The ties that bind

So, to catch you up: I survived the work stress, in large part because Minnams is a saint and a rock star rolled up into one, and because of her, I didn't have to skip my family vacation this week. Which made my mother very happy.

Two years ago, I tracked daily lessons from our 19-person family vacation in North Carolina. I sort of wish I'd read those before we took off again a week ago, because I'd forgotten some of what I'd learned two years ago. Although part of me wonders why I'm ever surprised by anything about my family, because any time you throw us all under one roof, we all regress, and it's like we're children again, like we've never left our parents' house.

We did remember enough about the last trip to leave the karaoke machine at home, and to bring two good games, Apples to Apples and Whoonu, that were huge hits with the grown-ups and the kids alike. We also had better weather this time around, so we took long walks or runs on the beach almost every morning, swam in both the ocean and the pool every day, and had several rousing games of wiffle ball on the beach after dinner (my two favorite moments there: (1) my parents standing in the outfield, hugging each other, grinning ear to ear and looking so proud and happy to have gathered their whole brood; and (2) imploring my six-year-old nephew, "Cover your base!" and him responding by kneeling in the sand and burying the neon pool toy that was serving as the marker for second base).

There were other lovely moments: My littlest nephew, who's five, is uber-cuddly right now (although he grew less so as the trip wore on) and as I lay on the couch reading before dinner one night, he padded over and climbed up next to me and snuggled into the crook of my arm; he was practically asleep, but couldn't quite get comfortable, so he flopped around for like 15 minutes, not even opening his eyes, and wound up crossways on my torso, holding my hand, until it was time for dinner. I am so sad as I realize that, next time we do this trip, he will likely not be so interested in snuggling with me.

Last night, after we'd packed away Apples to Apples and Whoonu in preparation for our 5:45 a.m. departure this morning, we played what my sister calls The Sentence Game, although it's really The Sentence, Picture, Sentence Game. Basically, it's a variation on "telephone" or "whisper down the lane": everyone around the table writes a sentence at the top of a piece of paper and passes it to the right. Then everyone has to draw a picture to illustrate the sentence, folds over the sentence so the next person can't see it, and then the next person has to write a sentence describing the picture. At the end, you see how close -- or not -- the last sentence is to what you started off with.

My oldest sister's husband, somehow, did not get the concept, at all, so he was screwing everything up, writing sentences beneath sentences and drawing pictures beneath pictures, or sometimes doing sort of a rebus (snaps to the Smelmooo for being the first to use that term). He insisted the instructions were not clear; we quickly but relatively politely pointed out that every other person at the table, including his 10-year-old son, understood. Anyway, it made for some ludicrous interpretations, including my "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" becoming something like, "I find it thrilling, rather than scary, to skateboard on the highway."

But the most memorable part of the trip, by far, was the family photo. Oh, it gives me a knot in my stomach even to think about it, and I'm not sure I can even do it justice. We didn't do a family picture at my dad's 70th birthday party, which we probably should have, but we thought it'd be nice, in theory at least, to have a family photo at the beach.

I think it was for my mom's 60th birthday, in 1999, that we hired a photographer to come to our parents' house and do a family photo, everyone dressed in denim and white. It was sort of cheesy, but it worked, and turned out pretty nicely. Then, there were more grandkids, and the Smelmooo joined the crew, so we did another photo the summer we got engaged, that time with white shirts and khakis (this works less well, especially given that we are a fairly pasty lot), and with my brother-in-law's camera set up with the timer. I've never been crazy about those shots, but at least we're all together. Except for my youngest niece, who was born two years later, so we had exactly zero pictures with our whole family.

So anyway, everyone together at the beach, great weather, deck with an oceanfront view that would be perfect. My mom went into town and got everyone Duck (as in Duck, North Carolina, but also with little ducks on them) t-shirts to wear for the occasion. [I do not for a second understand why we always need to wear a uniform for the family photo, but it's my mom, so I roll with it, and I think it's sweet.] The plan was to take the photo after dinner one night, around sunset.

