Fang’s Rainbow

My husband is a power shopper — meaning that when he needs things, he buys them in bulk. He’s not hauling his ass to the mall to come back with one shirt! He stocks up. He doesn’t want to have to return for the same item for at least a year — and I’ve seen him stretch it to two years. He usually just goes to the same store and repurchases the same shirt in the same six or seven colors. This method works for him, mainly because in my husband’s world there are only twelve colors anyway.

“Fang’s rainbow” consists of red, orange, yellow, blue, green, purple, brown, black, white, gray, off-white, and, of course, maroon. Fang is partial to maroon, which is why it has a place on his color wheel. I don’t even know how exactly to characterize maroon. It’s really less a shade or a tone, more an amalgamation of red and brown. He’s convinced it’s a fabulous color, though, so who am I to argue?

I’m his wife, that’s who! The woman who has to be seen with the man in the maroon shirt. I’m not, as you can imagine, a big fan of maroon. It has very little place in the fashion world. I am of the opinion that only Harvard students or alumni should have access to maroon. They’ve earned the right to it’s ugliness.

Fang and I engaged in a stimulating discussion regarding colors recognized by the rest of the civilized world vs. Fang’s perception of color prior to embarking upon a recent semi-successful polo shirt shopping expedition, in which yours truly was somewhat of an unwilling participant. To be honest, I only went along to try to stop him from buying any more maroon shirts.

The only positive thing I can say about this trip was that at least we weren’t pants shopping. Because shopping for pants with Fang is a real treat. Partly because he’s difficult to fit; partly because he’s stuck in the ’80′s. Fang may well be the last person on the planet who actively seeks out pleats. He labors under the delusion that they look good on his body. They don’t.

It took some convincing on my part, but I actually got Fang to abandon his usual store, in favor of one that I had noticed on MY last foray into the mall, had a far more extensive collection of polo shirts. While they indeed offer maroon, they also carry somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-odd other colors. And that’s just in “their” brand — the brand that lined two walls in the Men’s Department. I was drawn to the lilacs, the seagrasses, the corals, the aquamarines and, the salmons; Fang, on the other hand, was determined to find blue, red, green, black, brown, and, of course, maroon.

Somewhere along the line I noted that he had selected, in what was probably a feeble attempt to humor me, something a little more colorful, something that wasn’t maroon. It was, however, gold. Not a nice, orange-y gold, but more of what I would describe as a hideous mustard-y gold.

Knowing Fang as I do, I did not ask him why he wished to look like a Century 21 agent, I simply attempted to steer him in another direction. Avoiding orange and yellow altogether, I pointed him toward the asparagus, coral, powder blue, orchid, and plain old pink. As I was acting as his valet, as well as his personal shopper, when he wasn’t looking I surreptitiously ditched the gold. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice.

For what seemed like hours, I watched as my husband compared and contrasted the heft and construction of what must have been a hundred polo shirts. Fang prefers a medium-weight! I had, at this point, grown weary of this exercise. So, I handed him the few shirts that he had decided upon and left him to his own devices. It was getting late and I needed to head upstairs to buy myself an umbrella — to replace the one that had somehow disappeared from my life — the one that was last seen leaving the house with Fangette. I promised Fang that I’d make it back before he made his final selections.

Imagine my surprise when he showed up in the umbrella section, purchases in hand. To be fair, I was gone longer than expected — I didn’t head right over to the umbrella area — I made a brief foray over to where they sell women’s tank tops. I had purchased one the week before and was very pleased with the neckline (this gal LOVES a V-neck!) and the fit — even in a size large the armholes are not designed to fit Popeye. I hate it when the armholes on a tank top don’t cover my bra. Hate it!

Distracted by my own purchases — I even managed to find a cute “cheetah-print” umbrella — I didn’t even think to check out what my husband was going home with. It wasn’t until much later that I thought to investigate.

I am happy to report that he didn’t find or purchase the gold one. Sadly and, I guess, inevitably, he is now the proud owner of yet another maroon polo shirt. It seems that I did make some impact on his final selections, though. Because nestled amongst the red, the black, and the gray, I was delighted to find an ultramarine and a sage. Some progress, I suppose, is better than no progress at all. Perhaps next year he’ll work up to orchid or, if there is a God, salmon.

photo credit: rainbow

Good Riddance To Unpaid Internships!

