I admit it. I’m a mom who doesn’t love Mother’s Day.
Mother’s Day is for the June Cleaver moms, wearing high heels and a pearl necklace to vacuum. Or Carol Brady moms, perkily dispensing wisdom from an orange vinyl kitchenette set. It’s fancy corsages and gourmet brunches for elegant, soft spoken mothers. It is a day to put these homemade -pie baking women on a pedestal and worship them.
Except I’m not one of them. I’m the mom who has been known to let my kids eat ice cream for breakfast. I’m the one driving them to school in my pajamas with bedhead hair blocking the rear view mirror. I’m the mom who forgot about the tooth fairy and had to make up a big story about her having every other Tuesday off. I’ve had PMS-triggered meltdowns over dried Fruity Pebbles adhered to the sink. I’m the one who had to write a note to the teacher explaining ketchup stains on homework. I’m not sure I’m the kind of mom who deserves to be on a pedestal.
I wanted to be. Originally. Way back when this whole thing started. I love babies. One of the great things about babies, besides being soft and cuddly and all that, is that they represent a new beginning, a clean slate, an idealistic start to unlimited possibilities. How many of us dreamed of the wonderful standards we would set when we had one of those darling little bundles of our own? We knew a French fry or a hot dog would never enter their pure little stomachs. We vowed to speak 2 languages consistently to our offspring so she would be fluently bilingual by age 5. And we swore we would never ever ever in a million years be like that frazzled mom in the check out line, giving in and buying candy for her screeching toddler.
Fast forward five years to that same check out line. A childless couple behind you in line is staring at you in horror and disgust. You suddenly and shamefully realize you have become “frazzled mom“. Your cart is littered with icee cups, your son’s face is coated with cotton candy and unwiped nose drippings, and you have just shoved a bag of gummy bears in his hand to keep him quiet. What has happened to you? Idealistic parenting, meet the real world.
Then comes the big day when we celebrate parenthood. Mothers day and Fathers day can be guilty reminders of our own shortcomings …. our past vision of perfection has morphed into our current parental expectations of “Today I hope to make it to lunchtime without losing it.”
It does not mean we are failures as parents if our children know the pizza delivery guy by his first name. We would like to have kept a clean child rearing record from day one, but the truth is, all parents make mistakes. I know of no parent who hasn’t made a threat they had no intention of carrying out, who hasn’t spoken to their precious child in a tone of exasperation, and who has consistently made all the right choices every day.
Our parents made mistakes too, and we turned out all right, didn’t we? (Well, most of us anyway) We’re all still learning and growing., and certainly other imperfect parents have had children who turned out to be decent productive citizens.
Although we hate to tarnish the image our children have of us as all knowing and powerful, they can even learn a lot from our mistakes. This Mother’s day and Father’s day, let’s try to remember 3 ways parenting flaws can be good:
1. If we make mistakes and our children see us own up to the error of our ways, they will learn that it’s OK to admit when you are wrong. That’s a big skill for getting along in the grown up world.
2.Our parenting frustrations give us lots of opportunities to teach our children the value of plugging away at our problems. Our children will see us exercise perseverance, and they will learn from our example not give up or get discouraged--even when we vow, once again, that we are NOT bringing any food or drink in the new car. Does “Yes, I know I said that last month too but this time I really mean it“. sound familiar? We just keep trying.
3. Even witnessing the occasional disagreement can be helpful for our children, if they see two people who respect each other and their opinions. They can see how to discuss differing points of view and arrive at a compromise. We can all probably name names of some one in our grown up world who could still stand to learn those skills!
As imperfect parents, we are modeling how to live in an imperfect world for our children.
All right, so I’m not a Norman Rockwell mom. Please score me on effort, not achievement . I’m just trying to do my job, however inadequate I may be. And even though I hope I’m appreciated 365 days a year, I’ll try not to feel too guilty on the one day they set aside for me. Because of me, my kids will be well versed in dealing with life 101. But this Mother’s Day, I’ll gracefully accept my breakfast in bed (and the accompanying mess in the kitchen) and the endearing home made cards and gifts. I can be an unsung hero.
After all, I am the one who scrubs the toilets.
Dedicated to my mom and dad, who have been ideal parents from day one.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Havasupai Falls, published in the Feb 2008 issue of az3sixty magazine
It has always piqued my curiosity. Listen to anyone who has ever traveled to Havasupai attempt to describe the beauty of the place. All seem unable to find words to express themselves and end up saying, :You just have to see it for yourself. “ I pondered going to a place whose gorgeousness defies description. In my mind, Havasupai began inching its way up on the list of “places I’d like to see before I die”
I recruited a group of girlfriends. We then expanded the plan---How about an empowering mother/teenage daughter “girl power” trip? And so the goal was set--hike Havasupai, mothers, daughters, friends, and a dad or 2 thrown in for safety (and for killing large insects).
Moms, although inexperienced hikers, were easily convinced. Teenage daughters only shrugged and glanced up from their text messaging. But after seeing some pictures of the ethereal beauty of this small branch of the Grand Canyon, the girls agreed.
Calling to reserve a spot on the reservation was quite possibly the second hardest task of the whole trip. (You’ll hear about the hardest part in a minute) I sat hitting redial on the phone for at least 6 hours a day When I finally got through to some one to sign us up for a week of female adventure in paradise, I squealed like an 11 year old calling in to a radio station to win tickets to Hannah Montana.
Preparation
I had visions of the girls (or me!) sitting in the middle of a trail in tears crying, “I can’t go on.” And thus we began our every Saturday training regimen. Like Maria von Trapp, we climbed every mountain… in the metropolitan Phoenix area. We had to make sure our shoes, our packs, and most importantly our quads and glutes were up to the task. For the first time in my life, I spent more money at the sporting goods store instead of the department store.
Packing
More daunting than the physical fitness required, was the task for us high maintenance females to try to live on as a little as possible for 4 days. After all, you really have to want something badly to make it worth carrying 22 miles. Or, ahem, I should say, paying lots of money to have a mule carry it 22 miles for you, which is what we ended up doing. The girls worried about being without their precious flatirons, but we assured them that we moms would also be sacrificing by going without make up, and it was all part of the outdoor experience.
Planning
We filled duffel bags with dehydrated food and our daughters naively asked, wouldn’t it be easier to just order pizza when we get there? Little do they know this is the only place in the United States that still has its mail delivered by mule. I’m pretty sure they don’t have any pizza delivering mules. Glad we didn’t count on Domino’s.
The pre-trip binge
One of the most anticipated events for us perpetual dieters was the evening of carb-loading the night before the hike. Nothing tastes as good as guilt free pasta and breadsticks.
Getting there
In order to begin an early morning out of the heat hike, your choices are: drive all night (moms too old and cranky for that) sleep in the car in an impossibly crowded parking lot on top of the hill (not enough bathrooms for a bunch of females), or stay in the nearest motel, an hour away in Peach Springs. We opted for the indoor plumbing. And as we laid out our gear for our early morning departure in or hotel room, it seemed like a dream. Months of preparation and here we were.
The hike
We moms gave the daughters a big pep talk about how “you are capable of anything you set your mind to and don’t ever forget that in life--you are tough and independent and you can accomplish whatever you want on your own two feet.” and so they did it, hiked all the way down talking of goals and girl power, 11 miles, tough as nails.
The campsite
About 30 seconds within reaching our campsite, however, “I am woman, hear me roar,” is replaced by “Oh my gosh there is a troop of HOT boys scouts camped right next to us! (squeal) This is going to be the best trip ever (giggle) but now I can’t get my hair wet cause it might get all frizzy! (gasp)”
So not only were we surrounded by natural beauty that cannot even be accurately described in our limited English language, our own natural female beauty was suddenly of utmost importance. The wonders of several boy scout troops nearby were much more alluring than mother nature.
We more mature moms, of course, didn’t chase after the boys. We opted to duck and dodge to avoid being seen by the scouts (and their cute leaders) due to our embarrassing lack of makeup.
Our campsite was really just a picnic table with a few patches of grass and trees, but it seemed to be prime real estate since we had a rope swing near the shore of the crystal clear aquamarine river, thus attracting even more Boy Scouts, The girls jumped right in with their clothes on, while we women anxiously awaited the mules, carrying our food and clothing. The hours tick by. Stomachs start grumbling and we devour the last few crumbly granola bars in our packs, and wait for our mules. As the sun sets, we hear the clop clop of mule feet and have never been so happy I could have kissed their sweaty fly-infested faces. We slept under the stars, grateful to have our sleeping bags, and hardly believing we were really there.