And then, there were all kinds of delays with dinner, and our littlest niece was sleeping, and my oldest sister's husband -- owner of the camera with the timer -- started freaking out about losing the light, despite the fact that it was not quite 6 o'clock, on the third-longest-day of the year, and there was lots of confusion and sniping and shirt-changing and "I think I need a glass of wine"-ing.

I fully expected that there would be little pieces of paper taped to the deck, or at least some sort of chart, to show us where to stand, because there was a clear plan in my oldest sister's head. "NO SUNGLASSES!" she barked at our one sister, who responded with a "Kiss my ass," and a staunch refusal to remove the sunglasses.

"Okay, siblings, and mom and dad!"

Followed by "Spouses, too!"

Followed by "Kids and whole family tomorrow!"

At which point my brother woke his sleeping youngest, who fussed and screamed and refused to put on the Duck shirt, which I thought would be a deal-breaker for my sister, but there was clearly no way that we were all getting back on that deck, in those shirts, the following night, so we took just one shot of the whole family, and were done. And, of course, not everyone's looking at the camera, and my littlest niece's face is tear-stained, and my sister's wearing her sunglasses, but overall it's not so bad for a one-shot deal.

I sort of wish I had taken control and sucked it up and shelled out what would surely have been a ridiculous sum of money to get a professional photographer to come to the beach house, because it would be nice to have a photo that's better than "not so bad," and it might be a little less agita if we hired someone to be in charge. Maybe that is the important lesson for me to remember for our next family gathering: hire a professional.

Although, really, it almost wouldn't matter, because it's suddenly coming back to me that my oldest sister sort of bossed around our wedding photographer. And I think I'll remember the circumstances surrounding this one much more vividly than the professional shot at my parents' house nine years ago, and every time I look at it, I'm sure I'll smirk and chuckle and roll my eyes, in a good way.

A giant bundle of stress

I burst into tears in the parking lot of our newly-reopened favorite pizza place tonight, not because I was happy they've rebuilt (although that's true), but because I thought I'd left my wallet at the office. And I got home, and burst into hysterical sobs as soon as I got out of the car.

It's been one of those weeks.

I won't go into it, because it's boring and also work-related, and since Minnams has shared her blog with a boatload of people at work I suspect that work people have found me through archived comments there and read my blog, too, in secret.

But the upshot is that today was my only day in the office this week, and I'm out all next week, which is always somewhat stressful, but today the work just kept piling on and piling on and piling on, and all of it was last-minute and high-priority and separately all of it would've been manageable, but taken together, it just put me over the edge.

And the wallet was what I call an "I broke a bowl" moment. I don't even remember the details anymore, but when I was a teenager, I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and decided to make cookies to make myself feel better, but when I put the two sticks of butter in a bowl to melt in the microwave, I guess I squished them in too tightly, and the bowl broke. And I lost it, completely, sobbing in a heap on the floor, gasping and crying, and, when my sister came in to see what was wrong, all I could do was moan, "I broke a bowl! I broke a bowl!"

Anyway. I walked inside, and the Smelmooo was incredibly patient with me, and gave me huge hugs, and let me snot all over him, and we ate delicious pizza, and there's a lull in the work so we're going to watch My Boys, and all will be well. Right?

Identity crisis

So, I just took a grammar quiz and got only half of the questions right, five out of of 10!!! In my head, I'm right about two additional questions (the scoring system suggests I'm being overly rigid on those two points, but that's just absurd. Me? Rigid?!), but regardless, I have to admit that stung a little.

How about you? Give it a whirl and let me know how you do.

Separately, I'm all out of whack because my People magazine did not arrive on Friday as it should have, nor did it arrive on Saturday. It finally showed up today, thwarting my theory that the universe was conspiring against me because it's the issue with Elizabeth Smart on the cover, and I suggested years ago that she was not, in fact, legitimately kidnapped, but that she was pregnant and sent into hiding for a few months. Anyway, its late arrival still screwed me up, because I had nothing to read in the hotel fitness center this morning, and I forgot headphones, and it was super-boring to watch CNN with no sound and no closed-captioning on the elliptical, and awful to listen to nothing but the sound of myself gasping for air.

