Prized Possession

Do you have a collection of things, odd and perplexing to others, that are too near and dear to send to the rubbish bin? We all do, right? Like that card my friend MC made for me for my 18th birthday with Muppets and magazine cutouts? Or the diary keys for the journal I started on the first day of fourth grade? Or some scraps of fabric from the school play?

Or this bathing suit. Or the $84 bathing suit, as I refer to it.

When I was a little kid, we never paid full price for anything. My dad was always getting laid off by the union and my mom only worked intermittently, since they didn't have anyone to watch me and my brother. As kids, we never really knew we were half broke all of the time, so it wasn't like we were sad little urchins or anything. We just always shopped at bargain stores, chased sales and clipped coupons.

As I got older, though, I started to want Guess jeans and IOU sweat shirts and things that, in general, cost more per item than my mom would spend on a whole season's wardrobe. My mother is the queen of finding a deal, let me tell you. It's a skill I admire and hope to acquire one day. I got odd jobs, like cleaning my neighbor's house and waiting tables at fire hall Bingo, so that I could buy the random ridiculous things I wanted, but my mom always encouraged me to watch for sales so that I could stretch my money a little further.

By the time I was in 8th grade, I knew the deal as far as shopping went. But that year I also started getting a subscription to Seventeen Magazine. And featured in said publication were many, many expensive articles of clothing that I lusted after. I did my best to reconstruct certain outfits, but there were some things I just couldn't find at my most favorite store ever.

Bathing suits fell into that category.

That year, however, there was a confluence of events that led to my ownership of the above suit. I have always been a bit of an over-achiever. Good grades were expected, and I always delivered. But that year I went above and beyond, with glowing teacher reports to go along with my good grades. Plus, that same year I landed a part in a full length student film. Don't worry, you've never seen it. It was a period piece about the whiskey rebellion in which I played a lively lass who didn't want to adhere to society's expectations. And then there was some other thing that I did, but I can't remember what it was. (Mom, leave a comment reminding me.)

When the issue of Seventeen came to my door featuring swim suits, I was in heaven. I loved poring over the pictures, imagining myself in each with varying results. But when I saw this blue and white and red number, I knew I found IT. The perfect bathing suit. For my barely pubescent body, it had everything I wanted: padded cups and high cut sides.

But I knew that with an $84 price tag, IT would never be mine. My own mother didn't even own anything that had cost that much, as far as I knew. So I drank in the photo and then said goodbye.

Needless to say, I was floored when my mother suggested that we go to the mall and buy it. To this day, I can still recall the excitement I felt on the drive there. We found it in a department store, I tried it on, and it was perfect. I still didn't quite believe my mother was actually going to buy me the thing, so when she headed to the check-out I almost passed out.

I wore that swim suit lovingly at every occasion I could for as long as it held out. All summer between 8th and 9th grade, and every day for my swim class during my freshman year of high school. Unfortunately, the heavily chlorinated high school pool was so punishing that I knew it was time to retire IT.

But I never got rid of IT. I doubt I ever will.

Thanks, mom.

When a Place is More Than Just a Place

Unless you live under a rock, then you know how the east coast has been pummeled, weather-wise, in the past week. On Sunday, a major part of my history met with an untimely demise because of the snow. The Rostraver Ice Gardens suffered a roof collapse. Luckily no one was injured, but somehow I still found myself choking up as I viewed the footage.

My history with this building goes back to before I even had a history. My mother and father met there during a public skating session. I've heard the story so many times I almost feel like I was there. My mother was skating hand-in-hand with her boyfriend Red when my father skated up to them and threatened to seal her away. (Spoiler: he did.) My maternal grandmother worked at the arena, and I think every single one of my uncles, on both sides of my family, played hockey there at one time or another. Then when I was a kid my mother worked there, behind the snack bar. I used to sneak behind the counter and get my own sodas. I grew up spending my Wednesday nights and weekends there while my little brother played hockey, and he sat on the benches while I took figure skating lessons on Saturday afternoons. I skated hand-in-hand with my first boyfriend there, and I met my oldest and dearest friend there. The memories I have could fill volumes.