The next day we explored all three falls. If Disney set out to create a theme park ride with large waterfalls, they could never have duplicated what Mother Nature already did. Shallow pools for wading. Rock bridges for climbing, hanging green vines for a pirates of the Caribbean effect. Red rock walls contrasted to clear blue green water. It felt like a dream, or another planet , or a mountain dew commercial
Now it’s time to discuss the number one hardship in paradise. Skip this paragraph if you’re eating right now. In sharp contrast to the most beautiful place on earth, the port a johns were absolutely the most disgusting sights in the history of the world. I dare you to find something more foul , horrid and nauseating. Waste was literally heaping out over the tops of the toilet seats. We tied bandannas around our faces bandit-style way to walk by. We had girls in tears because they had to go so bad but were terrified of what we nicknamed “the evil potties of death.” If there had been a private bush or 2, we would have gladly squatted, but there were an awful lot of boy scouts around and not much privacy.
We did desperately wish for a video camera so we could hide out by the door to the port a johns and film the expressions on peoples faces as they opened the door and caught sight of the,,,you know. We would have won the grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos with some of the reactions we saw people have. Gagging, dancing around holding their noses and stomachs, snapping their spine as they turned sharply to bolt from the smell. I would have donated my funniest video winnings towards the installation of better facilities.
So it was with mixed emotions we arose at 1am to hike out. Loved the falls, couldn’t wait for a toilet that flushed! One o’clock may have been a fairly insane time to get up, but we had determined that while hiking, the sun was not our friend, so we chose to fumble around in the dark. We only get lost once, and it was a man leading the way! And no, he wouldn’t stop and ask for directions. But to his credit he got us right back on track quickly.
When we began the final switchbacks up to the top, the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon. Every single girl and mom made it out on her own, no helicopter rescues necessary, thank you very much. As I climbed the last few yards with my daughter by my side, it was almost emotional to think of what we had accomplished physically and mentally together. We may forget the cuteness of the Boy Scouts and the stench of the latrines, but we will always treasure the memories of mom and daughter at the most indescribably stuning and exquisite place on earth,
I recruited a group of girlfriends. We then expanded the plan---How about an empowering mother/teenage daughter “girl power” trip? And so the goal was set--hike Havasupai, mothers, daughters, friends, and a dad or 2 thrown in for safety (and for killing large insects).
Moms, although inexperienced hikers, were easily convinced. Teenage daughters only shrugged and glanced up from their text messaging. But after seeing some pictures of the ethereal beauty of this small branch of the Grand Canyon, the girls agreed.
Calling to reserve a spot on the reservation was quite possibly the second hardest task of the whole trip. (You’ll hear about the hardest part in a minute) I sat hitting redial on the phone for at least 6 hours a day When I finally got through to some one to sign us up for a week of female adventure in paradise, I squealed like an 11 year old calling in to a radio station to win tickets to Hannah Montana.
Preparation
I had visions of the girls (or me!) sitting in the middle of a trail in tears crying, “I can’t go on.” And thus we began our every Saturday training regimen. Like Maria von Trapp, we climbed every mountain… in the metropolitan Phoenix area. We had to make sure our shoes, our packs, and most importantly our quads and glutes were up to the task. For the first time in my life, I spent more money at the sporting goods store instead of the department store.
Packing
More daunting than the physical fitness required, was the task for us high maintenance females to try to live on as a little as possible for 4 days. After all, you really have to want something badly to make it worth carrying 22 miles. Or, ahem, I should say, paying lots of money to have a mule carry it 22 miles for you, which is what we ended up doing. The girls worried about being without their precious flatirons, but we assured them that we moms would also be sacrificing by going without make up, and it was all part of the outdoor experience.
Planning
We filled duffel bags with dehydrated food and our daughters naively asked, wouldn’t it be easier to just order pizza when we get there? Little do they know this is the only place in the United States that still has its mail delivered by mule. I’m pretty sure they don’t have any pizza delivering mules. Glad we didn’t count on Domino’s.
The pre-trip binge
One of the most anticipated events for us perpetual dieters was the evening of carb-loading the night before the hike. Nothing tastes as good as guilt free pasta and breadsticks.
Getting there
In order to begin an early morning out of the heat hike, your choices are: drive all night (moms too old and cranky for that) sleep in the car in an impossibly crowded parking lot on top of the hill (not enough bathrooms for a bunch of females), or stay in the nearest motel, an hour away in Peach Springs. We opted for the indoor plumbing. And as we laid out our gear for our early morning departure in or hotel room, it seemed like a dream. Months of preparation and here we were.
The hike
We moms gave the daughters a big pep talk about how “you are capable of anything you set your mind to and don’t ever forget that in life--you are tough and independent and you can accomplish whatever you want on your own two feet.” and so they did it, hiked all the way down talking of goals and girl power, 11 miles, tough as nails.
The campsite
About 30 seconds within reaching our campsite, however, “I am woman, hear me roar,” is replaced by “Oh my gosh there is a troop of HOT boys scouts camped right next to us! (squeal) This is going to be the best trip ever (giggle) but now I can’t get my hair wet cause it might get all frizzy! (gasp)”
So not only were we surrounded by natural beauty that cannot even be accurately described in our limited English language, our own natural female beauty was suddenly of utmost importance. The wonders of several boy scout troops nearby were much more alluring than mother nature.
We more mature moms, of course, didn’t chase after the boys. We opted to duck and dodge to avoid being seen by the scouts (and their cute leaders) due to our embarrassing lack of makeup.
Our campsite was really just a picnic table with a few patches of grass and trees, but it seemed to be prime real estate since we had a rope swing near the shore of the crystal clear aquamarine river, thus attracting even more Boy Scouts, The girls jumped right in with their clothes on, while we women anxiously awaited the mules, carrying our food and clothing. The hours tick by. Stomachs start grumbling and we devour the last few crumbly granola bars in our packs, and wait for our mules. As the sun sets, we hear the clop clop of mule feet and have never been so happy I could have kissed their sweaty fly-infested faces. We slept under the stars, grateful to have our sleeping bags, and hardly believing we were really there.
The next day we explored all three falls. If Disney set out to create a theme park ride with large waterfalls, they could never have duplicated what Mother Nature already did. Shallow pools for wading. Rock bridges for climbing, hanging green vines for a pirates of the Caribbean effect. Red rock walls contrasted to clear blue green water. It felt like a dream, or another planet , or a mountain dew commercial
Now it’s time to discuss the number one hardship in paradise. Skip this paragraph if you’re eating right now. In sharp contrast to the most beautiful place on earth, the port a johns were absolutely the most disgusting sights in the history of the world. I dare you to find something more foul , horrid and nauseating. Waste was literally heaping out over the tops of the toilet seats. We tied bandannas around our faces bandit-style way to walk by. We had girls in tears because they had to go so bad but were terrified of what we nicknamed “the evil potties of death.” If there had been a private bush or 2, we would have gladly squatted, but there were an awful lot of boy scouts around and not much privacy.
We did desperately wish for a video camera so we could hide out by the door to the port a johns and film the expressions on peoples faces as they opened the door and caught sight of the,,,you know. We would have won the grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos with some of the reactions we saw people have. Gagging, dancing around holding their noses and stomachs, snapping their spine as they turned sharply to bolt from the smell. I would have donated my funniest video winnings towards the installation of better facilities.
So it was with mixed emotions we arose at 1am to hike out. Loved the falls, couldn’t wait for a toilet that flushed! One o’clock may have been a fairly insane time to get up, but we had determined that while hiking, the sun was not our friend, so we chose to fumble around in the dark. We only get lost once, and it was a man leading the way! And no, he wouldn’t stop and ask for directions. But to his credit he got us right back on track quickly.
When we began the final switchbacks up to the top, the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon. Every single girl and mom made it out on her own, no helicopter rescues necessary, thank you very much. As I climbed the last few yards with my daughter by my side, it was almost emotional to think of what we had accomplished physically and mentally together. We may forget the cuteness of the Boy Scouts and the stench of the latrines, but we will always treasure the memories of mom and daughter at the most indescribably stuning and exquisite place on earth,
Wanted: Mr. FixIt, published in Aug 2007 az3sixty magazine
I love going to look at model homes. I am captivated by their fantasy life-- If I lived there, I would have a spacious master closet containing only a green plant and a hat box. The kitchen table would always be set with trendy dishes and junk mail wouldn‘t be reproducing in piles. The beds would always be made with dozens of cute throw pillows, no initials would be carved into the dining room table, and--most importantly-- everything would work! No doors sticking, no faucets dripping, no spots on the carpet covered by throw rugs. Sigh… wouldn’t it be wonderful?