I need to get myself back to Pilates, because missing my classes for the last month or so has really screwed up my endurance, I think. That, or there's something seriously wrong with me, but before I get too hypochondriacal, I'll just give Pilates another go.

I've got spirit, yes I do!

I'm not generally much for school spirit, but I've apparently become susceptible to the public relations campaign from my alma mater to celebrate Friday the 13th. You see, Colgate was founded by 13 men with 13 prayers and 13 dollars, which any good tour guide would tell you right off the bat, and every Colgate student knows that 13 is the school's lucky number. What I do not remember from my college days was that Friday the 13th holds a special place of honor as "Colgate Day," which sort of makes me think that someone introduced that idea pretty recently.

Anyway, earlier this week, the school sent out an email reminding alumni about Colgate Day coming up, encouraging us to wear Colgate gear to work today, and informing us that 13 Colgate alums would be ringing the bell to open the New York Stock Exchange this morning, which I thought was pretty cool.

My co-worker in the office next to mine also is a Colgate alum, and we agreed we'd celebrate together. She ended up work from home today, so it sort of fell flat, but I did wear my Colgate t-shirt (which I normally wear only at the gym) to work today, hidden under a button-down.

And I kept it on tonight, without the button-down, when the Smelmooo, Tucker and I walked downtown for ice cream after dinner. Our town was hopping, both because it's a beautiful night, and also because there was a well-publicized (albeit poorly executed) arts festival. And suddenly, as I walked out of the ice cream shop, this woman on the sidewalk raised her arms over head and whooped, "Woooooooooo!! ColGATE! Friday the 13th!! Wooooo!" Which completely startled me, until I realized that she works at the gym, and she'd seen me in the shirt before and told me her daughter also went there. But still, a little unsettling.

As we walked home, a 20-something guy yelled out the window of a car. Again: "Woooooooooo! ColGATE!" I had no idea there were so many fans in our little town.

As much as I haven't kept up with my college friends, as much as I sometimes hated my college experience, as much as I ignore the emails and postcards encouraging me to support the Raiders when they play New Jersey schools in sports or to join a local alumnae book club, I do feel somewhat connected to the place, and my stupid shirt made me feel like a part of something tonight.

Sort of like the Smelmooo belongs to our actual community; he seemed to know 80% of the people we passed tonight. Whereas I recognized exactly three, and knew only two of their names, because I'm pretty much a civically disengaged misanthrope.

Out of ideas

I heard this morning that Shrek is getting turned into a musical. I recognize the business sense of doing so, given how successful other animated-feature-turned-Broadway-shows have been (although I sort of think The Little Mermaid tanked), but really? Have we reached a total saturation point where there is nothing new under the sun? It seems like every play and every movie is based on something else, or is a sequel, or a spin-off.

Not that I've had any brilliant ideas for a book or a show or a movie, but it'd be sort of nice if someone did.

Denied

I remember a discussion in one of my medical anthropology classes in grad school about blood drives, and the introduction of the bar-coded "Use my blood" and "Don't use my blood" stickers that a donor can place on his or her vial. Because, you know, if your workplace has a blood drive, and you've checked the "Yes, I've traded sex for drugs in the last 12 months" box, in many cases it could be easier to donate the pint of blood and have them dump it than to try to explain to your co-workers why you're being a selfish bastard and not participating in the blood drive.

I actually remember how much of a production a former boss made out of the fact that he couldn't donate at an onsite blood drive, because he'd just spent time in Costa Rica. He probably told every single one of the 200 people working in the organization why he was denied.

And today, I sort of understand why he felt so compelled to do so. There's a blood drive at our YMCA today, and I hopped over to renew our membership and donate a pint, which I hadn't done in ages, largely because it's sort of inconvenient. But really, right across the street, so no excuses. I filled out my questionnaire, got my temperature taken, had my finger pricked and my pulse checked, made small talk with the nurse, who has three dogs and no kids and is happy as a clam. Then she took my blood pressure, furrowed her brow, and tried again. And then she called someone else over to try AGAIN.

