Datebook: Monday, April 7th ~ 2008
I have just returned home after living for 36 hours in the same clothes and the same dab of 18 hour deodorant—and we all know that not many things in the new-current-era have a double shelf life. Oh, let’s be frank, I’ve done this a few times in my adult life, but I can count them on half of my fingers that are into the 16th day of a two-week manicure.
One time I was the sixty-first person in line to buy Bon Jovi tickets. Another rare occasion had me on the trail of an elusive Cabbage Patch doll. Still another memorable outing of wearing a t-shirt long past its ripeness occurred when the airline lost our luggage on a trek to California where we had allotted our first day--our only free day-- to explore the wonders of Rodeo Drive—we were not buzzed into any of the special boutiques that dot that coveted Beverly Hills Boulevard. The few other times, much earlier in my life, had to do with things like Pink Squirrels and Singapore Slings which I thankfully don’t remember in great detail.
So it might be disappointing to tell you that I wasn’t in line for tickets for Clay Aiken’s new summer tour, or driving cross-country as a COI groupie on this occasion.
I was helping my daughter move to her new apartment.
My daughter wanted to move closer to the rink so we moved her from her 3rd floor studio apartment to a 1st floor one bedroom apartment.
In the same building.
See. You’re thinking it too—a piece of cake. It’s all downhill walking basically—more room to maneuver—a warm spring day—a few hours tops.
There were several flies that fell into the ointment so to speak, and I will list them in the order of hindrance.
1. Rain
2. A two-skater birthday extravaganza the night before
3. 67 jackets
4. A cable company that seemingly uses the tin can and string method of communication.
Okay. First of all, “April showers” is a sweet vignette attached to most calendars with a photo of a little girl with a pink watering can. Yesterday was more in line with a deleted scene from “The Perfect Storm”--deleted because it was raining so hard that the audience couldn’t see the action. This delayed the start time considerably.
The birthday party sounded like it was successful although I got very little information from the group of merry skating souls that arrived to help with the move. I think I heard them mention there was some “pong” playing so my faith is restored that kids today can still find joy in some of our old classic games—although I’m not sure where they found paddles in this day and age. Regardless, although they worked hard, they seemed a bit slow and avoided loud noises like the ticking kitchen clock. My daughter also missed the cell call that the cable company gave as a necessity to actually driving to the location.
My daughter’s new apartment has two closets; a bedroom closet and a coat closet. The problem occurred when we realized my skating pixie has 67 jackets and coats which must be combined with the fact that my daughter is a bit of a neatnik. Yes, she color codes her clothes and subcategorizes by season and purpose; a daunting filing system for the rest of us mere mortals.
While my daughter remained in the third floor non-penthouse packing away, we debated how to hang the jackets in their new home.
“We could hang them by color!” offered one twenty-something male
“But most of them are black!” piped in another masculine voice.
“Let’s just hang all the skating ones on the left, and all the others on the right.”
“I think she wears all of these to skate in.”
The guys looked at each other and shook their heads. “I grew up in Alaska and I only have three coats.”
The girls take over the task and tell their male counterparts to “toughen up” and that “I think I have more at home than this—this must be her basic collection.” While we sorted North Face and Gortex, the time slipped into evening.
The cable company provided the denouement of my adventure in extended wear. They had issued a service window of time that they failed to either write down or communicate on a modern piece of equipment as they seemingly used smoke signals or carrier pigeon as no service technician arrived at any of the four quoted times. At 10:30 pm, a supervisor advised me, after some heated discussion on my part, that she would have an able-bodied person at the apartment the following day between 10 and 2. Luck, being what it is, this time slot matched perfectly with the hours my daughter was taking some young men through their dance tests at the now, much closer rink.
So, as the mom, I offered to spend the night sans a change of clothes to be available for the service call. My daughter kindly offered to lend me some of her “larger” things. Of course, larger to her means someone gave her a size “small” instead of “extra small”.
“But mom, some are really big, I think you can wear them to sleep in at least.” To prove this she produced a “Green Turtle” t-shirt that was marked “S” and did appear to be pushing a size 4.
I smiled tenderly. “Sweetheart, if I try to put this on, it’s going to be a remake of ‘The Incredible Hulk—I’ll be okay.”
This morning I had the option of showering and putting on the same dirty clothes—all the dirty clothes—or just acting like I was buying Rolling Stones tickets. As I sat on the couch pondering the decision I noticed that one of my socks was on inside out and by switching it around, I felt a tiny bit better--perhaps Feng-shuing my body.
The cable representative arrived at ten minutes before 2. In annoyance, I made sure I stood right near the personal space line while he worked.
“We’re going to have to run the line through this closet,” he advised as he opened the double doors and beheld the bevy of jackets and coats.
“Geez, how many people live here?”
“One.”
He started moving some of the skating jackets to the sofa, noticing the various clubs and team emblems. I could see him doing a mental size chart as he nodded to me.
“My dad still has all of his old baseball team uniforms hanging in his closet too.”