I want to abandon my old broken down house and embrace a new easy life in a model home. The reason we don’t is because there are too many things to fix in our old house! Sometimes I try to make a repair list (because making a list is much easier than actually doing any real work) but it becomes too overwhelming after the first 16 pages. I dream of a home that needs no repair.
But back in reality, I think I need to hire some one to be my own personal home maintenance engineer. The job description is simple--deal with all the annoying broken house stuff so I don’t have to. I just want everything to work all the time with no effort on my part. Some one else can figure out why the pool is green, get the Christmas lights to work, change all those pesky filters, and unclog the drains. Surely such a job exists, c’mon, you think movie stars change their own light bulbs? I’m sure the rich and famous have never had to tell a house guest, “ Just jiggle the handle after you flush.”
Some people have spouses who fix things, but shortly after our honeymoon my husband brought home a handyman flier he picked up at the car wash. I knew then he was not going to be my home rescue guy. Personally, I may have a Master’s degree but when it comes to being handy and figuring out how to fix things, I have a severe learning disability. Going to a home store makes me break out in hives. People in orange aprons frighten me.
So we agreed that in our home, since we don’t excel at fixing things, we have to make enough money to pay some one else to do it. I think I need a second job. I wish we could find some one whose sole joy and purpose in life is to make sure we are never frustrated by all those little home emergencies and other natural disasters.
For instance, my desert dwelling house apparently can’t handle more than a inch of rain. Every monsoon we discover a new place where the roof leaks or basement floods. One freeze last winter caused at least a half dozen burst pipes. Ever tried calling a plumber or a roofer the day after a big storm? That’s why I need my own full time person who will respond quickly to my cries of, “Help! There‘s water everywhere and I don‘t know what to do!”
Here’s a fun house problem to solve. We have Bermuda grass growing up through the carpet by a bedroom window. I swear, it’s true! I’ve never seen anything like it. I hope my fantasy employee will figure out how to deal with it.
In the past year, there has been lots of mourning and grieving among our household mechanical family--may all the following rest in peace: the freezer, the pool pump, the car transmission, the lawnmower, the computer, and the dishwasher.
I even admit to causing some of our home disasters. My brain must have been in shock after paying for funeral expenses for all our dearly departed appliances, because I had an unfortunate incident with the weed whacker and the hi-speed internet line, and after that I rolled a 10 lb exercise ball down the stairs right into the drywall.
Speaking of the wall at the bottom of the stairs, that is a primary kid damage zone. It really ought to have a mattress mounted on it vertically. A cousin’s head holds the record for the most damage to the wall, (miraculously the cousin was OK), but frequently the holes are caused by the kids creating their own amusement park ride. They fill a cardboard box with pillows, then take turns pushing each other down the stairs while sitting in the box.
In fact, a large majority of our home repair grievances are child-caused. Once, after numerous plungers, snakes and bottles of drano had been unable to unclog our toilet , a smart but expensive plumber finally found the cause--a plastic dinosaur permanently lodged in the swirly part, and it would not budge. We finally had to buy a new toilet.
One Christmas morning a new light saber caused the demise of the hanging light in our entryway. Our weight machine has become useless after all the pulleys and cables were dismantled and made into places to hang blankets for an indoor fort. But my all time least favorite kid-caused event is picking aquarium fish gravel, one piece at a time, out of the disposal. Dream handyman, will you come save me?
Teenagers are also dangerous. My two testosterone-filled 14 year old boys got into a so-you-think-you’re-tougher-than-me shoving match and my now shattered stair banister was the loser. The window screens in the teenagers rooms also keep mysteriously coming off. Memo to teens: mom and dad weren’t born yesterday, we know all about the sneaking out.
Got pets? At our house, you can tell by looking at the doggy tooth marks on the back door, the outdoor a/c unit, the satellite TV cable and several sprinkler heads. By the way, did you know there is actually a store called Sprinkler World? Yes, I was forced to discover this against my will. Nice, but I really want some one else to run my Sprinkler World errands in the future.
I want to move to a home that is self-repairing, and self-cleaning too, hey, might as well dream big. But I suppose even model homes eventually have something break. So if you have ever wondered what women really fantasize about, I’ll tell you, it is having everything in the house work all the time; either that, or a full time fix-it guy who looks like Brad Pitt.
I want to abandon my old broken down house and embrace a new easy life in a model home. The reason we don’t is because there are too many things to fix in our old house! Sometimes I try to make a repair list (because making a list is much easier than actually doing any real work) but it becomes too overwhelming after the first 16 pages. I dream of a home that needs no repair.
But back in reality, I think I need to hire some one to be my own personal home maintenance engineer. The job description is simple--deal with all the annoying broken house stuff so I don’t have to. I just want everything to work all the time with no effort on my part. Some one else can figure out why the pool is green, get the Christmas lights to work, change all those pesky filters, and unclog the drains. Surely such a job exists, c’mon, you think movie stars change their own light bulbs? I’m sure the rich and famous have never had to tell a house guest, “ Just jiggle the handle after you flush.”
Some people have spouses who fix things, but shortly after our honeymoon my husband brought home a handyman flier he picked up at the car wash. I knew then he was not going to be my home rescue guy. Personally, I may have a Master’s degree but when it comes to being handy and figuring out how to fix things, I have a severe learning disability. Going to a home store makes me break out in hives. People in orange aprons frighten me.
So we agreed that in our home, since we don’t excel at fixing things, we have to make enough money to pay some one else to do it. I think I need a second job. I wish we could find some one whose sole joy and purpose in life is to make sure we are never frustrated by all those little home emergencies and other natural disasters.
For instance, my desert dwelling house apparently can’t handle more than a inch of rain. Every monsoon we discover a new place where the roof leaks or basement floods. One freeze last winter caused at least a half dozen burst pipes. Ever tried calling a plumber or a roofer the day after a big storm? That’s why I need my own full time person who will respond quickly to my cries of, “Help! There‘s water everywhere and I don‘t know what to do!”
Here’s a fun house problem to solve. We have Bermuda grass growing up through the carpet by a bedroom window. I swear, it’s true! I’ve never seen anything like it. I hope my fantasy employee will figure out how to deal with it.
In the past year, there has been lots of mourning and grieving among our household mechanical family--may all the following rest in peace: the freezer, the pool pump, the car transmission, the lawnmower, the computer, and the dishwasher.
I even admit to causing some of our home disasters. My brain must have been in shock after paying for funeral expenses for all our dearly departed appliances, because I had an unfortunate incident with the weed whacker and the hi-speed internet line, and after that I rolled a 10 lb exercise ball down the stairs right into the drywall.
Speaking of the wall at the bottom of the stairs, that is a primary kid damage zone. It really ought to have a mattress mounted on it vertically. A cousin’s head holds the record for the most damage to the wall, (miraculously the cousin was OK), but frequently the holes are caused by the kids creating their own amusement park ride. They fill a cardboard box with pillows, then take turns pushing each other down the stairs while sitting in the box.
In fact, a large majority of our home repair grievances are child-caused. Once, after numerous plungers, snakes and bottles of drano had been unable to unclog our toilet , a smart but expensive plumber finally found the cause--a plastic dinosaur permanently lodged in the swirly part, and it would not budge. We finally had to buy a new toilet.
One Christmas morning a new light saber caused the demise of the hanging light in our entryway. Our weight machine has become useless after all the pulleys and cables were dismantled and made into places to hang blankets for an indoor fort. But my all time least favorite kid-caused event is picking aquarium fish gravel, one piece at a time, out of the disposal. Dream handyman, will you come save me?
Teenagers are also dangerous. My two testosterone-filled 14 year old boys got into a so-you-think-you’re-tougher-than-me shoving match and my now shattered stair banister was the loser. The window screens in the teenagers rooms also keep mysteriously coming off. Memo to teens: mom and dad weren’t born yesterday, we know all about the sneaking out.
Got pets? At our house, you can tell by looking at the doggy tooth marks on the back door, the outdoor a/c unit, the satellite TV cable and several sprinkler heads. By the way, did you know there is actually a store called Sprinkler World? Yes, I was forced to discover this against my will. Nice, but I really want some one else to run my Sprinkler World errands in the future.
I want to move to a home that is self-repairing, and self-cleaning too, hey, might as well dream big. But I suppose even model homes eventually have something break. So if you have ever wondered what women really fantasize about, I’ll tell you, it is having everything in the house work all the time; either that, or a full time fix-it guy who looks like Brad Pitt.