Earlier this week, William Pauley, a federal judge in Manhattan, ruled that “Fox Searchlight [had] violated minimum-wage laws by not paying two production interns for their work on the film ‘Black Swan’”. Finally.

I have never understood the concept of the unpaid internship. Back when I was in college I was offered one — at a National Park, no less. When I discovered that I would be doing what other folks did for money, I turned it down flat. I was certainly qualified for a paying job — the folks who were being paid to work there did not have any more education than I did. Sure, they had more training and experience — training that had been provided to them by this employer; experience that they had garnered by WORKING there, you know, for MONEY. So, I said, “Thanks, but no thanks!” to that nonsense.

Participating in this little adventure in slave labor likely would not have led to future employment — at least not there, as there was no money in the budget to offer me a job anyway. When I asked why they were calling it an “internship” versus simply asking me if I wanted to “volunteer”, they said that they could call it an internship because I was going to gain valuable work experience. I pointed out that I would gain the same valuable work experience by volunteering in the same capacity or, better yet, by continuing to work (and be paid) at my current job. They told me that if it made me feel better, I could think of myself as a volunteer. It didn’t make me feel better.

Historically, unpaid internships have been most prevalent in the fields of art and entertainment — television, film, music, museums, publishing houses, and the fashion world, to name a few. People — usually young people — looking to “break into” these industries are often willing to sell themselves short, by working for free. They exchange their labor for the (often empty) promise of future employment.

I’ve known any number of folks who have been hoodwinked into thinking that after six months of long hours spent fetching coffee and making copies, that they’ll be offered a glamorous job in their chosen field. I’ve NEVER — not even once — heard of it happening. Why should it? These companies just fill your vacancy with the next poor slob that’s willing to work for free. They may like you. They may even write you a nice reference. But, at the end of the day, why would they EVER pay you? — a person who was willing to work for nothing?

Companies participate in this folly because they can get away with it. It’s not that they can’t afford to pay at least minimum wage to a person in an entry-level job. A couple of hundred dollars a week is a drop in the bucket — given the amount of money that the people at the top make (millions!), it’s a drop that they can well afford.

It’s an unsavory practice, at best; criminal, at worst. I, for one, am happy that FINALLY someone like Judge William Pauley came to his senses and cracked down on, in this case, the film industry. Hopefully other judges will follow suit.

To be polite, interns everywhere should send him a “Thank You” note.

Click here for the full story.

photo credit: film reel (morguefile.com)

I’m Not Asking You To Build Me a Bridge To Europe, For Crying Out Loud!

I’ve learned a few things about my husband over the course of nearly 30 years together. Why I forget ALL of these things, particularly when it comes to asking for his help, is anybody’s guess — and says more about me, I suppose, than it says about him.

Last night Fang and I went to dinner — just the two of us. This used to be a rarity, but now that Fangette is working AND has a driver’s license we hardly see her at all. I’ll give you a moment to wipe the tears from your eyes as you picture sad, old Fang and I sitting alone at a restaurant — enjoying each other’s company and having an actual conversation sans surly teenager. Hmmm? What’s that you say? That we don’t look mopey at all? That, in fact, we kind of remind you of that guy in the Staples commercial — the one where he’s skipping through the aisles, happily tossing Back-to-School supplies in his cart, morose children in tow, as they play that Christmas song that contains the line “It’s the most wonderful time of the year”? Yup. That’s us.

Go ahead. Put away the Kleenex.

It’s nice, this going out to dinner with my husband thing. It’s been made even nicer since I declared a moratorium on discussing Fangette. I did worry, for a fleeting second, that we might not have anything to talk about once we removed her as a subject line. I’m happy to report that we have found plenty of topics for scintillating conversation that do NOT feature our daughter. Well, at least I have.

I have always known that Fang is not a big talker. What I had forgotten, after all these years of 30-second conversations, is that he’s also not much of a listener. After painstakingly detailing an idea that I’ve had rolling around in my head for quite some time, I got to the last bit and asked him, “So, what do you think?” This is when he looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I missed something. Can you go over that again?”

The second time around, after being satisfied that he “got” it, I repeated the question. His response caused me to remember that Fang is, at heart, a bit of a cheapskate. My idea will not require wads of cash. Basically, we’re talking about chump change, but this is the element of my plan that he decided to focus on. Fang is very nice, but he’s a bit of a “Debbie Downer”. Some folks look for the silver lining, Fang tends to focus on the black cloud.