“Really?” I query as I slid the twenty dollar I had earmarked for a tip from my pocket back into my wallet.
“Well, that’s our generation for you. We’re all about having lots of clean clothes whether you wear them or not.”
Mombo
One time I was the sixty-first person in line to buy Bon Jovi tickets. Another rare occasion had me on the trail of an elusive Cabbage Patch doll. Still another memorable outing of wearing a t-shirt long past its ripeness occurred when the airline lost our luggage on a trek to California where we had allotted our first day--our only free day-- to explore the wonders of Rodeo Drive—we were not buzzed into any of the special boutiques that dot that coveted Beverly Hills Boulevard. The few other times, much earlier in my life, had to do with things like Pink Squirrels and Singapore Slings which I thankfully don’t remember in great detail.
So it might be disappointing to tell you that I wasn’t in line for tickets for Clay Aiken’s new summer tour, or driving cross-country as a COI groupie on this occasion.
I was helping my daughter move to her new apartment.
My daughter wanted to move closer to the rink so we moved her from her 3rd floor studio apartment to a 1st floor one bedroom apartment.
In the same building.
See. You’re thinking it too—a piece of cake. It’s all downhill walking basically—more room to maneuver—a warm spring day—a few hours tops.
There were several flies that fell into the ointment so to speak, and I will list them in the order of hindrance.
1. Rain
2. A two-skater birthday extravaganza the night before
3. 67 jackets
4. A cable company that seemingly uses the tin can and string method of communication.
Okay. First of all, “April showers” is a sweet vignette attached to most calendars with a photo of a little girl with a pink watering can. Yesterday was more in line with a deleted scene from “The Perfect Storm”--deleted because it was raining so hard that the audience couldn’t see the action. This delayed the start time considerably.
The birthday party sounded like it was successful although I got very little information from the group of merry skating souls that arrived to help with the move. I think I heard them mention there was some “pong” playing so my faith is restored that kids today can still find joy in some of our old classic games—although I’m not sure where they found paddles in this day and age. Regardless, although they worked hard, they seemed a bit slow and avoided loud noises like the ticking kitchen clock. My daughter also missed the cell call that the cable company gave as a necessity to actually driving to the location.
My daughter’s new apartment has two closets; a bedroom closet and a coat closet. The problem occurred when we realized my skating pixie has 67 jackets and coats which must be combined with the fact that my daughter is a bit of a neatnik. Yes, she color codes her clothes and subcategorizes by season and purpose; a daunting filing system for the rest of us mere mortals.
While my daughter remained in the third floor non-penthouse packing away, we debated how to hang the jackets in their new home.
“We could hang them by color!” offered one twenty-something male
“But most of them are black!” piped in another masculine voice.
“Let’s just hang all the skating ones on the left, and all the others on the right.”
“I think she wears all of these to skate in.”
The guys looked at each other and shook their heads. “I grew up in Alaska and I only have three coats.”
The girls take over the task and tell their male counterparts to “toughen up” and that “I think I have more at home than this—this must be her basic collection.” While we sorted North Face and Gortex, the time slipped into evening.
The cable company provided the denouement of my adventure in extended wear. They had issued a service window of time that they failed to either write down or communicate on a modern piece of equipment as they seemingly used smoke signals or carrier pigeon as no service technician arrived at any of the four quoted times. At 10:30 pm, a supervisor advised me, after some heated discussion on my part, that she would have an able-bodied person at the apartment the following day between 10 and 2. Luck, being what it is, this time slot matched perfectly with the hours my daughter was taking some young men through their dance tests at the now, much closer rink.
So, as the mom, I offered to spend the night sans a change of clothes to be available for the service call. My daughter kindly offered to lend me some of her “larger” things. Of course, larger to her means someone gave her a size “small” instead of “extra small”.
“But mom, some are really big, I think you can wear them to sleep in at least.” To prove this she produced a “Green Turtle” t-shirt that was marked “S” and did appear to be pushing a size 4.
I smiled tenderly. “Sweetheart, if I try to put this on, it’s going to be a remake of ‘The Incredible Hulk—I’ll be okay.”
This morning I had the option of showering and putting on the same dirty clothes—all the dirty clothes—or just acting like I was buying Rolling Stones tickets. As I sat on the couch pondering the decision I noticed that one of my socks was on inside out and by switching it around, I felt a tiny bit better--perhaps Feng-shuing my body.
The cable representative arrived at ten minutes before 2. In annoyance, I made sure I stood right near the personal space line while he worked.
“We’re going to have to run the line through this closet,” he advised as he opened the double doors and beheld the bevy of jackets and coats.
“Geez, how many people live here?”
“One.”
He started moving some of the skating jackets to the sofa, noticing the various clubs and team emblems. I could see him doing a mental size chart as he nodded to me.
“My dad still has all of his old baseball team uniforms hanging in his closet too.”
“Really?” I query as I slid the twenty dollar I had earmarked for a tip from my pocket back into my wallet.
“Well, that’s our generation for you. We’re all about having lots of clean clothes whether you wear them or not.”
Mombo
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