With access to high speed internet this summer, I’ve taken to downloading shows and movies. After watching several episodes of Weeds, the title, “Quirky TV Shows Featuring a Strong Female Lead,”
appeared in my queue as a genre that Netflix apparently feels is suited
to my taste. The title also appropriately describes my summer vacation.
I’ve had a little too much time on my hands. After not being 100% satisfied with certain products, I called a lot of companies to complain. My call to L’Oreal about a greasy face cream netted me a refund check but my visit with a Victoria’s Secret sales clerk stuck me with a bra whose seams would show through fleece (there’s a reason why it was on clearance, ah-ha!).
My best interaction was with the representative of the Keurig corporation, a company that makes single serving coffee makers. Mom purchased a Keurig coffee maker for my dad for Father’s day, and we all fell in love with it. The coffee maker uses little pre-measured cups (called K-cups) of coffee that are popped in and out of the maker. Dad is a straightforward cup-a-joe guy, but I like flavored coffee, so I purchased a K-cups box advertising that it contained Butter Toffee and Caramel Beurre coffee.
Unfortunately, I found that the 18 cup box contained 16 Butter Toffees and 2 Caramel Beurres. I called the company to complain about the inequity and hoped they would send me an entire box of Caramel Beurre as an apology. My complaint was met with silence. Then, the customer service representative tentatively suggested that I was, in fact, in possession of an entire box of Caramel Beurre…..because the term is French for “butter toffee.”
Apparently K-cups are popular in Canada where some are labeled in French.
Oh.
In all, it’s been a schizophrenic summer. I spent time with “all-American” families, widows, and carnies. I learned that I am too old for carnival rides (though never too old for funnel cake), I learned that if I get married, I’ll always have someone to buy hangover food for me, and I learned that the middle and ring finger of my right hand are virtually fingerprint free.
This last piece of knowledge came as a particular surprise. For a teaching license, I needed to undergo a background check which necessitated fingerprints. During the printing process, the officer at the Sheriff’s department printed me twice, and still, we couldn’t get clear prints on two fingers of my right hand. I guess, then, I can still embark on a crime spree using only my right middle and ring fingers. It’ll make lock picking difficult, but I’m sure I’ll manage.
In fact, only two days later, I did do something legally dodgy. At a store, I wanted to purchase a can of Virginia Peanuts, but no one was around to take my money. There were no other customers in the store, I poked my head into the back room and saw no one, and I called out for assistance. Crickets. So I wrote a note and tucked the cash into it. And then I left, with the peanuts under my arm. I’ve never done anything like this, and so far, the police haven’t come knocking on my door. Maybe they were confused by the odd fingerprints I left behind.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. The Montana Bureau of Justice has rejected my fingerprint cards, citing them as unreadable.
This whole fingerprinting incident really got me thinking about where I am as an adult. I mean, I’m lucky enough to have stayed off the grid for 37 years, which I think is a minor miracle given my penchant for speeding and making obscene gestures (which often occur at the same time).
However, in 37 years, I’ve managed to become less physically tolerant of being whipped around violently. As a child, I could climb off any carnival ride with a big smile and wild hair. This summer I discovered that those days are over. After 3 minutes on the swings at the Salem Fair, I tumbled off, listing heavily to the right, with very wobbly bowels. No, I learned, port-a-potties at a carnival are not fun.
On the flip side, at 37, I’m old enough to stay in the pool during the adult swim. This summer I swam most days at a nearby outdoor pool. I was entirely too excited the first time the lifeguard blew the whistle to announce the adult swim, and I realized that I could stay in while all the ankle biters had to get out. I floated in luxurious quiet on my swimming noodle.
One of the groovy things about going back to my hometown this summer was meeting up with high school friends. Of course, they’re all married with children (while I still ride the relationship short bus), but I was invited in for a glimpse of the “all-American” family at play.
During the weekends, the families in my friend’s cul-de-sac let the children play in the street while the adults, sometime nursing babies, sometimes nursing beer, supervise from their driveways. Though conversations were punctuated with, “Don’t do that!” “Leave your brother alone!” and “Take that off your head!” I learned several things about the “all-American” family.
I learned that perhaps the greatest invention of the 20th century is the baby monitor. Parents can listen for kids up to mischief in their cribs from hundreds of yards away. With baby monitors clipped onto their belts, moms steadied a glass of wine in one hand while spraying bug repellant on a rowdy two-year old with the other.
I also learned that two-parent households are particularly adept at tag-team disciplining their kids. Employing the eyes in the backs of their heads and using a growl that could stop a team of horses in their tracks, these parents didn’t need to leave the comfort of their lawn chairs in order to scare the crap out of their kids.
I think the most interesting thing I learned about these married-with-children families is the built-in support system. Sure the parents shared the car-pooling and cooking responsibilities, but, most importantly, I learned that all the husbands drove out the morning after a particularly raucous Christmas party to buy their wives hangover food. This is a fringe benefit of marriage that I’d never heard about. I think I might have climbed on board the marriage roller coaster if I’d known that!
When I wasn’t spending time with the Great American Dream families or at the pool, I shared an occasional glass of wine with the widows who live in my parents’ condo building. With an average age of 75, these ladies are living the good life volunteering at church, taking pottery classes, and spending time with family.
