
If you've been putting this off, do yourself and your heirs a huge favor and contact an estate planning attorney. Because if you don't, your death (you do know you'll die someday, right?) will be the beginning of a long and very costly ordeal for your surviving family members. The probate process can take years and drain huge chunks of the estate away.
If that doesn't persuade you to get moving on this, remember that estate planning isn't just about possessions and bank accounts -- it's also about end-of-life medical decisions and powers of attorney should you become incapacitated. So if you don't want to become the next Teri Schiavo, get this done!
And if you happen to be related to us, this message is even more important(!)
So don't delay this any longer. Get it done. As one of Elijah's little girly-girl preschool classmates says, pretty, pretty please, with sugar on top!
Friday, July 11, 2008
Hit by fit
I like exercise. And I love health clubs, even though I don't always fall for the latest workout trend. Yes, I did aerobics in the 80s and circuit training in the 90s and am now a yoga devotee, but I opted out of the spinning craze, the Krav Maga trend and the boot-camp fitness madness. I've also managed to avoid any up-close-and-personal encounters with the Pilates Reformer.
Point is, I'm a bit too picky about what type of exercise I do, and am in danger of becoming a bit of an anti-perspiration diva. So when we joined a new health club last winter, I decided to shake up my routine a bit by trying out a variety of the many classes it offers.
That's how I found myself standing at the entrance to one of the club's studios, reading the list of classes and trying to decide which one would be easiest, given that I was recovering from a nasty bout with the flu. I had read somewhere that once you're past the worst of a cold or flu, exercise helps speed the recovery process, and I was stupid enough to actually believe this.
There was only one "light" option on the menu that night: A class called "Latin Fusion," described thusly: "Heat things up with the hottest Latin music and moves. You're sure to be energized with this hot 'n' spicy cardio workout. Think you can't "work" your hips? Think again and come try it! 45 minutes."
Well, my hips certainly need work, and the class was starting in 10 minutes, so I went on in. How hard could a little shimmy-around dance class be? I thought.
I noticed right away that the people who were arriving for this class most certainly did NOT need hip work, or any other kind. They all looked like marathon runners. I'm almost certain I had more body fat that the rest of the room combined. And less muscle, clearly, than anyone else there.
"Welcome to fit!" the muscle-bound instructor chirped. Odd way to phrase it, I thought, but yes, everyone here certainly does look fit. Is "Latin Fusion" how triathletes keep in shape in the off-season?
"You'll need several things," the instructor went on. "A medicine ball, two sets of weights, a step bench with three risers, a body bar, a resistance band and a BOSU ball. Remember, drink plenty of water, and rest when you need to. We don't build any breaks into this class."
At this point, a thinking person would have realized that this ain't no dance class. But I was not a thinking person, probably because the flu medication I had taken that morning still had not worn off.
So I dutifully gathered up all the required equipment and wondered why, 10 minutes after the scheduled start time, the class still hadn't begun. At 5:45, things finally got under way, 15 minutes late. Good, I thought, maybe this means it will be over in just half an hour, rather than the 45 mintues it's scheduled for.
I won't even bother to describe the next hour and 15 minutes. Let's just say it didn't involve any Latin music, and WAY more than my hips got worked. I was flat on my back for a day and a half and was so sick for the next few weeks that I couldn't even think about exercising, though I did give plenty of thought to the money that was going down the drain in the form of the monthly fee to this rather expensive health club.
That was my last attempt at "Latin Fusion" until just recently, when I decided that I had finally built up the fitness level to give it another try. I told Jeff I was probably not going to make it through the entire class, so please don't laugh at me when I stagger out. I took a deep breath and walked into the studio, where I immediately noticed that the crowd was way different from the last time. No one was getting any equipment out, and there were quite a few hips in there that apparently hadn't gotten worked in a long while. It was all women, unlike the previous time, and a significant number of them seemed really preoccupied with their hair and nails.
"Hello, girls!!!! Are we ready to shake our bootys?!!!!" In sashayed our instructor, who could only be described as a Hispanic Richard Simmons. And yes, his name was Ricardo.