In and of itself, it’s not an altogether terrible thing to have someone around to temper your enthusiasm with reality. This, though, felt a little bit like he was deliberately stomping on my dream over a few hundred bucks. A few hundred bucks that, by the way, will be earned by me. I wasn’t asking him to fund my scheme. I was asking him to participate in it, though. I thought that involving him would be part of the fun of doing it.

It wasn’t like I was asking him to engineer that “Bridge to Europe” that I’m always hoping someone will build — because I’d love to see Europe, but am not a fan of flying. Sure, I could take a cruise, but that comes with a whole other set of anxieties. No. I don’t see myself getting there via the open seas — I don’t care how beautiful my cabin is or how incredible the food is — the knowledge that I’m at the mercy of the Atlantic Ocean in what amounts to a bucket is enough to send me over the proverbial edge.

If I ever do get up the courage to go to Europe, I’m sure I’ll get there by plane. The problem with me and flying is that I can usually get myself to a place, through whatever chemical assistance is available to me, where I can get to my destination with a minimum of hysteria — it’s just that I worry so much about the transportation aspects of my journey home, that I don’t enjoy myself the entire time I am wherever I’ve gotten to.

I was asking him to build me something, but it wasn’t anything made of concrete. It wasn’t something that required an advanced degree or knowledge of trigonometry. I simply asked him to help me to build a website. Fang loves to research things. And he’s good at technical things. I like to research SOME things — things historical tend to get my motor revving — but I HATE to research anything related to technology — mainly because I don’t understand it. Fang doesn’t buy a calculator without researching it. If this were ancient Greece, Fang would be the guy wandering the agora, comparing and contrasting bead construction and dowel placement prior to plunking down his hard earned obols on an abacus.

I bought him a GPS a few years back. He was oh so proud of me that I had purchased the right model — the exact one that he had his eye on. What he didn’t know then (and what he still doesn’t know) is that I didn’t do a lick of research. It was an impulse buy. It was on sale. I simply got lucky. It’s an electronic map for crying out loud, how “good” or “bad” could it be? What it does versus what another one does I couldn’t tell you. Fang could, though. Oh, yes. He could tell you.

I thought that he would be excited to be given the opportunity to build a website — it’s the sort of thing that is right in his wheelhouse. Lots of technical mumbo-jumbo to sift through, plenty of information to gather, a plethora of hosting sites to compare — this is just the sort of activity that usually gets HIS motor revving.

To give you some idea of my husband’s “skill set”, you should have seen the elaborate chart he constructed when we were eligible for new phones. It was, to him, a thing of beauty. It was also the culmination of hours and hours of research. For a long time, even after we had our new phones and our new phone plan, he kept that thing on his night table — in a place of honor. I was thinking of having it laminated. (I looked for it a few minutes ago because I think you would have enjoyed seeing it, but it has either been discarded or is tucked away somewhere safe — to be saved, I can only imagine, for posterity. I don’t really blame him for moving it. He did take a fair amount of ribbing from his wife and his daughter about “the chart”!)

He didn’t say “No” outright to helping me. What he said was that he’d “take a look”; he’d “see what he could come up with”. In Fangspeak that’s code for “I don’t want to make any commitment to being successful, but I’ll spend some time investigating”. And he will. It’ll just be on Fang time, which will, no doubt, frustrate me, but I’m confident that he will get done. I just have to keep my mouth shut about it. I have to resolve to be patient. That, my friends, is going to be the hard part!

photo credit: bridge (morguefile.com)

In Search of… The Perfect Pair of Flip-Flops

“Aaaaahhhhh!”, said my feet, as I slipped them into what I had determined was the perfect pair of flip-flops.

You shouldn’t underestimate the power of the perfect pair of flip-flops. Nor should you assume that one’s ability to find such an item can be done with anything resembling alacrity. They don’t just jump off the shelf at the first shoe store, for crying out loud! No. They hide out in the hidden recesses of the fourteenth or (sometimes!) the fortieth store you enter. Like the “little black dress”, a decent pair of flip-flops is integral to any wardrobe. And can be just as elusive.

There are any number of versions of the “little black dress”, so it’s easy to understand why a person can spend her life searching for one. Flip-flops, on the other hand, because they are, by their very nature, a simple configuration of sole and thong, should be a far easier thing to stumble upon. Except that they’re not. At least not for me.