The Weight Loss Enigma, published in the May/June 2007 az3sixty magazine
Today I am going to discuss a great unsolved mystery of the universe. I’m not going to solve it, mind you, but I am going to elaborate on the mysteriousness of this particular mystery.
Is it just me or is anyone else out there completely flabbergasted by flab? Losing weight is an American pastime. We’re collectively obsessed with it. There are gazillions of theories, studies, plans and quick fixes, yet the mystery remains unsolved. The great questions of diet, exercise and weight loss-- I’m not sure there is an answer. Nothing makes sense and definitely nothing works in your favor. It happily works against you, though.
Skeptics will say, “Duh! Eat less calories than you burn.” But I believe the secret is a much more complicated algebraic formula than I can comprehend. Either that or there are evil supernatural powers at work. So I won’t solve it , but here are some dilemmas to ponder.
Consider these mathematical inconsistencies: I gave birth to 12 lbs of baby , hopped off the delivery table and dashed to the nearest scale, hoping for some good news. I lost 10 lbs. My two (very cute, by the way) six pound babies were laying in their bassinets and my body only registered a 10 pound loss.
Another common situation: A woman and her husband go on the same diet. He loses 30 lbs in a month, she loses two. It happens all the time. You see an overweight person nibbling on a salad while their super skinny dining companion scarfs down a cheeseburger, fries and a shake.
Or try to figure out the math on this one. A 250 calorie candy bar causes a 5 lb weight gain overnight. But to lose those 5 lbs-- you are sentenced to at least a month of near starvation. Easy to get on, grueling to get off. Math was never my strong subject, but something here doesn’t add up.
My favorite unsolvable equation is another personal experience. I once spent months diligently entering every thing I ate and every minute of exercise I did into a computer program. It calculated calories burned vs. calories eaten, and displayed a lovely graph with a sloping line showing the weight I should be losing, IN THEORY. However, the REAL weight on the scale did not even budge a pound, even though the computer’s numbers proved that I should have lost 12 lbs. I cannot figure out that one. Maybe wicked gremlins are sneaking into my room at night and stuffing me full of hot fudge sundaes while I’m sleeping.
I am sure I am not the only one with this kind of unexplained phenomenon in my life.
Here’s another mathematical enigma. Fitness magazine math. The promises…do these 10 quick and easy steps and lose pound after pound. Just quit buttering your toast and that will amount to losing 10 lbs a year! Switch to skim milk, another 7 lbs over the course of a year. Dressing on the side, 11 lbs. Hold the soda, another 12.5 lbs. If I follow all their promises, my weight should easily be into negative numbers by the end of the year! Is that theoretically possible?
Exercise is no better. They preach that if you reach a weight loss plateau, you have to blast through it. Your body adapts so change it up, trick your body by doing something different. Your body is used to running 2 miles a day. So run 3 and cut back 100 calories. New plateau. OK, Eat less, work out more. According to this line of math, by the end of our lives, our very adaptable bodies will be eating one leaf of lettuce and running a marathon daily just to maintain our current weight.
Those weight loss success stories you read about mystify me too. I study the before and after pictures in all the weight loss ads because I want to know how they compare, what they are doing differently from me. Well, the first thing they tell is the story of how one day they saw a picture of themselves at their old weight, and they were so DISGUSTED. They couldn’t believe how grossly horribly repulsive they were. And I’m thinking, oh thanks a lot, from all of us who currently weigh your old disgusting weight.
Then, in the after picture, they weigh less than a third grader and now they are all smiles. So what was the magic cure? They all pretty much say the same thing. “Oh, I eat grilled fish and vegetables for dinner, a salad for lunch, and oatmeal with fruit and skim milk for breakfast. I go to the gym 3 times a week and drink lots of water.” Then I just want to scream, oh yeah, well I do all that too, buddy! (except the fish part-tofu for me, I’m a vegetarian) So I already live their newfound healthy lifestyle and yet and the pounds melt off of them, not me. It’s a paranormal experience.
Maybe it’s a food conspiracy theory. Some one’s trying to get everyone fat so the health industry gets rich taking care of our overweight bodies. And make us addicted to food so we’ll keep buying more and make the food industry rich. And we certainly shouldn’t all lose the weight and keep it off cause then what would all the diet authors and weight loss companies do?
Perhaps, more likely, our bodies have a wacky sense of humor. They are determined to stubbornly hang on to every pound just to irritate us. For years, I went to the same step aerobics class at the same gym with the same women. You’d think with all this exhilarating exercise, some of us would start looking all toned and buff. Nope, year after year we all looked pretty much the same. Our bodies said, “Hee hee! Don’t think you can win here--I’m the boss and I say the cellulite stays! “ So I got a personal trainer who kicked my butt and my body just said, “ Whatever. Nice try. Not budging. Jeans still tight.”
I gave up soda, white everything, and fried everything, and my body said, “You may feel healthier but I will never let you become Nicole Richie’s size.” So I tried a juice fast and I could almost hear my body laughing, “Ha! You think that little trick is going to make me let some of this fat go? Think again, sister, it’s gonna take more than a little fasting for me to let you burn any extra padding.” The current score is: My fat, a lot. Me, zero. The pounds are winning.
So where does this leave me? Certainly not in a size 2. I’m just here to ask the big question, how in the heck do you explain all this? Forget Bigfoot and UFOs, we have a much bigger mystery on our hands, one that won’t be solved when Fred and Shaggy unmask the bandit. I’m pretty sure I didn’t progress towards solving anything in the universe today. Wish I could have wrapped the answer up all nicely with a big bow on top and given it to you. If you solve it, please let me know. I’ll be on the treadmill nibbling my carrot sticks.
Is it just me or is anyone else out there completely flabbergasted by flab? Losing weight is an American pastime. We’re collectively obsessed with it. There are gazillions of theories, studies, plans and quick fixes, yet the mystery remains unsolved. The great questions of diet, exercise and weight loss-- I’m not sure there is an answer. Nothing makes sense and definitely nothing works in your favor. It happily works against you, though.
Skeptics will say, “Duh! Eat less calories than you burn.” But I believe the secret is a much more complicated algebraic formula than I can comprehend. Either that or there are evil supernatural powers at work. So I won’t solve it , but here are some dilemmas to ponder.
Consider these mathematical inconsistencies: I gave birth to 12 lbs of baby , hopped off the delivery table and dashed to the nearest scale, hoping for some good news. I lost 10 lbs. My two (very cute, by the way) six pound babies were laying in their bassinets and my body only registered a 10 pound loss.
Another common situation: A woman and her husband go on the same diet. He loses 30 lbs in a month, she loses two. It happens all the time. You see an overweight person nibbling on a salad while their super skinny dining companion scarfs down a cheeseburger, fries and a shake.
Or try to figure out the math on this one. A 250 calorie candy bar causes a 5 lb weight gain overnight. But to lose those 5 lbs-- you are sentenced to at least a month of near starvation. Easy to get on, grueling to get off. Math was never my strong subject, but something here doesn’t add up.
My favorite unsolvable equation is another personal experience. I once spent months diligently entering every thing I ate and every minute of exercise I did into a computer program. It calculated calories burned vs. calories eaten, and displayed a lovely graph with a sloping line showing the weight I should be losing, IN THEORY. However, the REAL weight on the scale did not even budge a pound, even though the computer’s numbers proved that I should have lost 12 lbs. I cannot figure out that one. Maybe wicked gremlins are sneaking into my room at night and stuffing me full of hot fudge sundaes while I’m sleeping.
I am sure I am not the only one with this kind of unexplained phenomenon in my life.
Here’s another mathematical enigma. Fitness magazine math. The promises…do these 10 quick and easy steps and lose pound after pound. Just quit buttering your toast and that will amount to losing 10 lbs a year! Switch to skim milk, another 7 lbs over the course of a year. Dressing on the side, 11 lbs. Hold the soda, another 12.5 lbs. If I follow all their promises, my weight should easily be into negative numbers by the end of the year! Is that theoretically possible?
Exercise is no better. They preach that if you reach a weight loss plateau, you have to blast through it. Your body adapts so change it up, trick your body by doing something different. Your body is used to running 2 miles a day. So run 3 and cut back 100 calories. New plateau. OK, Eat less, work out more. According to this line of math, by the end of our lives, our very adaptable bodies will be eating one leaf of lettuce and running a marathon daily just to maintain our current weight.
Those weight loss success stories you read about mystify me too. I study the before and after pictures in all the weight loss ads because I want to know how they compare, what they are doing differently from me. Well, the first thing they tell is the story of how one day they saw a picture of themselves at their old weight, and they were so DISGUSTED. They couldn’t believe how grossly horribly repulsive they were. And I’m thinking, oh thanks a lot, from all of us who currently weigh your old disgusting weight.