So for the next 45 minutes, we shook our bootys, learned a couple of samba steps and listened as Ricardo gushed about how talented we all were. I think at one point my heart rate might have gone up a bit, but I'm not sure. I could see Jeff occasionally glancing in from the workout floor, with a look on his face that said, "How could THIS be hard? I must be married to a WIMP!"
When the class ended, it finally occured to me that maybe I should check that schedule again. And sure enough, there was my answer: In my flu-addled state back in February, I had read the wrong column -- the days of the week are in fine print at the top of each column -- and attended a completely different class.
Its description: "F.I.T. -- Functional Integrated Training. Challenge yourself beyond traditional strength training with this advanced, total body functional strength training class. We'll challenge your muscular endurance as well as balance and coordination by moving through all phases of motion with multi-joint and compound exercises. 75 minutes."
Oh.
Moral of the story: Always read the fine print.
Point is, I'm a bit too picky about what type of exercise I do, and am in danger of becoming a bit of an anti-perspiration diva. So when we joined a new health club last winter, I decided to shake up my routine a bit by trying out a variety of the many classes it offers.
That's how I found myself standing at the entrance to one of the club's studios, reading the list of classes and trying to decide which one would be easiest, given that I was recovering from a nasty bout with the flu. I had read somewhere that once you're past the worst of a cold or flu, exercise helps speed the recovery process, and I was stupid enough to actually believe this.
There was only one "light" option on the menu that night: A class called "Latin Fusion," described thusly: "Heat things up with the hottest Latin music and moves. You're sure to be energized with this hot 'n' spicy cardio workout. Think you can't "work" your hips? Think again and come try it! 45 minutes."
Well, my hips certainly need work, and the class was starting in 10 minutes, so I went on in. How hard could a little shimmy-around dance class be? I thought.
I noticed right away that the people who were arriving for this class most certainly did NOT need hip work, or any other kind. They all looked like marathon runners. I'm almost certain I had more body fat that the rest of the room combined. And less muscle, clearly, than anyone else there.
"Welcome to fit!" the muscle-bound instructor chirped. Odd way to phrase it, I thought, but yes, everyone here certainly does look fit. Is "Latin Fusion" how triathletes keep in shape in the off-season?
"You'll need several things," the instructor went on. "A medicine ball, two sets of weights, a step bench with three risers, a body bar, a resistance band and a BOSU ball. Remember, drink plenty of water, and rest when you need to. We don't build any breaks into this class."
At this point, a thinking person would have realized that this ain't no dance class. But I was not a thinking person, probably because the flu medication I had taken that morning still had not worn off.
So I dutifully gathered up all the required equipment and wondered why, 10 minutes after the scheduled start time, the class still hadn't begun. At 5:45, things finally got under way, 15 minutes late. Good, I thought, maybe this means it will be over in just half an hour, rather than the 45 mintues it's scheduled for.
I won't even bother to describe the next hour and 15 minutes. Let's just say it didn't involve any Latin music, and WAY more than my hips got worked. I was flat on my back for a day and a half and was so sick for the next few weeks that I couldn't even think about exercising, though I did give plenty of thought to the money that was going down the drain in the form of the monthly fee to this rather expensive health club.
That was my last attempt at "Latin Fusion" until just recently, when I decided that I had finally built up the fitness level to give it another try. I told Jeff I was probably not going to make it through the entire class, so please don't laugh at me when I stagger out. I took a deep breath and walked into the studio, where I immediately noticed that the crowd was way different from the last time. No one was getting any equipment out, and there were quite a few hips in there that apparently hadn't gotten worked in a long while. It was all women, unlike the previous time, and a significant number of them seemed really preoccupied with their hair and nails.
"Hello, girls!!!! Are we ready to shake our bootys?!!!!" In sashayed our instructor, who could only be described as a Hispanic Richard Simmons. And yes, his name was Ricardo.