The main reason that I have so much trouble finding ANY flip-flop, let alone the “perfect” flip-flop, is genetic. If you were to look at my feet, you’d probably be surprised to discover that, although they share a hairline, my father is NOT, in fact, Fred Flintstone. Flip-flops are foot-shaped, my feet are, like Fred’s, brick-shaped. They resemble unfinished pieces of sculpture — like the artist, after chiseling out the toes, got bored or, possibly even died, prior to shaving the proper amount of granite off of the sides.

The shape of my feet, or lack thereof, has not been enhanced by a lifetime of working on my them, either. What little arch I started out with in life is now almost nonexistent. This means that while others can wander around in $2.50 Old Navy flip-flops, I require something a little more substantial — something that fools my brain into thinking that my feet have an arch.

I am also afflicted with a chronic case of plantar fasciitis. You can look it up. Suffice it to say, “it sucks”. I very often feel like I’m walking on broken glass. Luckily, my case is milder than most — it only flares up once in a while. Wearing the wrong shoes, though, — like flat, unsupportive flip-flops — is sure to bring it on. Trust me, no one wants that. Because it makes me miserable. And I’m not the type to suffer in silence.

As if I don’t have enough problems, I also have a recurring issue with a couple of corns. They take up residence from time to time between my fourth and my fifth toes. I’ve entertained the notion of obtaining those “toe” shoes to keep this annoyance at bay, but I have it on good authority that NO ONE will be seen with me while I’m wearing these! It’s tempting, though. Some days, choosing between a friendless life of loneliness and despair or not being agitated by corns, seems a no-brainer. What I have discovered is that if my shoes are wide enough, but not TOO wide, at the top, I can keep the corns from growing so large that they actually resemble an extra toe!

Finding a pair of flip-flops that have an arch to combat my flat-footedness, are padded enough to alleviate the plantar fasciitis, and are wide enough to keep the corns from forming is a nearly impossible task, particularly if you also want them to look somewhat stylish. It goes without saying that I want them to be fashionable. Why bother with expensive and time-consuming pedicures if you can’t show off the results by sporting some cute-ass flip-flops?

That I go through this every year is mind-boggling. But, I do. Because flip-flops stretch out over the course of the winter. I don’t know why. I’m sure there’s some perfectly reasonable scientific explanation for this. My theory, less scientific but certainly more plausible, is that Hobbits sneak underneath my bed, raid my flip-flop stash, and wear them on their adventures. Searching for rings and saving Middle Earth requires footwear. Hobbits are the only creatures, outside of cartoon characters, who have uglier feet than I do.

Yesterday, after trying on about one-hundred pairs — ranging in price, might I add, from $14.99 to $55.00 — I finally found a pair that fit all of my criteria AND only cost $24.99! I was really happy with them. Until I got them home and modeled them for Fangette, who immediately asked me why I had purchased “orthopedic” shoes. My first reaction was to argue with her, to tell her that they were not “orthopedic”, that they were “cute”. And then I took a second look at them. That’s when I realized that she was right. They weren’t cute at all. But here’s the thing — they fit and they’re comfortable! So, I’m keeping them. In fact, I may even go back to the store and buy them in another color!

It hasn’t escaped my notice that being satisfied with comfort and fit or the fact that I can no longer be trusted to deem a shoe “cute”, is a sure sign that I’m middle-aged. Cool. I’ve always wanted a pair of Birkenstock’s.

photo credit: flip flops (me)

I’m Conflicted…

It could always be worse — we could be Cubs’ fans!

I’m conflicted — not about anything earth-shattering, mind you. While things like global warning, the debt ceiling, and human trafficking are never far from my mind, I have the ability to push them aside so that I can make room in my disorganized brain for a few of your more mundane worries — like which one of my neighbors left GUM in the dryer and didn’t clean it out, what the hell I’m going to make for dinner, and when The Mets are finally going to bring up Zack Wheeler.

Mysteries like why the people I live with MUST eat my plain banana yogurt (the kind WITHOUT strawberry!), when I damn sure buy them enough of the disgusting berry-flavored varieties that they claim to like, but NEVER seem to eat — this will have to be addressed another day. I’ve also placed other conundrums on the back burner this morning. Head scratchers like how Strom Thurmann served for so long in the US Senate, why my daughter can’t seem to keep track of her pencils (the nice ones, the mechanical kind, the type that cost $3.59), or why no one can invent a proper broom — one whose handle remains ON the broom while sweeping — are just too much for one woman on a random Tuesday morning. (Someone ought to put that Dyson guy on the broom thing. He’s a real problem-solver! Placing the vacuum motor at the bottom? Genius!)