They also taught me something about marriage—it’s a good ride that everyone should get on, but once it’s over, it’s good to stand on your own two feet. Hopefully without the listing and the loose bowels.
I’ve had a little too much time on my hands. After not being 100% satisfied with certain products, I called a lot of companies to complain. My call to L’Oreal about a greasy face cream netted me a refund check but my visit with a Victoria’s Secret sales clerk stuck me with a bra whose seams would show through fleece (there’s a reason why it was on clearance, ah-ha!).
My best interaction was with the representative of the Keurig corporation, a company that makes single serving coffee makers. Mom purchased a Keurig coffee maker for my dad for Father’s day, and we all fell in love with it. The coffee maker uses little pre-measured cups (called K-cups) of coffee that are popped in and out of the maker. Dad is a straightforward cup-a-joe guy, but I like flavored coffee, so I purchased a K-cups box advertising that it contained Butter Toffee and Caramel Beurre coffee.
Unfortunately, I found that the 18 cup box contained 16 Butter Toffees and 2 Caramel Beurres. I called the company to complain about the inequity and hoped they would send me an entire box of Caramel Beurre as an apology. My complaint was met with silence. Then, the customer service representative tentatively suggested that I was, in fact, in possession of an entire box of Caramel Beurre…..because the term is French for “butter toffee.”
Apparently K-cups are popular in Canada where some are labeled in French.
Oh.
In all, it’s been a schizophrenic summer. I spent time with “all-American” families, widows, and carnies. I learned that I am too old for carnival rides (though never too old for funnel cake), I learned that if I get married, I’ll always have someone to buy hangover food for me, and I learned that the middle and ring finger of my right hand are virtually fingerprint free.
This last piece of knowledge came as a particular surprise. For a teaching license, I needed to undergo a background check which necessitated fingerprints. During the printing process, the officer at the Sheriff’s department printed me twice, and still, we couldn’t get clear prints on two fingers of my right hand. I guess, then, I can still embark on a crime spree using only my right middle and ring fingers. It’ll make lock picking difficult, but I’m sure I’ll manage.
In fact, only two days later, I did do something legally dodgy. At a store, I wanted to purchase a can of Virginia Peanuts, but no one was around to take my money. There were no other customers in the store, I poked my head into the back room and saw no one, and I called out for assistance. Crickets. So I wrote a note and tucked the cash into it. And then I left, with the peanuts under my arm. I’ve never done anything like this, and so far, the police haven’t come knocking on my door. Maybe they were confused by the odd fingerprints I left behind.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. The Montana Bureau of Justice has rejected my fingerprint cards, citing them as unreadable.
This whole fingerprinting incident really got me thinking about where I am as an adult. I mean, I’m lucky enough to have stayed off the grid for 37 years, which I think is a minor miracle given my penchant for speeding and making obscene gestures (which often occur at the same time).
However, in 37 years, I’ve managed to become less physically tolerant of being whipped around violently. As a child, I could climb off any carnival ride with a big smile and wild hair. This summer I discovered that those days are over. After 3 minutes on the swings at the Salem Fair, I tumbled off, listing heavily to the right, with very wobbly bowels. No, I learned, port-a-potties at a carnival are not fun.
On the flip side, at 37, I’m old enough to stay in the pool during the adult swim. This summer I swam most days at a nearby outdoor pool. I was entirely too excited the first time the lifeguard blew the whistle to announce the adult swim, and I realized that I could stay in while all the ankle biters had to get out. I floated in luxurious quiet on my swimming noodle.
One of the groovy things about going back to my hometown this summer was meeting up with high school friends. Of course, they’re all married with children (while I still ride the relationship short bus), but I was invited in for a glimpse of the “all-American” family at play.
During the weekends, the families in my friend’s cul-de-sac let the children play in the street while the adults, sometime nursing babies, sometimes nursing beer, supervise from their driveways. Though conversations were punctuated with, “Don’t do that!” “Leave your brother alone!” and “Take that off your head!” I learned several things about the “all-American” family.
I learned that perhaps the greatest invention of the 20th century is the baby monitor. Parents can listen for kids up to mischief in their cribs from hundreds of yards away. With baby monitors clipped onto their belts, moms steadied a glass of wine in one hand while spraying bug repellant on a rowdy two-year old with the other.
I also learned that two-parent households are particularly adept at tag-team disciplining their kids. Employing the eyes in the backs of their heads and using a growl that could stop a team of horses in their tracks, these parents didn’t need to leave the comfort of their lawn chairs in order to scare the crap out of their kids.
I think the most interesting thing I learned about these married-with-children families is the built-in support system. Sure the parents shared the car-pooling and cooking responsibilities, but, most importantly, I learned that all the husbands drove out the morning after a particularly raucous Christmas party to buy their wives hangover food. This is a fringe benefit of marriage that I’d never heard about. I think I might have climbed on board the marriage roller coaster if I’d known that!
When I wasn’t spending time with the Great American Dream families or at the pool, I shared an occasional glass of wine with the widows who live in my parents’ condo building. With an average age of 75, these ladies are living the good life volunteering at church, taking pottery classes, and spending time with family.
They also taught me something about marriage—it’s a good ride that everyone should get on, but once it’s over, it’s good to stand on your own two feet. Hopefully without the listing and the loose bowels.
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