So for the next 45 minutes, we shook our bootys, learned a couple of samba steps and listened as Ricardo gushed about how talented we all were. I think at one point my heart rate might have gone up a bit, but I'm not sure. I could see Jeff occasionally glancing in from the workout floor, with a look on his face that said, "How could THIS be hard? I must be married to a WIMP!"
When the class ended, it finally occured to me that maybe I should check that schedule again. And sure enough, there was my answer: In my flu-addled state back in February, I had read the wrong column -- the days of the week are in fine print at the top of each column -- and attended a completely different class.
Its description: "F.I.T. -- Functional Integrated Training. Challenge yourself beyond traditional strength training with this advanced, total body functional strength training class. We'll challenge your muscular endurance as well as balance and coordination by moving through all phases of motion with multi-joint and compound exercises. 75 minutes."
Oh.
Moral of the story: Always read the fine print.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
I wonder if Casey Kasem ever got this kind of request
Despite his differences, Elijah still loves something that all little boys do: disgusting noises coming out of orifices of the body, specifically the mouth and tush. Since mommy is working most nights, Elijah and I can partake in this practice without any reprimands. He enjoys it so much that he now requests it on many occasions, much to the horror of Sarah. In fact, the other day he asked if "mommy, daddy and Elijah can fart into the refrigerator". When that request was denied he then proceeded to name every little boy and girl in his pre-school and asked if they could fart into the refrigerator. That wish went unfulfilled, but it was good to see that he knew all the kids in his class. Perhaps this could be used as a teaching method in the future.
As I said he likes noises emulating from the mouth as well. Tonight at the dinner table he requested a burp from daddy. I told him I would burp if he ate two carrots. (This type of deal-making drives Sarah crazy.) As he was finishing up the second carrot, I finished my Mr. Pibb and delivered on my end of the bargain. Elijah was laughing so hard that he started to choke on the carrot he was eating. Now that would be a tough one to explain at the ER:
"Now let me get this straight....Your son was choking and the Heimlich maneuver had to be used because you burped? Nurse, get me social services on the phone."
Fortunately all that happened was a laughfest that went on as long as daddy could perform and Elijah would eat. Needless to say Sarah did not participate, even though Elijah requested that "mommy burp on daddy's head".
I guess females just don't get it.
As I said he likes noises emulating from the mouth as well. Tonight at the dinner table he requested a burp from daddy. I told him I would burp if he ate two carrots. (This type of deal-making drives Sarah crazy.) As he was finishing up the second carrot, I finished my Mr. Pibb and delivered on my end of the bargain. Elijah was laughing so hard that he started to choke on the carrot he was eating. Now that would be a tough one to explain at the ER:
"Now let me get this straight....Your son was choking and the Heimlich maneuver had to be used because you burped? Nurse, get me social services on the phone."
Fortunately all that happened was a laughfest that went on as long as daddy could perform and Elijah would eat. Needless to say Sarah did not participate, even though Elijah requested that "mommy burp on daddy's head".
I guess females just don't get it.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
One small request
Let me start by saying I am not complaining about the metropolitan area I live in. In many ways, it's a great area. I live in a nice neighborhood with top-notch schools, and within a 20-minute drive on wide-open, virtually traffic-free interstates (for those of you in California, that's what we call our freeways), I can be at the downtown art gallery and entertainment districts, a theater, symphony, ballet or opera performance, any number of art-house movie theaters, several museums, an NFL stadium, a major league baseball stadium, a zoo and a large regional farmers market, just to name a few.
We have all four seasons, which to some people would be a deterrent but which I love. Spring means blossoms bursting out all over, summer means heat and lush green trees and grass, fall means breathtaking colors as the leaves change, and winter (if we're lucky) means enough snow to create quite a few snowmen and enjoy a few afternoons of sledding followed by hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. There's even a ski slope not far away, although it only counts as such if your definition of "ski slope" is a bit on the liberal side. We also have some picturesque lakes, for those who prefer their skis to be on water.