In terms of things that make me go, “Huh?”, the GUM thing is on the top of my list today. It smacks of both idiocy and irresponsibility. Whether they failed to notice that there was chewing gum all over their dried clothing and, by extension, all over the dryer — he or she (though I doubt it was a she) is an idiot. I don’t believe it, though. Not the idiot part — idiocy is fairly common — it’s the not noticing part that I have a hard time believing. What I do believe is that whoever left their chewing gum behind in the dryer is both an idiot and irresponsible — you can throw careless in there if you like, too — so, what we’re dealing with here is an irresponsible idiot, which is, in my opinion, the worst kind of idiot.

As a result of someone’s irresponsible idiocy, I was forced to spend twenty minutes (TWENTY MINUTES!) scraping SOMEONE ELSE’S previously chewed gum out of the dryer! I only hope that the heat of the dryer killed whatever horrible bacteria may have been lurking in their saliva. Let’s face it, anyone who would leave gum in a dryer probably doesn’t wash their hands after pooping or take other sanitary precautions as they wander through life. He is likely the type of person who, upon seeing an M&M on the floor of the grocery store can be heard exclaiming, “Ooh! Free candy!” as he pops it into his mouth. I can only assume that his gum was harboring some form of disease — the common cold at the very least.

I don’t need to come down with any more diseases because I’m already suffering from one that I like to call “ennui” — mostly it flares up when it nears meal time — specifically dinnertime. Really, it begins in the supermarket where, of late, I can be found roaming the aisles searching, fruitlessly, for inspiration. I often wonder if my blank look, confused expression, and/or directionless ambling gives people the idea that I am suffering from some something more serious than ennui — like early-onset senility or a brain tumor. I should make up a sign and pin it to my chest — a sign that would reassure them — the casual and caring observer — that I only behave this way at the grocery store. (O.K., O.K. — I might have to wear the sign at Target, too!)

Part of the problem is that I begin my journey through the supermarket in Produce. Everything looks so nice and fresh and colorful there. So, I load up my cart with all sorts of healthy ingredients, only to wonder, at checkout time, what I’m going to do with kale and ginger and something that looks red and juicy, but that I can’t identify, when I get it home.

I pick up these types of items because I am so bored with cooking the meals that I’ve always cooked. I desperately want to MAKE different things. The problem is that Fang and Fangette don’t want to EAT different things. In their defense, they’ve been subjected to more than one culinary disaster as a result of my attempts to use the wacky ingredients that have made their way into my kitchen.

I understand that this problem could be addressed if I were to do two fairly simple things — seek out recipes and make shopping lists. I know that’s the answer. I do. I’m not an idiot. But, I don’t do either. I have issues with recipes. Partially it comes from the assumption by the recipe-maker that the end-user has things like ricers, food processors, or something called a food mill. I’m lucky I have a whisk. And don’t even get me started on the spices — saffron, tarragon, cumin — who even knows what these are? As far as I’m concerned, all you need is salt, pepper, parsley, oregano, basil, and, of course, paprika (it imparts a lovely reddish color to every dish!).

I may also bring a teeny-weeny bit of my psychological baggage to recipe-following. I have problems following directions — because I hate being told what to do. What are recipes other than someone you don’t even know telling you what to do? Worse, though, are when they are my mother’s recipes — then I just hear HER telling me what to do or gasping as I use white vinegar instead of apple cider vinegar in her famous pot roast recipe. (I have actually had internal conversations between myself and my mother, while committing this heinous act, where I say things like, “Listen, old woman, it’s what I have!) If you’re not going to follow a recipe, why even bother to make a list?

Tonight we will probably be reduced to yet another version of soup and sandwiches. Perhaps I’ll go nuts — boil up some eggs and make egg salad for a change of pace — I think that Fang and Fangette are getting a little tired of grilled cheese and canned soup. To be honest, I’m growing weary of it myself. But it’s simple, flexible, and requires little, if any, thought. My kind of meal.

