Driving to work this morning listening to Matisyahu, I look over and see a Rabbi pass me in a Lincoln and I think to myself, "Ha, what a coincidence." Then it dawns on me: how important it is to appreciate little moments like this.
I've graduated from thinking driving nose-pickers are funny to acknowledging them as downright gross. With that said, I should probably admit that I'm a guilty offender (come on, who isn't), but knowing that that person may one day shake my hand with his or her boogery mits just flips my stomach on end. Needless to say, I no longer appreciate a gold digger doing his work on the raod.
But little things, like walking into my beloved Stall 3 at work and noticing the seat is still up. Normally this would piss me off as I'm a staunch advocate for all things DOWN: seat, lid, direction of pee-pee, but seeing this makes me happy. Why? Because it means it's clean, freshhhh, unused. And who doesn't want an unused turlet? Yeah, that's what I thought.
Another one? New flavors of froyo at the magical yogurt place down the street from me. Granted, everyone else in my neighborhood, and their dog of course, always decide to go at the same time I do. I don't mind waiting in line, but there's something about this place that puts people into a craze. It's like their a pack of wild monkeys scavenging the tiny 20 x 20 room for bananas. They butt in line, cut off a wicked froyo pour, lick, smack and shove. It's mayhem, really. Last time I was there (on one of my tri-weekly visits), a woman was shadowing me wherever I went. It got creepy. I multitasking (no easy feat in this place) by trying to have a conversation with my friend Cath while deciding what delicious new flavaflav of yo I wanted. And this woman wouldn't leave me the eff alone! Now, I did appreciate her excitement, but too much of a good thing can spoil the fun for everyone. In her weird accent she kept asking me, "Ohhh are yooo getting dis vun? Or dis vus?" I didn't have the heart to be mean so I politely responded to each question, but all I really wanted to do was smoosh my cup of yo in her face. You know, teach her a lesson about manners and stuff . . .
Anyway, I'm off to go appreciate a yoga class and all the wonders that will certainly ensue.
3/15/11
3/6/11
new obsession.
These happen for me about once every 14 days . . .
Age 6: I was given the American Girl Doll, Molly, for my birthday. Even though Molly resembled me almost to a T, there was one difference: she had glasses. Which meant I needed glasses. Long story short, my Grandma lent me hers so I could walk around as the proudest fugly little glasses-wearing, perm-haired, doll lover there ever was. That lasted for a few months until I discovered Addy, the African American AGD. I knew I needed her, so I'd annoyingly leave the AGD Mag page open and dog-eared, hi-lited, circled and glittered pointing to Addy. Needless to say, I got the doll, which made me sooo cultured and accepting. I would walk into church with my white doll and block doll in tow and it never failed that the weird old people would ask me about my accelerated cultural appreciation. After explaining to them the suffering and hardship Addy went through and how much I respected her family and story, I received one of two responses: 1. a weird look followed by whispering (not to me of course--and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's not being included on a good whispering sesh), 2. praises for being so mature and accepting for my age. Booyah.
Also age 6: My first bra. Imagine getting a bra and a doll all in the same year. Lucky child? You know it. After a few hints here and there about my becoming a young woman, etc. etc. (Really? I was six.), I convinced my mom to take a special girls' trip to the Hilltop Mall (which now somewhat resembles a dilapidated maximum security prison). Once we walked into the JC Penney intimates department I went numb--I don't know if it was from embarrassment or excitement, but all of a sudden I just got weird and shy. We ended up picking out some lacy little numbers that kind of looked like a miniature sports bra with a bow on the front. I was so damn proud of myself that that night I decided that instead of buttoning my pajama top before bed, I left it open for all the world to see my new BRA. I can even remember running around the house thinking "I have a bra! I have a bra! I bet you all think I look sooo cool." My brothers quickly put a stop to that and I had to button my top. Those jerks.