In addition, the cost of living here is, compared with much of the country, astonishingly low. It's not at all unusual to see young couples moving into beautiful new homes that people of their means couldn't even dream of owning if they lived on either coast. Quite a few people I know had their mortgages paid off, owning their homes free and clear, by the time they reached their mid-30s. And we're talking about people who work in my industry, which means -- trust me, here -- they don't make much money. (One of these days, I'll grab one of those sheets on the "for sale" real estate signs in our area and type in the description, and everyone reading this blog can guess at the asking price. We'll come up with some sort of prize for the winner -- perhaps one of those financial self-help books that are doing so well on the best-seller lists these days.)
Since I'm far from a member of the Forbes demographic, I don't read it regularly and haven't seen the article, but apparently the magazine has ranked our area as one of the best areas in the U.S. to live in. I won't specify which one we are, but suffice it to say that we could fall several notches and still be comfortably in the Top 10.
So really, I shouldn't complain. But would it be too much to ask for just one tiny thing? (Please note that I'm staying away from big requests, like a commuter rail system or a mountain range. They're both equally unlikely to ever happen here.)
All I'm asking for is a Trader Joe's.
At this point, half of you are nodding your heads in sympathy for anyone who doesn't have frequent access to one of these wonderful wine-and-food emporiums, and the other half of you are saying, "Huh? What's the big deal?"
I'll tell you what the big deal is: I am sick to death of the pretentious wine and organic food markets that are spreading across our city's landscape like a plague. I just want a simple, down-to-earth, reasonably priced wine store that has a good selection of natural foods presented in an atmosphere where you don't feel the need to wear designer clothing and drive a luxury automobile just to pull into the parking lot. Trader Joe's fits the bill perfectly.
I'm so desperate for one in our area that I once actually pestered Jeff into calling their corporate office to inquire about franchise opportunities. Turns out that they don't franchise. OK, fine. But why can't they open one here? They are, after all, spreading across the country at what seems to be a fairly rapid pace, and they can be found in many cities that are much, much smaller than ours.
So, if you're a Trader Joe's wage slave (or lawyer) who has somehow come across this, please send a message up the line. Put your phone number in the comments section of this blog, and I'll call you and tell you where I am. And do plan to stop by our low-cost-of-living, high-disposable-income demographic area. You might like what you see.
It's my one small request.
We have all four seasons, which to some people would be a deterrent but which I love. Spring means blossoms bursting out all over, summer means heat and lush green trees and grass, fall means breathtaking colors as the leaves change, and winter (if we're lucky) means enough snow to create quite a few snowmen and enjoy a few afternoons of sledding followed by hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. There's even a ski slope not far away, although it only counts as such if your definition of "ski slope" is a bit on the liberal side. We also have some picturesque lakes, for those who prefer their skis to be on water.
In addition, the cost of living here is, compared with much of the country, astonishingly low. It's not at all unusual to see young couples moving into beautiful new homes that people of their means couldn't even dream of owning if they lived on either coast. Quite a few people I know had their mortgages paid off, owning their homes free and clear, by the time they reached their mid-30s. And we're talking about people who work in my industry, which means -- trust me, here -- they don't make much money. (One of these days, I'll grab one of those sheets on the "for sale" real estate signs in our area and type in the description, and everyone reading this blog can guess at the asking price. We'll come up with some sort of prize for the winner -- perhaps one of those financial self-help books that are doing so well on the best-seller lists these days.)
Since I'm far from a member of the Forbes demographic, I don't read it regularly and haven't seen the article, but apparently the magazine has ranked our area as one of the best areas in the U.S. to live in. I won't specify which one we are, but suffice it to say that we could fall several notches and still be comfortably in the Top 10.
So really, I shouldn't complain. But would it be too much to ask for just one tiny thing? (Please note that I'm staying away from big requests, like a commuter rail system or a mountain range. They're both equally unlikely to ever happen here.)
All I'm asking for is a Trader Joe's.
At this point, half of you are nodding your heads in sympathy for anyone who doesn't have frequent access to one of these wonderful wine-and-food emporiums, and the other half of you are saying, "Huh? What's the big deal?"