Then, in the after picture, they weigh less than a third grader and now they are all smiles. So what was the magic cure? They all pretty much say the same thing. “Oh, I eat grilled fish and vegetables for dinner, a salad for lunch, and oatmeal with fruit and skim milk for breakfast. I go to the gym 3 times a week and drink lots of water.” Then I just want to scream, oh yeah, well I do all that too, buddy! (except the fish part-tofu for me, I’m a vegetarian) So I already live their newfound healthy lifestyle and yet and the pounds melt off of them, not me. It’s a paranormal experience.
Maybe it’s a food conspiracy theory. Some one’s trying to get everyone fat so the health industry gets rich taking care of our overweight bodies. And make us addicted to food so we’ll keep buying more and make the food industry rich. And we certainly shouldn’t all lose the weight and keep it off cause then what would all the diet authors and weight loss companies do?
Perhaps, more likely, our bodies have a wacky sense of humor. They are determined to stubbornly hang on to every pound just to irritate us. For years, I went to the same step aerobics class at the same gym with the same women. You’d think with all this exhilarating exercise, some of us would start looking all toned and buff. Nope, year after year we all looked pretty much the same. Our bodies said, “Hee hee! Don’t think you can win here--I’m the boss and I say the cellulite stays! “ So I got a personal trainer who kicked my butt and my body just said, “ Whatever. Nice try. Not budging. Jeans still tight.”
I gave up soda, white everything, and fried everything, and my body said, “You may feel healthier but I will never let you become Nicole Richie’s size.” So I tried a juice fast and I could almost hear my body laughing, “Ha! You think that little trick is going to make me let some of this fat go? Think again, sister, it’s gonna take more than a little fasting for me to let you burn any extra padding.” The current score is: My fat, a lot. Me, zero. The pounds are winning.
So where does this leave me? Certainly not in a size 2. I’m just here to ask the big question, how in the heck do you explain all this? Forget Bigfoot and UFOs, we have a much bigger mystery on our hands, one that won’t be solved when Fred and Shaggy unmask the bandit. I’m pretty sure I didn’t progress towards solving anything in the universe today. Wish I could have wrapped the answer up all nicely with a big bow on top and given it to you. If you solve it, please let me know. I’ll be on the treadmill nibbling my carrot sticks.
Warning: Travel Hazard, published in Jan/Feb 2007 az3sixty magazine
I have discovered a new type of vacation, one that might suit “extreme” enthusiasts. It is not for the faint of heart, so please, do not attempt until you have a complete physical examination by your doctor. Then perhaps you will be strong enough to tackle the ultimate in travel adventure---taking your teenagers on a family trip.
When the kids were younger, it was simple. “Kids, we’re leaving tomorrow morning to drive to Grandma’s. Pack your gameboy.” And they did. But now that we have a daughter in high school and two sons in junior high, they suddenly seem to think they have a choice in the matter. The immediate response is always, “But I don’t want to go. Can’t I stay here?”
There seems to be three stages of denial. First, the arguments, “It’s boring, there’s no one my age, I hate sitting in the car that long, and I’m going to become a hopeless social outcast if I am separated from my friends for more than 12 hours.” My kids will even go out and apply for a job so they can claim they have to stay home and work.
Next, they start trying to convince you that really, they could stay home alone. “We’ll be extra good and not have any friends. We just need money to order pizza.“ Unfortunately for my offspring, my husband and I were not born yesterday.
Finally, the ultimatums start. “You can’t make me go. I’ll stay at my friend‘s house.” Then, eventually, they progress to “You will live to regret the day you forced me to go on this stupid trip! If I have to go against my will, I will spend the entire trip making sure you and everyone else in the family is completely miserable.”
And they keep that vow. I miss the old days when they sweetly thought standing on Four Corners was the ultimate thrill. Now that they are teenagers, we could tell them we were hopping on the space shuttle and they would roll their eyes and say, “How lame. All our friends go on cool vacations. Why don’t we ever do anything good?”
In all fairness, I am getting major payback for everything I did to my parents. I am a recipient of the parent curse…“Someday when you grow up and have kids of your own, I hope they act just like you.” I remember trying all sorts of methods to get out of vacations with my family. My mom’s trump card was the dead grandma guilt card. “Your Grandmother isn’t getting any younger and this might be the last time you see her.” Granny didn‘t pass away until I was 30.
However, in a bold move, I decide to test the curse. We plan a trip to a cozy mountain cabin for a long weekend. Sure enough, my teens turn evil on me. After the standard arguments, in a very passive aggressive move, the boys do not pack any socks or underwear. Their strategy must have been to smell so badly that we would gladly abandon them at a gas station. A trip to Wal-Mart remedies that situation.
Despite their alleged maturity in their desire to stay home alone, the adolescents regress back to age 4 when it comes to seating arrangements in the car. Every departure is marred by knock-down-drag-out fights over who gets which seat. Not only that, but somehow they still manage to fight over DVDs, headphones, and who will share their ipod because some one didn’t charge theirs the night before! I thought all the media would be a great improvement over my cassette and walkman days in the back of the station wagon, but my children are world record holders at turning any tiny thing into an epic battle.
Deciding where to stop for lunch is an even bigger disaster. It used to be dad would pull off the highway and we would get to choose a hamburger or a cheeseburger. Now it’s,” I’m in the mood for Chinese. No, that doesn’t sound good at all. How about Mexican? But I’m craving fries. No, I want pizza!” Often, we have to find a corner that has 3 different fast food places within walking distance and send them all their own separate ways.
So we get to our cozy mountain retreat and each kid immediately stakes out his or her territory. “ My room, my couch, my time for the bathroom. “ They still almost come to blows over what to watch on TV. They fight over the computer. They declare the other siblings impossibly annoying and lay around with lots of heavy sighs.
I optimistically suggest an old fashioned board game. My archaic request only brings on groans and rolled eyes. I decide to ignore them, but get out the game and begin setting it up. I recruit Dad and our not-yet-hormonal 8 year old daughter to join me. As we begin laughing and having fun, I soon notice the teens hanging back, looking over our shoulders, watching what we are doing. One finally breaks down and asks, “Can I play when you start the next round?”
I hesitate just a moment for dramatic effect…. “Welllll, I guess we can let you in.” I add with faux reluctance , “As long as we’re going to have to deal the cards out again, does anyone else want to join?” Sure enough, they all do. We play the game, and they want to play again! We end up giggling and joking together, having a great time and learning things about each other we never knew. My son harbors a secret desire to play the bagpipes? My daughter thinks I’M the moody one? Who knew ?
The best mom moment is hearing my kids be nice to each other . They act like they actually enjoy the family. My teenagers are laughing at jokes and encouraging each other in the game!
Their guard is down and now they can enjoy the trip. Their tough facade is cracked. They talk to us about kids they know, politics, movies. My daughter and I bond over a rented chick flick. The boys, a pay per view fight. For a few days, we all like each other without reservation. My teenagers are animated instead of sulking and stewing. They drop their carefully crafted “cool” image, and act like themselves,--the way they used to be when they were sweet and little. They play together.
When they’re my age, I hope they sit around with each other and swap stories about those crazy family trips, just like I do with my brothers now. Our favorite story is the time the station wagon got stuck in the snow when we had to pull over because brother #2 couldn’t hold it until the next facilities!
Money can’t buy memories like that. We had to drag our teenagers away from their friends and their sophisticated image to re-discover their original personalities --before hormones turned them into these alien creatures. So it took a little verbal coercion and reverse psychology. It was worth it. I hope their favorite story will be the time we played games at the cabin and the winning game question was, “Which person at the table is most likely to wind up in a prison uniform?” It was unanimous--brother#2. Family traditions for the next generation!
When the kids were younger, it was simple. “Kids, we’re leaving tomorrow morning to drive to Grandma’s. Pack your gameboy.” And they did. But now that we have a daughter in high school and two sons in junior high, they suddenly seem to think they have a choice in the matter. The immediate response is always, “But I don’t want to go. Can’t I stay here?”
There seems to be three stages of denial. First, the arguments, “It’s boring, there’s no one my age, I hate sitting in the car that long, and I’m going to become a hopeless social outcast if I am separated from my friends for more than 12 hours.” My kids will even go out and apply for a job so they can claim they have to stay home and work.
Next, they start trying to convince you that really, they could stay home alone. “We’ll be extra good and not have any friends. We just need money to order pizza.“ Unfortunately for my offspring, my husband and I were not born yesterday.