"Low?" she said.
"I don't know; sometimes it's a little low."
"No, I remember you, it's low." I have no idea why she'd remember me; I've never donated at this site before, even in this county, but okay, maybe. I wasn't gonna argue.

I tried to think about work, about global warming, anything I could to stress myself out, but there it was: 88 over 55. No go. I had to sign a form saying I understood why I was denied, and off I went, no bright-colored tourniquet on my arm, no "I gave blood today!" sticker, no Lorna Doones and apple juice.

And I felt like telling everyone I passed on my way out, even though none of them gave me even a passing glance: "Low blood pressure! I swear! No sex for drugs, really, I promise."

Ah, family

I love my parents, so much, and I actually like spending time with them. And even when they drive me bonkers, I have to smile and just shake my head, because at 70 and 68, they're not changing (and, frankly, at pushing 31, neither am I). To wit:

The Smelmooo is out of town tonight, making good on his Survivor bet, and it's supposed to be a beautiful weekend, but I had a crazy-busy week at work, so I wasn't sure if I'd feel like doing much tonight. But I wanted to feel out my options, so I called my dad yesterday to find out (1) if he and my mom would be at their place at the beach tonight (yes), (2) if so, whether they had dinner plans (no) and (3) whether they'd be amenable to having Tucker and me come for a visit overnight (yes, although I could hear in his voice that he was envisioning Tucker wrecking their stuff while we went out to dinner, which is exactly what I'd have been thinking before we actually got our dog, who pretty much will run around sniffing everything for 10 minutes, sigh, and curl into a ball and sleep for the rest of the night).

I must have told my dad six times that I was only checking to see if it'd be a possibility, because I didn't know what would be going on at work, and because I have a friend visiting from out of town on Saturday afternoon, so I'd wing it and call to let them know whether I'd be coming down.

But of course, a few hours later, I had an email from my mom telling me how excited she was that Tucker and I were coming to visit, and she couldn't wait to see us, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point. And I truly believe that she was happy to have me visit, and glad that I'd be getting to the beach, and not consciously throwing a guilt trip on me, but regardless of her motivation, I acknowledged that her email meant I was going to the beach tonight.

And I got a little stressed out this morning about whether I'd be able to wrap up work and get home and on the road again in time to beat shore traffic, and I felt guilty about the spinach in our fridge that'd probably go bad if we left it uneaten for a couple more days, and I had to convince myself that my friend won't care if the house is a little messy when he visits. But I figured that I'd make it all work, because it'd make my mom happy.

So of course, my mom calls me at work this morning and says: "Hi, honey. I'm dumping you for dinner, is the upshot." Friends from out of state happen to be visiting family nearby, and they're having dinner with them, instead. "You could come, but we're going to plan our trip to Australia, soo.... But I really want you to come down and stay over!"

Which actually works out, because I can go home and eat my spinach and take my time, head down after the rush-hour crawl to the shore, get some ice cream or something with my parents tonight, go for a run on the boardwalk in the morning, maybe grab a couple of hours on the beach tomorrow. With my somewhat nutty family.

If Rory Gilmore were real...

..can you imagine what an amazing year she'd have had, covering the Obama campaign? Really, I never, ever would have believed that he'd be the nominee. In fact, I remember posting something about the campaign sometime last year (maybe about John Edwards staying in despite Elizabeth's cancer? About which I was overly judgmental at the time, for sure), and Mara posted a comment to keep an eye on Obama, and in my head I was like, "Pffft...I like Obama, and maybe one day, but he's way too green to be a viable candidate."

But here we are, and I'm pretty psyched. I am terrified that he'll choose Hillary as a running mate, in part because I worry a little that she would pull a Tonya Harding, and in part because I agree with Jimmy Carter that that pairing would potentially turn off more people than it'd bring in. Yes, Obama needs a running mate who'll appeal to the same types of voters that Hillary was able to attract in the primary, voters among whom he was weaker. But why Hillary herself? And I'm still not entirely convinced that she could stand being Barack's number two. Maybe another high-level position in the administration, but I just don't see VP as a viable option.