I have to be a little bit careful at this time of year in terms of making anything that could produce indigestion — because we generally eat while we watch The Mets. Watching The Mets is indigestion-producing in and of itself — it doesn’t need to be helped along by poor culinary decisions. To say that they can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory is an understatement. And the Zack Wheeler thing? I know they are waiting for a certain date to bring him up from AAA. I know it has to do with free agency and money somewhere down the line — I know there’s a “magic date” that must pass prior to his arrival in The Bigs, but in the meantime, I swear they could hand the ball off to someone in the stands and we would see a better game than what has, thus far, been served up this season.

Sure, there have been bright spots — almost any game Matt Harvey has been involved in and sweeping The Yankees — but they have been few and far between. So have my fabulous dinners. Perhaps once Zack Wheeler gets called up, I’ll be able to muster up the energy for the odd mealtime epiphany. Or, maybe I’ll hand the reins over to another family member — let someone else do the cooking. Possibly that’s what we really need around here — a pitching change.

photo credit: Wrigley Field

A Few of the Reasons That I Am Who I Am

I wrote this for my father’s birthday last year. After struggling with a Father’s Day post, this one just kept nagging at me — like it was meant to see the light of day again.

With Father’s Day being just around the corner, I thought I would talk a little bit about my father — about some of the things that make him “him” and, by default, some of the things that make me “me”.

After giving unsolicited advice or pointing out the obvious, he likes to say, “I’m just saying. That’s all.”, which, in and of itself, should be pretty obvious to even the casual listener.

He once got a ticket on the highway for going too slow. He was 40 at the time. He holds fast to the maxim that “A car is a weapon.”

Cliff Huxtable may have made wearing college and university sweathsirts famous, but my father’s fondness for this particular apparel item predates “The Cosby Show”. He never went to a college or a university himself, all but one of his children are college graduates. The one who isn’t got her high school diploma at the age of 37; I never saw him happier or more proud.

Any one of his children can order for him in a restaurant. He always gets the same thing.

He has a penchant for giving “foul weather gear” as gifts. He believes in preparedness.

He makes lists. Constantly. They are all over the house, the fridge, the car. He doesn’t cotton to Post-Its. He’s like a modern-day William Carlos Williams.

He’s funny, but not deliberately so.

He loves baby powder. He uses it every day, but seldom wipes it from the bathroom floor. The path from the bathroom to the bedroom looks like something from an old-time detective movie. He smells good.

He clicks his middle nail and his thumbnail together when he’s anxious. He does a lot of clicking.

He will laugh heartily at the dumbest joke told to him by anyone under the age of 5, after that it better be well-crafted.

He used to collect coats and give them out to homeless people. When I started driving he made me his co-conspirator in this activity. He rode shotgun because it was easier for him to jump out of the car; he knew where they were hiding. I suspect he gave them food and money, too. They knew the car. They trusted him. He swore me to secrecy. He thought my mother didn’t know what he was up to. She did. He taught me compassion.

He’s often on to the next thing before he finishes the task at hand. He has a restless mind, probably undiagnosed ADHD.

He’s religious. I am not. He respects that.

He never quite mastered the VCR, but he spent hours making paper dolls for his daughters.

He has the gnarliest toenails in the world. He wears sandals anyway.

My mother has never brought the groceries in from the car. Ever. Even when his foot was broken that snowy Winter.

He inadvertently reveals surprises. He doesn’t understand subterfuge.

He if often annoyed, but seldom angry.

No matter how many field hockey games he has been forced to endure (both mine and my daughter’s) he will never understand the game. He still cheers like he knows what he’s talking about.

He has never gotten over the death of his son. It was over forty years ago. I can respect that.

He enjoys reading the paper aloud. My mother enjoys reading the paper silently. That always made for fun mornings.

He loves all of the British detective series’ on PBS. So do I. We often discuss the characters as if they are real people with whom we are on a first-name basis (the recent discovery of Inspector Morse’s first name thrilled him no end. “Endeavor. Hmm. I never would have guessed that!”). This name-dropping is often confusing to others.

He hates to talk on the phone. He thinks texting and email are the greatest inventions since the wheel. He embraced these new technologies immediately and with uncharacteristic gusto.

He slips me $20s with the proviso that I will only spend them on myself. Fat chance, Dad.

He once taught a gang of gangly misfits and rejects to play softball. Everybody played equally, even the girl who was blind in one eye. We lost every game that year. We won the championship the next year. He taught us the importance of fundamentals, fairness, and perseverence. He learned how easy it is to influence preadolescent girls with the promise of hair ribbons.