Finally, the ultimatums start. “You can’t make me go. I’ll stay at my friend‘s house.” Then, eventually, they progress to “You will live to regret the day you forced me to go on this stupid trip! If I have to go against my will, I will spend the entire trip making sure you and everyone else in the family is completely miserable.”
And they keep that vow. I miss the old days when they sweetly thought standing on Four Corners was the ultimate thrill. Now that they are teenagers, we could tell them we were hopping on the space shuttle and they would roll their eyes and say, “How lame. All our friends go on cool vacations. Why don’t we ever do anything good?”
In all fairness, I am getting major payback for everything I did to my parents. I am a recipient of the parent curse…“Someday when you grow up and have kids of your own, I hope they act just like you.” I remember trying all sorts of methods to get out of vacations with my family. My mom’s trump card was the dead grandma guilt card. “Your Grandmother isn’t getting any younger and this might be the last time you see her.” Granny didn‘t pass away until I was 30.
However, in a bold move, I decide to test the curse. We plan a trip to a cozy mountain cabin for a long weekend. Sure enough, my teens turn evil on me. After the standard arguments, in a very passive aggressive move, the boys do not pack any socks or underwear. Their strategy must have been to smell so badly that we would gladly abandon them at a gas station. A trip to Wal-Mart remedies that situation.
Despite their alleged maturity in their desire to stay home alone, the adolescents regress back to age 4 when it comes to seating arrangements in the car. Every departure is marred by knock-down-drag-out fights over who gets which seat. Not only that, but somehow they still manage to fight over DVDs, headphones, and who will share their ipod because some one didn’t charge theirs the night before! I thought all the media would be a great improvement over my cassette and walkman days in the back of the station wagon, but my children are world record holders at turning any tiny thing into an epic battle.
Deciding where to stop for lunch is an even bigger disaster. It used to be dad would pull off the highway and we would get to choose a hamburger or a cheeseburger. Now it’s,” I’m in the mood for Chinese. No, that doesn’t sound good at all. How about Mexican? But I’m craving fries. No, I want pizza!” Often, we have to find a corner that has 3 different fast food places within walking distance and send them all their own separate ways.
So we get to our cozy mountain retreat and each kid immediately stakes out his or her territory. “ My room, my couch, my time for the bathroom. “ They still almost come to blows over what to watch on TV. They fight over the computer. They declare the other siblings impossibly annoying and lay around with lots of heavy sighs.
I optimistically suggest an old fashioned board game. My archaic request only brings on groans and rolled eyes. I decide to ignore them, but get out the game and begin setting it up. I recruit Dad and our not-yet-hormonal 8 year old daughter to join me. As we begin laughing and having fun, I soon notice the teens hanging back, looking over our shoulders, watching what we are doing. One finally breaks down and asks, “Can I play when you start the next round?”
I hesitate just a moment for dramatic effect…. “Welllll, I guess we can let you in.” I add with faux reluctance , “As long as we’re going to have to deal the cards out again, does anyone else want to join?” Sure enough, they all do. We play the game, and they want to play again! We end up giggling and joking together, having a great time and learning things about each other we never knew. My son harbors a secret desire to play the bagpipes? My daughter thinks I’M the moody one? Who knew ?
The best mom moment is hearing my kids be nice to each other . They act like they actually enjoy the family. My teenagers are laughing at jokes and encouraging each other in the game!
Their guard is down and now they can enjoy the trip. Their tough facade is cracked. They talk to us about kids they know, politics, movies. My daughter and I bond over a rented chick flick. The boys, a pay per view fight. For a few days, we all like each other without reservation. My teenagers are animated instead of sulking and stewing. They drop their carefully crafted “cool” image, and act like themselves,--the way they used to be when they were sweet and little. They play together.
When they’re my age, I hope they sit around with each other and swap stories about those crazy family trips, just like I do with my brothers now. Our favorite story is the time the station wagon got stuck in the snow when we had to pull over because brother #2 couldn’t hold it until the next facilities!
Money can’t buy memories like that. We had to drag our teenagers away from their friends and their sophisticated image to re-discover their original personalities --before hormones turned them into these alien creatures. So it took a little verbal coercion and reverse psychology. It was worth it. I hope their favorite story will be the time we played games at the cabin and the winning game question was, “Which person at the table is most likely to wind up in a prison uniform?” It was unanimous--brother#2. Family traditions for the next generation!
Snowbirds, published in Nov/Dec 2006 az3sixty magazine
“Snowbirds”
The first time I heard that word, and almost all other times since, it has been snorted in disgust.
I may not be an AZ native, but I have survived 17 summers here, so I think that counts for some sort of bragging rights, or maybe membership in the “It’s a dry heat” club. I was here on that record breaking 122 degree day, sitting in the coolest room in my house right under the air conditioning vent. I am enough of a local to state my opinion about snowbirds.
My first experience with snowbirds was my first day in Arizona, oh so many years ago. My brother took me to see saguaro cactus--quite a spectacle for anyone from the panhandle of Texas. He challenged me to check out license plates on cars to see how many different states I could count. I thought, “Hey, this is just like the game we used to play when we were kids, killing time in the back of the station wagon on family cross country trips… but why mention that game while driving on Main Street in Apache Junction in November?”
After about 2 minutes of looking out the window, I knew exactly why he asked. I saw every state north of Kansas and a few Canadian provinces as well. In complete amazement, I questioned my brother, “What is the meaning of this --have I died and gone to license plate game heaven?” He uttered only one word in reply …“snowbirds“.
So what are snowbirds and why is the word usually used in a derogatory sense? I’m not sure there’s an official definition. Maybe the state legislature ought to look into that. After all, they did create an official state neckwear (the bola tie). They could sign a declaration to replace the cactus wren with a new state bird-- the snow bird.
Anyway, a few of the stereotypical generalizations I’ve learned about snowbirds are: They’re old. Well, old enough to be retired and thus able to leave the wind chill factors of their home states behind. Their favorite pastime is to call friends back home who are shoveling snow and gloat, “I‘m on the ninth hole and I’m in short sleeves right now, short sleeves!”
They use their leisure time wisely, volunteering at schools, elections, churches, and more. They’re pretty noble that way, giving back to the world. They are crazy about their grandkids, but some have a not- in- my -backyard attitude about children living in their adults- only communities.
When driving, this unique species usually travels in pairs, in a sensible 4 door sedan, with the 2 males in front, the 2 females in back. Other driving habits include driving with the blinker permanently on and going slow. Very slow.
Their feeding habits involve going to restaurants early, before 6pm, either to beat the crowds or beat the acid reflux before bedtime. The females of the species gather at frilly lunch places wearing red hats and purple dresses. The snowbirds are a thrifty bunch, always venturing out armed with coupons.
The state education department would classify them as emerging technology learners, but most have mastered enough email skills to correspond with their grown children across the country. Businesses like snowbirds, hanging large welcome signs each fall. When all the handicapped parking spaces at Wal-Mart are full, the snowbirds are back!
Unofficially, that’s who they are, but why are they scorned? Because the rest of us are jealous. We have 2 seasons here, hot and not hot. We full time residents are forced to tough it out through the oven-like summers. We wear that badge of honor proudly. But snowbirds get the best part of the year without having to endure the worst. Snowbirds haven’t earned our weather- related respect--when the going gets tough, they retreat to the north. Inside, we cry, “It‘s not fair!” They get the best of both worlds--nice cool summers fishing on a wooded lake in Wisconsin and deliciously perfect winter days on the golf course in Arizona.
Deep down, we are secretly envious that they have beat the system, and we haven’t yet. We are still subject to the seasons. So we boast about how morally superior we are because we stick it out through the summer when those wimps vanished long before the first 100 degree day .
Admit it, if your boss offered you an extended assignment in Alaska during August, wouldn’t you jump at the chance? The only reason we don’t leave is cause we can’t. We’re still slaving away, toiling at jobs the snowbirds used to do when we were in diapers. We can only dream of being at the point in our lives when the rat race is over. They can kick back--they‘re retired, the kids are raised. Perhaps someday, like the snowbirds, we will be able to say to our kids, “See? I told you one day you’d grow up and have a kid just like you. Now I’ll spoil your children rotten and send them home to you for their post-grandma-indulgence behavioral detox.”
No, we’re not there yet, but maybe some day, if we work really hard and are extra good girls and boys, we can grow up to be snowbirds too. Then we’ll be smart enough to get the heck out of here when the heat hits.
