No Autographs, Please

I submitted a First Person essay to the Columbus Dispatch that they published today (link)

They did some editing, so I thought I'd post the original article I sent so my loyal reading public - all 4 of you - could see it.

A couple quick thoughts: It's slightly disconcerting to see a small blurry photo of yourself in the newspaper and even more disconcerting to see a giant blurry photo of yourself online. Also - the Dispatch just had to publish my age. I've tried to keep that on the down-low with all the
25-year-olds I work with. Luckily, they don't read the paper.

Okay - here it is:

Easter Parade

I was born on Easter Sunday, longer ago than I care to admit. It was around one o’clock in the afternoon, right when my family would normally be in the midst of Easter dinner. Instead, my folks were off to the hospital. My aunt, who was visiting for the holiday, encouraged my parents to name me Bunny to commemorate the occasion. Instead, my parents named me after a friend of the family and I still appreciate their restraint.

My birthday doesn’t fall on Easter very often. The first time it did, after my birth, I was 11 years old. Something that would be of so little consequence today was apparently somewhat newsworthy back then. The Linden News ran a small article noting the event and I held onto the clipping for years. I also remember my mom called one of the local radio stations about it. I don’t recall which one, but it was one of two - she was an avid listener to both 610 WTVN and 1460 WBNS. I listened as the deejay announced my name, wished me a happy eleventh birthday and played Mom’s request for me: Easter Parade.

I don’t know whether it’s because I was born on the holiday or because my mom loved music and especially that song, but Easter Parade has always had a special place in my heart. I grew up listening to the radio with my mom and she always sang along. I thought she had a wonderful voice. If we weren’t in the kitchen with the radio on, she’d sing a cappella for me on warm evenings as we sat on the side porch steps. From when I was very young, I can remember her singing great songs like Dear Heart, Shine on Harvest Moon and I’m Getting Married in the Morning. As I learned the lyrics, I always sang along. When she sang Easter Parade, though, I knew she was singing it just for me. I’d never before seen an Easter parade, but I could imagine it: Pretty dresses and, of course, frilly Easter bonnets. I didn’t know what a rotogravure was back then, but I knew a photographer would snap my photo and there I would appear in my blue dotted Swiss dress and white straw hat.

It was years before I ever associated the song Easter Parade to the Judy Garland and Fred Astaire movie. Mom was always a Judy Garland fan. In fact, she told me she saw Judy perform at the Ohio Theater when she and my mom were both quite young. Maybe that’s part of the reason mom liked the song so.

I love the scene in the movie when they join the throngs on Fifth Avenue and sing the title song. Judy and Fred do a great job with it but, in my opinion, my mom’s version will always be the best.

When You Get On A Plane

I’m getting on a plane Saturday and heading to Florida for a week
of relaxation with a good friend. Most people would be happy.
Excited even. I just keep thinking: “I’M GETTING ON A PLANE.”

Not that I’m afraid of flying. That’s not quite accurate. If I could actually fly, like Superman, I think I might like it a lot.

But it is completely accurate to say I don’t like planes, and here’s why:

When you get on a plane, they lock you inside and you cannot get off until they say so. You CANNOT. You are at their mercy in plane prison.

When you get on a plane, you notice right away the air inside is wrong. It’s artificial, germ-infested air and I’m pretty sure it’s limited. They try to make you think there’s air aplenty by placing a tiny little blower above your head, but it’s a mere device - a placebo to make you think you might actually have enough air to breathe the entire flight.

When you get on a plane, it’s hot and stuffy, due to wrong air.

When you get on a plane, you sit shoulder to shoulder in tiny little seats next to complete strangers. Complete air-sucking strangers. It’s not bad enough that the seats are too narrow for a wide bottom and there’s not enough leg room for even the shortest legs. No, planes take discomfort to an excrutiating level by strapping you into a seat like that right next to a person YOU DON’T KNOW. (Notice to other flyers: I’m claustrophic and I still request a window seat so I can hug the wall and not have to touch YOU.)

When you get on a plane, you can't drive through McDonalds or stop to read that curious little historic marker by the Shoney's parking lot. Planes actually lift off from the road they are driving on and take you up in the air. Way up. Unnaturally up. Into a totally ashphalt-free and Starbucks-free zone.

I try not to think about it. I hug the wall in my window seat, close the little plastic shade and pretend I’m on a bus.

Christmas with Emily

There's nothing like having an 8 year old around to make the holiday a whole lot merrier - from the time she walked in the door in her new zebra print pajama pants until I heard her snoring in the back seat as I drove her home.

She helped me make pancakes for our annual Christmas breakfast. I needed three eggs cracked into a measuring cup and two out of three actually made it. Joey's trusty dog Rooney helped clean up the raw egg mess. Later in the day, as Joey was pulling hard yellow schmutz off Rooney's head, we wondered what he had gotten into. Then we realized his head must have rubbed against the yolk oozing down the cupboard door as he was gamely licking the floor.