Although my track record is clearly not so good in predicting political outcomes, so who knows. However it plays out, I'm excited for November (although I'm sort of dreading the next five months, with the mud-slinging and the posturing and what not), excited about the possibilities that lie ahead.

Me time

The Smelmooo is off on a semi-annual guys' trip today, so I'm flying solo at home. My sister invited me to spend the day with her at the shore, and I had just a brief pang of regret about declining as this beautifully warm, sunny day unfolded before me. But I am feeling ridiculously content at the tail end of a lovely weekend.

I've watched snippets of movies that I can't helping watching as I flip past: Sixteen Candles, The Devil Wears Prada, Dave, An American Tail, 13 Going on 30. And this morning, a late-era 90210 where Donna gets attacked by a serial rapist, Andrea is whoring it up even though she's married to Jesse, and the Flaming Lips performed at the Peach Pit After Dark. I had totally blocked all of this out; I was much more enthusiastic about the Brenda years.

Yesterday, I got a pedicure, which was a huge, huge treat, especially because my feet were completely ripped up when I got there, owing to my serious lack of judgment earlier in the week, when I went on a 40-minute walking meeting while wearing inappropriate footwear. I realized that I tend to make this mistake during National Spelling Bee season. Anyway, even though I still have some yucky blister remnants on my toes, the bottoms of my feet are smooth and happy, and my toenails are beautifully cut and polished in a color called Thigh High. Which was almost identical to a shade called I'm Not a Waitress, but I resonated more with Thigh High.

It was my first pedicure in three-and-a-half years (I got three the year I got married, and that'd been it for my lifetime), but now I may be hooked, especially because the place where S and I went had these awesome massaging chairs where we sat while our toes dried; they reclined all the way back, and I nearly fell asleep, I was so comfy and relaxed.

The other thing I had not done in forever, probably in seven or eight years, was buy new sports bras, and the girls were aching for me to get some new ones. I was startled to discover yesterday that they no longer seem to make my preferred bras, which I thought were fairly standard cotton numbers. But nooooooooooooo, now it's all about the wicking material, and I've discovered that I am not a fan. It's not nearly as comfortable as cotton, and it was just as sweat-soaked after my run this morning. Blech. Suggestions welcome if anyone has recommendations here.

And, to round out the conspicuous consumption for the weekend, I got new running shoes today, Mizuno Wave Riders, which are possible identical to Minnams's running shoes, but I don't really care because we never exercise together. As the Smelmooo can attest, I hate, hate, hate buying sneakers, because I generally think they're really ugly, and sometimes I just make up my mind that every option in the store is ugly, and then I'm just done -- there is no appeasing me. But I was excited about the Mizunos, because I am convinced -- we'll see whether correctly or not -- that they'll be better for my feet and shins and knees and back than my Asics or New Balances; I completely -- fairly or not -- blame my Asics for my recent foot problems. Because, you know, clearly it can't have anything to with me.

So, soon enough, the beach, because we seem to have skipped spring altogether, except for a week or so in early April that led right back to wintry weather, and to be be in the thick of summer already.

And, wow. Holy crap. I just realized it's June 1st, which means I have been working at the same organization for nine years. Nine. That's a whole nother blog entry. Yeesh.

What's wrong with this picture?

I know it's a little hard to see here, but our office just began stocking these cups on Friday. I always use a mug from the probably-defunct pretzel stand Hot Sam for my water at lunch, and a big plastic turquoise cup from the dollar store for my Diet Coke, so I tend not to use the disposable cups. But on Friday, I was sitting across from Minnams at lunch, at a fairly large table, and became singularly focused on this stupid cup as the conversation swirled around me. As Minnams pointed out, it's like a switch I can't turn off, the grammar nerd thing. And, really, I like and support what the cup is trying to tell me, but what it actually tells me makes my teeth itch.