Age 15: My first car had to be something different. I was a snotty teenage girl enough that if I would have been given a Blazer, Monte Carlo or Grand Am (those cars occupied about 85% of my high school's parking lot), I would have stomped upstairs, slammed my door and cried into my pillow . . . until realizing what a snotty teenager I was being and ran down the stairs profusely apologizing to my mom and telling her it was the greatest thing ever. I guess I was dramatic back then. So I had my heart set on a black Aztek that rode like the wind and looked like a big gloopy blob rolling down the interstate. It was perfect. I dropped not-so-subtle hints to my mom so much that I think she actually bought the car to shut me up. Hey, it worked: Lois came cruising up the driveway one month before my Sweet 16 and served me well for the next 7 years.
Age 23: Skis. I blame Kyle a little bit for this (not that that's a bad thing), but I've become obsessed with skis now, thinking I need upwards of 4 pairs. You know, for the different conditions and stuff. Early season: Use my old Rossi's. Powder days: New fatties. Still-good-snow-but-not-powder-days: New twin tips. And finally, to be trendy/awesome: Tele's. It needs to happen. Obviously I need to resolve this obsession before I move on to my next one, but to date I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't throw all my savings into a big group of new planks. I'm just looking on the bright side: at least I'm not obsessing over something else like guinea pigs or collectible Barbie dolls. That's when things start to go downhill and I won't allow it.
Age 6: I was given the American Girl Doll, Molly, for my birthday. Even though Molly resembled me almost to a T, there was one difference: she had glasses. Which meant I needed glasses. Long story short, my Grandma lent me hers so I could walk around as the proudest fugly little glasses-wearing, perm-haired, doll lover there ever was. That lasted for a few months until I discovered Addy, the African American AGD. I knew I needed her, so I'd annoyingly leave the AGD Mag page open and dog-eared, hi-lited, circled and glittered pointing to Addy. Needless to say, I got the doll, which made me sooo cultured and accepting. I would walk into church with my white doll and block doll in tow and it never failed that the weird old people would ask me about my accelerated cultural appreciation. After explaining to them the suffering and hardship Addy went through and how much I respected her family and story, I received one of two responses: 1. a weird look followed by whispering (not to me of course--and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's not being included on a good whispering sesh), 2. praises for being so mature and accepting for my age. Booyah.
Also age 6: My first bra. Imagine getting a bra and a doll all in the same year. Lucky child? You know it. After a few hints here and there about my becoming a young woman, etc. etc. (Really? I was six.), I convinced my mom to take a special girls' trip to the Hilltop Mall (which now somewhat resembles a dilapidated maximum security prison). Once we walked into the JC Penney intimates department I went numb--I don't know if it was from embarrassment or excitement, but all of a sudden I just got weird and shy. We ended up picking out some lacy little numbers that kind of looked like a miniature sports bra with a bow on the front. I was so damn proud of myself that that night I decided that instead of buttoning my pajama top before bed, I left it open for all the world to see my new BRA. I can even remember running around the house thinking "I have a bra! I have a bra! I bet you all think I look sooo cool." My brothers quickly put a stop to that and I had to button my top. Those jerks.
Age 15: My first car had to be something different. I was a snotty teenage girl enough that if I would have been given a Blazer, Monte Carlo or Grand Am (those cars occupied about 85% of my high school's parking lot), I would have stomped upstairs, slammed my door and cried into my pillow . . . until realizing what a snotty teenager I was being and ran down the stairs profusely apologizing to my mom and telling her it was the greatest thing ever. I guess I was dramatic back then. So I had my heart set on a black Aztek that rode like the wind and looked like a big gloopy blob rolling down the interstate. It was perfect. I dropped not-so-subtle hints to my mom so much that I think she actually bought the car to shut me up. Hey, it worked: Lois came cruising up the driveway one month before my Sweet 16 and served me well for the next 7 years.
Age 23: Skis. I blame Kyle a little bit for this (not that that's a bad thing), but I've become obsessed with skis now, thinking I need upwards of 4 pairs. You know, for the different conditions and stuff. Early season: Use my old Rossi's. Powder days: New fatties. Still-good-snow-but-not-powder-days: New twin tips. And finally, to be trendy/awesome: Tele's. It needs to happen. Obviously I need to resolve this obsession before I move on to my next one, but to date I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't throw all my savings into a big group of new planks. I'm just looking on the bright side: at least I'm not obsessing over something else like guinea pigs or collectible Barbie dolls. That's when things start to go downhill and I won't allow it.
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