I got Emily a lot of small gifts instead of one large one. Joey always passes out our gifts on Christmas. As he was handing Emily yet another one, he said (referring to me) "I remember when I was her favorite."

Eight of us played a simple card game called Kings. It's a fun, easy game and Emily has mastered the strategy and the art of it. She giggles with delight when she sticks another player with an unwelcome card, she graciously pitches in her quarter when she loses. She wanted so much to win, only to come in second.

Everyone else left mid afternoon, and that gave Emily and I a couple hours alone together. We played the new Pictionary game where you draw on the little plastic man - not all that much fun with two people. Then we made Rice Krispie Treats. Asking an eight year old to pour Rice Krispies into a measuring cup yields approximately the same result as asking her to crack eggs...and the Rooney-vac was gone. Suffice it to say I found a couple kernels of Rice Krispies in my bedroom the following morning.

Thanks to Emily's sophisticated palate, however, I did end up with a valuable recipe tip: Less cereal, more marshmallows.

Bat Shit Crazy X3

1. I just have to say it - every one of my relatives over 40 years old is bat shit crazy. We fall into two categories: those who are on medication and those who ought to be.

2. My boss sits in a cubicle right across the aisle from me. This morning I heard him gasp and say "that can't be happening!" I glanced over to see him peering intently at his computer screen. I asked him what was wrong. My mind was running the gamut from his elderly mother being ill to our ecomm site crashing. But no. He was looking at the Ralph Lauren Rugby site and he thought the sweatshirt that he wanted to buy his DOG was sold out. Think about that. Ralph Lauren for his dog. Bat. Shit. Crazy.

3. A friend of ours who lives in a very nice condo complex has a gay couple for neighbors. They all woke up this morning to DIE FAG MOVE OR DIE spray painted across the outside wall of their homes. What the hell is wrong with people? That's so far beyond bat shit crazy it's scary.

Go Greyhound

I'm trying to plan a trip to Florida in February and I hate to fly. I'm going so far south that driving it in one day isn't feasible. Driving it in two days sucks too much time out of my week of vacation. In desperation, I decided to check out my options at Greyhound. 

They are bad.

However, I found this interesting info about checked baggage. I think it’s safe to say that Greyhound caters to a different audience than the airlines. The red highlights are mine.

Acceptable Types of Baggage

In general, acceptable baggage includes suitcases, duffel bags, toolboxes, trunks and securely tied cardboard boxes. A plastic and/or a paper bag is not acceptable as checked baggage.

Really? What if the bag has handles? And what if I securely tie those handles together? That, my friend, turns my JC Penney shopping bag into luggage.


Prohibited Items for Checked Baggage 

Acids, ammunition, animals, combustible liquids, compressed gases, corpses, cremated remains, explosives, firearms of all types, fireworks, flammable liquids, furniture, hazardous materials (poisons, radioactive materials, etc.), materials with a disagreeable odor, matches, merchandise for resale, protruding articles, or any unsecured articles including those in plastic or paper bags are prohibited

All right, I get it, no plastic or paper bags no matter how nice they are. But wait a minute. I can’t check a corpse? What if it’s in a securely tied cardboard box?

Hmm, no cremated remains either. So much for Plan B.

Thanks, Day 24

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I've had a fun but exhausting day. I'm thankful for all of it, but here are a couple highlights:

Aunt Louise is in town from Cincinnati for the first time in 7 or 8 years. I mentioned in an earlier post what an interesting life she's had and how great her stories are. This morning I picked her up at my cousin's house in Gahanna and drove her to my brother's house in Pataskala. It was nice to have a chance to talk one-on-one. I mentioned the Ohio State/Michigan game was this weekend. She told me when she was young she'd never miss an Ohio State/Michigan game and that her friend was on the faculty at OSU and they consequently had great seats. One year - and granted, this was probably in the 1930's or 1940's - it was so cold and snowy the stadium emptied out before the game ended. The bleachers (her word) were TOTALLY EMPTY except for Louise and her friend, the only true diehard Buckeyes fans who wouldn't leave until the game was over and the Buckeyes won.

That must have been something, that's all I have to say : )

Later in the day at Chrissy and Bryan's, where I had dinner, about 8 of us were playing cards and there was a huge misunderstanding in a conversation between my ex husband and Bryan's mother. It's really too complicated to explain here but it was like watching a very slow, but inevitable, train wreck. My son Joe was at the table playing cards with us and he did his very best to derail it but to no avail. And now, for Joe and I, the cell phone pornography story will forever be a part of our Thanksgiving tradition.

Thanks, Day 23

I'm kind of thankful this all ends tomorrow, aren't you?

I said in the very first post I wasn't going to say I was thankful for my kids because that is a given. I am, though. I spent the day working and laughing with Chrissy. I talked to Joey on the drive home and had the best time. He is so smart and funny. So there you have it. Thankful for my kids. How original.

(but they're such good kids)