I'll tell you what the big deal is: I am sick to death of the pretentious wine and organic food markets that are spreading across our city's landscape like a plague. I just want a simple, down-to-earth, reasonably priced wine store that has a good selection of natural foods presented in an atmosphere where you don't feel the need to wear designer clothing and drive a luxury automobile just to pull into the parking lot. Trader Joe's fits the bill perfectly.
I'm so desperate for one in our area that I once actually pestered Jeff into calling their corporate office to inquire about franchise opportunities. Turns out that they don't franchise. OK, fine. But why can't they open one here? They are, after all, spreading across the country at what seems to be a fairly rapid pace, and they can be found in many cities that are much, much smaller than ours.
So, if you're a Trader Joe's wage slave (or lawyer) who has somehow come across this, please send a message up the line. Put your phone number in the comments section of this blog, and I'll call you and tell you where I am. And do plan to stop by our low-cost-of-living, high-disposable-income demographic area. You might like what you see.
It's my one small request.
Friday, July 4, 2008
WWBBD (What Would Brian Boitano Do?)
Ever since we first met, I've known that one of Sarah's favorite activities is to go ice skating. I however don't get a great deal of enjoyment hanging onto a rail for dear life as four and five year olds whizz past me like I'm a stalled car on the highway. (To be fair, Sarah cannot understand my love of golf.) So she was delighted when it appeared as if Elijah seemed to enjoy being on skates as much as she did.
Since I was off work early yesterday, I went along to the rink (only as a spectator) as Elijah went to try out his new skates. On the way there Sarah and I got into a discussion as to how few times we now each engaged in our favorite pastimes. From once every couple of weeks, I now play golf once every couple of months (usually on a holiday weekend). Sarah had gone from maybe once a week to a once every quarter skater. (That will change soon as she has signed up for a "Mommy and Me" skate class-but I don't think chasing Elijah around a rink counts as relaxing ice time!) But the funny part as we discussed this was neither one of us would have traded the time spent with Elijah for those activities, or anything else. I guess that's what being a parent means.
So I watched the two of them skate (and took pictures) and thought to myself how lucky we are. For all of his difficulties (and they are MINOR compared to what some other children we know have gone through) Elijah is a happy little guy, whose joyous personality makes activities with him fun. Do I miss crushing a drive 270 yards straight down the middle of the fairway? No, because I've never done that. But I do miss hacking away at a small white ball for countless holes till everything goes right for about 10 minutes and I either par, or wonder of wonders, shoot a birdie. But I would gladly trade even that moment for the happy giggle or pure scream of joy as Elijah jumps into our park pool.
I will not, however, partake in his ice skating activity. I will gladly watch from the stands as he uses his glider, with mommy's help, to manuver on the ice. For it is my fear that if I again try to lace up the skates and get out on the rink, I too will be using a glider like the one Elijah is using in the picture here, except mine would be one used by the elderly to walk, horn included.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Everywhere a Sign
Elijah loves traffic signs. I mean really, really loves them. His obsession with them is almost enough to qualify as one of the "perseveration" symptoms of autism spectrum disorders, but since he loves basketball goals even more, I always default to them when asked what it is that he obsesses over (ALL kids on the spectrum obsess over something, so it's actually a very common question.)
He also likes to write -- I plan to upload some photos of his books at some point -- and often makes up odd sayings that he scrawls on any loose sheet of paper he can find. And he can find a lot, given that we now stock the house with reams of paper to satisfy his drawing and writing urges. He comes up with some interesting combinations of phrases, traffic directions and logos, most of which he insists be taped to various walls throughout the house. My all-time favorite, prominently displayed in the den as a reminder of how to approach each day, is the following:
I couldn't have said it better myself.
He also likes to write -- I plan to upload some photos of his books at some point -- and often makes up odd sayings that he scrawls on any loose sheet of paper he can find. And he can find a lot, given that we now stock the house with reams of paper to satisfy his drawing and writing urges. He comes up with some interesting combinations of phrases, traffic directions and logos, most of which he insists be taped to various walls throughout the house. My all-time favorite, prominently displayed in the den as a reminder of how to approach each day, is the following:
I couldn't have said it better myself.
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