Fortunately, I am a few years away from hot flashes and my subscription to AARP magazine. I‘m OK with that. Although, I do wonder what our generation will be like when we arrive at that stage of life. With tomorrow’s snowbirds, I don’t think we’ll see blue hair and plaid Bermuda shorts; in fact, I think all gray hair will cease to exist. We’ll fight old age fiercely, nothing graceful or dignified about it. No one will have glasses with all that new fangled lasik surgery. We’ll have botox and collagen, microdermabrasion and super white teeth, and some will still even have perky silicone breasts sticking out from the rest of their saggy skin. Ugh, I don’t even want to think what everyone’s tattoos will look like on 75 year old skin!
What kind of snowbirds will we be? If we lived in Leisure World would we volunteer, or just watch reality TV all day? Would we take up causes, or be apathetic? Would we shut our garage door behind us and never get to know our neighbors? Or would we sit on the back porch facing the community walking path so we can greet friends and strangers? Who knows, we might even go nuts and buy a Winnebago to drive around the country. We could have friends at every KOA campground from here to Saskatchewan.
Our world will consist of U2 and Nirvana playing on the golden oldies station. Former extreme sport enthusiasts will compete in the rocking chair half pipe. Dudes, we may even be drinking Red Bull so we can stay awake long enough to make it to the senior discount showing at the movies. Hearing aids will look like white ipod earbuds. We will complain about our health woes in our blogs.
We will shop til we drop, or until our Jimmy Choos give us unsightly corns. No red hats for us, we’ll wear our hair in the always classic 90s Rachel do. The metrosexual senior men will no longer wear black socks with sandals. We will all be wearing up -to -the -minute fashions from Gap for Seniors. Instead of living off a carefully planned retirement fund, we’ll still be paying off credit cards we had to max out in 06 to pay for $3.00 a gallon gas! We’ll still be driving our SUVs, only the blinkers will be continuously flashing as we go 25 in a 45mph zone.
And I’m sure the younger generation will look at us and roll their eyes and utter with disgust, “Snowbirds!”
The first time I heard that word, and almost all other times since, it has been snorted in disgust.
I may not be an AZ native, but I have survived 17 summers here, so I think that counts for some sort of bragging rights, or maybe membership in the “It’s a dry heat” club. I was here on that record breaking 122 degree day, sitting in the coolest room in my house right under the air conditioning vent. I am enough of a local to state my opinion about snowbirds.
My first experience with snowbirds was my first day in Arizona, oh so many years ago. My brother took me to see saguaro cactus--quite a spectacle for anyone from the panhandle of Texas. He challenged me to check out license plates on cars to see how many different states I could count. I thought, “Hey, this is just like the game we used to play when we were kids, killing time in the back of the station wagon on family cross country trips… but why mention that game while driving on Main Street in Apache Junction in November?”
After about 2 minutes of looking out the window, I knew exactly why he asked. I saw every state north of Kansas and a few Canadian provinces as well. In complete amazement, I questioned my brother, “What is the meaning of this --have I died and gone to license plate game heaven?” He uttered only one word in reply …“snowbirds“.
So what are snowbirds and why is the word usually used in a derogatory sense? I’m not sure there’s an official definition. Maybe the state legislature ought to look into that. After all, they did create an official state neckwear (the bola tie). They could sign a declaration to replace the cactus wren with a new state bird-- the snow bird.
Anyway, a few of the stereotypical generalizations I’ve learned about snowbirds are: They’re old. Well, old enough to be retired and thus able to leave the wind chill factors of their home states behind. Their favorite pastime is to call friends back home who are shoveling snow and gloat, “I‘m on the ninth hole and I’m in short sleeves right now, short sleeves!”
They use their leisure time wisely, volunteering at schools, elections, churches, and more. They’re pretty noble that way, giving back to the world. They are crazy about their grandkids, but some have a not- in- my -backyard attitude about children living in their adults- only communities.
When driving, this unique species usually travels in pairs, in a sensible 4 door sedan, with the 2 males in front, the 2 females in back. Other driving habits include driving with the blinker permanently on and going slow. Very slow.
Their feeding habits involve going to restaurants early, before 6pm, either to beat the crowds or beat the acid reflux before bedtime. The females of the species gather at frilly lunch places wearing red hats and purple dresses. The snowbirds are a thrifty bunch, always venturing out armed with coupons.
The state education department would classify them as emerging technology learners, but most have mastered enough email skills to correspond with their grown children across the country. Businesses like snowbirds, hanging large welcome signs each fall. When all the handicapped parking spaces at Wal-Mart are full, the snowbirds are back!
Unofficially, that’s who they are, but why are they scorned? Because the rest of us are jealous. We have 2 seasons here, hot and not hot. We full time residents are forced to tough it out through the oven-like summers. We wear that badge of honor proudly. But snowbirds get the best part of the year without having to endure the worst. Snowbirds haven’t earned our weather- related respect--when the going gets tough, they retreat to the north. Inside, we cry, “It‘s not fair!” They get the best of both worlds--nice cool summers fishing on a wooded lake in Wisconsin and deliciously perfect winter days on the golf course in Arizona.
Deep down, we are secretly envious that they have beat the system, and we haven’t yet. We are still subject to the seasons. So we boast about how morally superior we are because we stick it out through the summer when those wimps vanished long before the first 100 degree day .
Admit it, if your boss offered you an extended assignment in Alaska during August, wouldn’t you jump at the chance? The only reason we don’t leave is cause we can’t. We’re still slaving away, toiling at jobs the snowbirds used to do when we were in diapers. We can only dream of being at the point in our lives when the rat race is over. They can kick back--they‘re retired, the kids are raised. Perhaps someday, like the snowbirds, we will be able to say to our kids, “See? I told you one day you’d grow up and have a kid just like you. Now I’ll spoil your children rotten and send them home to you for their post-grandma-indulgence behavioral detox.”
No, we’re not there yet, but maybe some day, if we work really hard and are extra good girls and boys, we can grow up to be snowbirds too. Then we’ll be smart enough to get the heck out of here when the heat hits.
Fortunately, I am a few years away from hot flashes and my subscription to AARP magazine. I‘m OK with that. Although, I do wonder what our generation will be like when we arrive at that stage of life. With tomorrow’s snowbirds, I don’t think we’ll see blue hair and plaid Bermuda shorts; in fact, I think all gray hair will cease to exist. We’ll fight old age fiercely, nothing graceful or dignified about it. No one will have glasses with all that new fangled lasik surgery. We’ll have botox and collagen, microdermabrasion and super white teeth, and some will still even have perky silicone breasts sticking out from the rest of their saggy skin. Ugh, I don’t even want to think what everyone’s tattoos will look like on 75 year old skin!
What kind of snowbirds will we be? If we lived in Leisure World would we volunteer, or just watch reality TV all day? Would we take up causes, or be apathetic? Would we shut our garage door behind us and never get to know our neighbors? Or would we sit on the back porch facing the community walking path so we can greet friends and strangers? Who knows, we might even go nuts and buy a Winnebago to drive around the country. We could have friends at every KOA campground from here to Saskatchewan.
Our world will consist of U2 and Nirvana playing on the golden oldies station. Former extreme sport enthusiasts will compete in the rocking chair half pipe. Dudes, we may even be drinking Red Bull so we can stay awake long enough to make it to the senior discount showing at the movies. Hearing aids will look like white ipod earbuds. We will complain about our health woes in our blogs.
We will shop til we drop, or until our Jimmy Choos give us unsightly corns. No red hats for us, we’ll wear our hair in the always classic 90s Rachel do. The metrosexual senior men will no longer wear black socks with sandals. We will all be wearing up -to -the -minute fashions from Gap for Seniors. Instead of living off a carefully planned retirement fund, we’ll still be paying off credit cards we had to max out in 06 to pay for $3.00 a gallon gas! We’ll still be driving our SUVs, only the blinkers will be continuously flashing as we go 25 in a 45mph zone.
And I’m sure the younger generation will look at us and roll their eyes and utter with disgust, “Snowbirds!”
Me and Mother Nature, published in Sept/Oct 2006 az3sixty magazine
Don’t ask me why I committed to a long weekend of wilderness camping--a momentary lapse of sanity, I suppose. Normally, my idea of “roughing it” is slow room service. How would I cope without my cell phone, voice mail, email, and my daily news fix? What about the routines that define my life? Every day, I exercise, clean, try to eat healthy, run errands, make calls, and check it all off my to-do list. If I stopped to camp, my structured orderly world might fall apart. I secretly hoped to catch a virulent stomach flu that would render me unable to go. Surely that would be better than 4 days without running water and electricity.