When my youngest sister was little she took to calling him her “soft and sweet” Daddy. That about sums him up.

This is a blog hop, sponsored by the ladies over at Generation Fabulous — hop on over and read some more great Father’s Day posts!

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photo credit: me

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Just Bitchin’ About the Weather

Like most people, I have a short memory. I always forget, while I’m bitching and moaning about how cold it still is in April, how much I despise the Summer.

I’ve got a great deal to do today and a very small window in which to do it. I have to accomplish several Herculean tasks while the weather cooperates — before it gets so hot and sticky that all I can do is concentrate on remaining as still as possible while still managing to meet my family’s basic needs. The summer, at least for me, becomes an exercise in time and clothing management.

Like a farmer, I try to avoid doing anything strenuous after noon. Activities that involve heavy lifting — like laundry and vacuuming — simply must be ticked off the list by mid-morning. I no longer garden, but when I did, I had to rise before the cock crowed to tend to the tomatoes and the green beans.

Because of my aversion to sweating and all of the discomfort that accompanies it, cooking in the summertime is problematic. We tend to eat a lot of salad. My husband used to barbecue, but that went by the wayside when we moved here — there’s just no place for a grill. And, really, that’s just fine with me. Barbecuing is far more trouble than it’s worth — particularly because it’s my husband’s milieu. Honestly, all he ever did was stand over the grill and burn whatever meat product was on the menu — I did, pretty much, everything else.

I was almost always forced to take on the role of “barbecue assistant”, which entailed handing Fang whichever tool he deemed necessary to the task at hand. Anyone who ever watched us barbecue was probably put in mind of one of those medical dramas — Fang played the role of the competent, yet surprisingly handsome, surgeon while I was cast as his efficient O.R. nurse. Substitute “spatula” for “scalpel”, “tongs” for “Kelly clamp” and, well, you get the picture.

The main problem with this analogy, though, would be in my manner of dress. My barbecue attire was closer to scantily clad magician’s assistant than to O.R. nurse. I tend to kiss modesty up to God in the summertime. I try to wear as little as possible. Though I try to guard against it, I often look like a hooker on her way to the corner or someone who has just managed to escape her captors. And I don’t care. Because I’m hot.

I’m ALWAYS hot and I ALWAYS have been. Poor Fangette also got the “hot gene”. I like to blame my severe dislike of heat and humidity on my Irish and my Dutch ancestry. “My people”, I like to say, “were not made for this weather!” Given the wide array of Western European blood that pours through my veins, I don’t have a spit of Mediterranean blood — not one drop. I thought my daughter might have a fighting chance at avoiding the “hot gene”, given that my husband is 100% Italian, but she seems to have been unlucky in this area.

She also didn’t get his aquiline nose — my husband has THE FINEST Roman nose I have ever seen! It’s really something. If they ever lose all images of Caesar or his descendants and they have to find a nose, you know, for sculpting purposes, all they have to do is come to New Jersey and seek him out. Frankly, I’m surprised that my husband hasn’t been stopped on the street by a world-renowned plastic surgeon who would finally, upon stumbling upon Fang outside of, say, the supermarket or the car wash, be able to end their lifelong quest for the perfect nose. It’s that good.

Almost the first thing I did, upon meeting Fangette, after counting up all of her fingers and toes, was to check her nose. I knew right away she was doomed. Doomed to go through life with my pug. I was pleased that she got his chin though — she hit the genetic lottery there — because I barely have a chin at all. Well, I HAVE one, but it’s, let’s just say, vaguely defined. My husband and my daughter, though, they have great chins. Chiseled chins. They have delightful chins. Their chins are a constant source of envy for me, the nearly chinless.

Being challenged in the chin department is made more difficult as one enters midlife. Because of the developing wattle. It’s one thing to have the beginnings of a wattle when you have a chin — less noticeable that way — but when you are already chinless? That’s tough. In the wintertime I am able to camouflage my deformity by wearing turtlenecks — I find the drapey kind work best. Tank tops and camisoles, my “go-to” summer top choices, do nothing to hide the emerging wattle. My only hope is that people focus on my cleavage rather than on my chinlessness.

I’m really looking forward to the next couple of months — to dressing like a streetwalker, to getting up at the crack of dawn, and to eating like a rabbit. I can’t wait. It’s not too early to be looking forward to Winter, is it?

photo credit: barn