But alas, I remained perfectly healthy, so I glumly took my last shower like a condemned prisoner having her last meal, then headed for the hills in a truck full of enough gear to equip several armies. I determined that I would not vary from my routine. I would still work out and do all the parts of my beauty routine that did not require a plug. I would still wear stylish clothes and eat healthy food . Being in the wild would not change me. If I couldn’t be in touch with civilization, I would still be civilized.
So I moved in with Mother Nature. I brought folding furniture, a screened canopy, fake green grass carpet, a battery operated fan, even supersize antibacterial gel. I spent the first hot dusty day trying to make my campsite look like a living room, not a forest. I evicted a few lizards and grasshoppers and wasps, along with some pinecones and rocks to create indoor living outdoors.
Half a day into it, I had to surrender my grooming ideals, like trying to stay shower-fresh all day. With no air conditioning, it was impossible. I did continue to wear make up (although I don’t recommend applying your make up in the harsh light of the great outdoors. I got a little too much information about my fine lines and age spots! ) My poor hair suffered the most without electric styling aids. I had to wear it in unflattering braids and a housewife bandanna. I found myself wearing clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead in at home. Yes, I wore running shoes with a skirt--hey, it was hot. The skirt was cooler than jeans.
Unfortunately, I learned quickly that open toed shoes weren’t the wisest choice--there exists a huge gash in my toe to prove it. So my running shoes weren’t used for exercise, but for committing a style faux pas. I felt terribly self conscious at first, but it’s not like the fashion police were going to show up in a national forest. Comfort and practicality won out over looks --but I was quick to bemoan the dire hygienic circumstances I was in.
But at some point my attitude changed. After a day or two, I asked myself, what about all those concerns at home, in the world, your busy life? And when was the last time you looked at your grimy self in a mirror? Shockingly, I hadn’t even thought about any of it. I had no idea and didn’t care if Brad and Angelina adopted any more children while I was gone. I couldn’t remember if the dishes in the dishwasher were clean or dirty. I didn’t even know if my ponytail holders matched my outfit. I discovered I could deal with the inconveniences of camping because it was so refreshing to have a few days off from my busy life, my other world at home.
Normally, I’m a hamster in her running wheel--going full speed all day without much to show for it. I usually fill regimented hours with worries of picking up the dry cleaning, getting to the gym, and the latest headlines. If I have enough errands and insignificant tasks to accomplish, I don’t have to think about the big issues of life. It sounds cliched, but getting away from it all helped me get back in touch with me, and I found new inner peace.
The wilderness is quiet. Very quiet. No muzak is piped in. No one is yakking into their bluetooth nearby. Cars aren’t zipping past. My 80s music isn’t blasting into my ears from little white headphones. No annoying commercials drown my thoughts. There is a calmness that comes from getting away from everything modern. You can gaze at the stars, admire the beauty of trees, watch storm clouds gather in the afternoon. You think about friends and family, the past, the future--all so much bigger than our own miniscule control freak world.
Mountains, forests, skies… all so gorgeous and peaceful. Yes, they are wild and untamed and natural, but that is where the peace comes from, knowing I am not in charge here. I cannot control mother nature, and I don’t have to. Most of our lives are about things that are small and manageable, that we are responsible for and must worry about, but out there is the big, the unending, the uncontrollable. What a change in perspective!
The tranquility and serenity of the trip were worth the scary hair and dirt under my fingernails. I have to admit it was kind of nice not having to worry about appearance. I enjoyed indulging in s’mores instead of the usual celery sticks and hummus. I liked not having a schedule, letting the days flow. I was surprised how much I enjoyed mother nature. I had thought I’d be eager to rush back and check my email, but I actually sort of dreaded returning to the hamster wheel.
However, by the last day, I really wanted to take a shower, so I did come back and guess what? The world hadn’t stopped because I got off for a few days. It went on without me and I actually didn’t miss that much. All my responsibilities were still waiting for me. It was only a matter of hours before I had double digit items on the to do list again.
That’s life. Those things are necessary but can be mind numbing. Days, then weeks, then months go by and soon we’re commenting how the years seem to just fly. It can’t hurt to slow down time for a few days. It might even be good to press the pause button and take a deep breath and look around us. We can occasionally get our focus off the daily drudgery and on bigger things. I did it by camping in a tent and I actually survived it, and it was worth every pine needle I shook out of my sleeping bag.
But alas, I remained perfectly healthy, so I glumly took my last shower like a condemned prisoner having her last meal, then headed for the hills in a truck full of enough gear to equip several armies. I determined that I would not vary from my routine. I would still work out and do all the parts of my beauty routine that did not require a plug. I would still wear stylish clothes and eat healthy food . Being in the wild would not change me. If I couldn’t be in touch with civilization, I would still be civilized.
So I moved in with Mother Nature. I brought folding furniture, a screened canopy, fake green grass carpet, a battery operated fan, even supersize antibacterial gel. I spent the first hot dusty day trying to make my campsite look like a living room, not a forest. I evicted a few lizards and grasshoppers and wasps, along with some pinecones and rocks to create indoor living outdoors.
Half a day into it, I had to surrender my grooming ideals, like trying to stay shower-fresh all day. With no air conditioning, it was impossible. I did continue to wear make up (although I don’t recommend applying your make up in the harsh light of the great outdoors. I got a little too much information about my fine lines and age spots! ) My poor hair suffered the most without electric styling aids. I had to wear it in unflattering braids and a housewife bandanna. I found myself wearing clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead in at home. Yes, I wore running shoes with a skirt--hey, it was hot. The skirt was cooler than jeans.
Unfortunately, I learned quickly that open toed shoes weren’t the wisest choice--there exists a huge gash in my toe to prove it. So my running shoes weren’t used for exercise, but for committing a style faux pas. I felt terribly self conscious at first, but it’s not like the fashion police were going to show up in a national forest. Comfort and practicality won out over looks --but I was quick to bemoan the dire hygienic circumstances I was in.
But at some point my attitude changed. After a day or two, I asked myself, what about all those concerns at home, in the world, your busy life? And when was the last time you looked at your grimy self in a mirror? Shockingly, I hadn’t even thought about any of it. I had no idea and didn’t care if Brad and Angelina adopted any more children while I was gone. I couldn’t remember if the dishes in the dishwasher were clean or dirty. I didn’t even know if my ponytail holders matched my outfit. I discovered I could deal with the inconveniences of camping because it was so refreshing to have a few days off from my busy life, my other world at home.
Normally, I’m a hamster in her running wheel--going full speed all day without much to show for it. I usually fill regimented hours with worries of picking up the dry cleaning, getting to the gym, and the latest headlines. If I have enough errands and insignificant tasks to accomplish, I don’t have to think about the big issues of life. It sounds cliched, but getting away from it all helped me get back in touch with me, and I found new inner peace.
The wilderness is quiet. Very quiet. No muzak is piped in. No one is yakking into their bluetooth nearby. Cars aren’t zipping past. My 80s music isn’t blasting into my ears from little white headphones. No annoying commercials drown my thoughts. There is a calmness that comes from getting away from everything modern. You can gaze at the stars, admire the beauty of trees, watch storm clouds gather in the afternoon. You think about friends and family, the past, the future--all so much bigger than our own miniscule control freak world.
Mountains, forests, skies… all so gorgeous and peaceful. Yes, they are wild and untamed and natural, but that is where the peace comes from, knowing I am not in charge here. I cannot control mother nature, and I don’t have to. Most of our lives are about things that are small and manageable, that we are responsible for and must worry about, but out there is the big, the unending, the uncontrollable. What a change in perspective!
The tranquility and serenity of the trip were worth the scary hair and dirt under my fingernails. I have to admit it was kind of nice not having to worry about appearance. I enjoyed indulging in s’mores instead of the usual celery sticks and hummus. I liked not having a schedule, letting the days flow. I was surprised how much I enjoyed mother nature. I had thought I’d be eager to rush back and check my email, but I actually sort of dreaded returning to the hamster wheel.
However, by the last day, I really wanted to take a shower, so I did come back and guess what? The world hadn’t stopped because I got off for a few days. It went on without me and I actually didn’t miss that much. All my responsibilities were still waiting for me. It was only a matter of hours before I had double digit items on the to do list again.
That’s life. Those things are necessary but can be mind numbing. Days, then weeks, then months go by and soon we’re commenting how the years seem to just fly. It can’t hurt to slow down time for a few days. It might even be good to press the pause button and take a deep breath and look around us. We can occasionally get our focus off the daily drudgery and on bigger things. I did it by camping in a tent and I actually survived it, and it was worth every pine needle I shook out of my sleeping bag.
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