I had hoped to take Sam there this year. The plan was to go with cousin Max, who's father's high school hockey number (#3) was retired after he (and his brother) wore it, and teach the boys to skate together. Sadly, that isn't going to happen.

I can only hope, for myself as much as my children, that they are able to rebuild and re-open. My past is linked with my mother's because of this place, and it is an amazingly awesome feeling to know we have that common background. I want that for my children. I want them to have the chance to make their own memories to fill their own volumes.

31 Years: A Retrospective

I have to say, I'm pretty pleased with the way things have gone so far...

Happy birthday to me!

Babies, Past and Present

Can you tell we're related?

I Give Thanks

That my parents are still as cool in 2009 as they were in 1978.

Flashback

Last night we attended the parents' open house at Sam's new school. We spent an hour hearing all about the dropping off and picking up procedures, the inclement weather policies, and who to call when your kid inevitably comes down with the swine flu.

(In an unrelated but interesting development, one of the parents we met actually works at Sam's old school but has chosen to send her own child to the new school. Makes me feel pretty good about our decision to switch, huh?)

After some snacks, we were ushered to the individual classrooms to meet the teachers and hear a little more about the Montessori teaching principles. We sat in tiny chairs. Correction: everyone else sat in tiny chairs. My big preggo ass couldn't handle the tiny chairs, so I stood behind everyone else while they shifted uncomfortably in their tiny chairs.

After learning about the teachers and the program, we were encouraged to take a look around. As we assessed the different learning stations, SOB started having all of these deja vu moments. He would touch something and you could almost see the memories coming to him.

At one point, in the life skills area, SOB encountered a small dish of dried beans. As he ran his fingers through them, a silly grin came across his face. I instantly knew what he was thinking. One of the first stories his mother ever told me about his childhood involved a three year old SOB coming home from Montessori school sounding rather peculiar. All afternoon his mother asked him if he had a stuffy nose or something, but he said no time and time again. As the day wore on, his voice became more and more nasal sounding. Finally, after hours of pestering he admitted, in an uber-nasal voice, 'I put a bean in my nose.' The resulting trip to the ER involved SOB's mother sitting on him as a resident used some long ass tweezers to pluck the now rehydrated bean from somewhere deep in his little face.

It's now become a family tradition, the telling of this story, complete with SOB talking in the goofy three-year-old-with-a-bean-rehydrating-in-his-nose voice. As we both stood there counting beans, I think we were both hoping that Sam can create some lasting memories, too.

Only hopefully his won't involve the emergency room.

Family Matters

I've had this here blog for three years and almost four months. In that time I've had two kids, bought a new camera, moved twice, and spilled more than a lot of shit. All from the safe, mostly anonymous space behind my monitor. Sure, a few of you know my face, but judging from my site meter thingamajig most of you wouldn't know if my eyes are green or blue or brown. 

(They are a greenish hazel, BTW.) 

Recently, though, my readership population dynamic shifted a little. I've been seeing more and more little dots in the south western corner of PA, and a few dots in central Florida, and some over in the UK. 

What I mean to say is, my family is reading.

(Hi mom and dad! And Danny! And Uncle Rick!)

I never sought to hide my blogging from them, I just was never one to shout it from the rooftops. I always assumed that they would find it eventually. Because of that (and because I was raised by the 'if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all' school of thought) I try as hard as possible to never write anything here that I wouldn't want to read aloud in front of a roomful of elderly relatives. Mostly. I've always thought that, aside from a few diatribes on my father-in-law, I've been mildly successful.

But.

Now knowing that my father is clicking by every now and again, I cringe at the number of times I've written about my boobs. And my period. And did you know that I have one hundred and thirty-two entries with the tag 'mental' on it? That should make the parents proud, right?

And what about this?!? Seriously, what does this say about me as a person?

The good news? They like it. Well, at least my mother does. And my brother does too, I think. (He does, however, want to write a guest post about himself because he thinks I made him sound too much like a rock star.) My mother called last night to tell me how much she enjoys reading about my boring, mundane life. Even though she probably couldn't tell it, I was a little misty on the other end of the line. Why? Because what little girl doesn't want her mommy to like the picture she drew/song she sang/story she wrote? Just because we're all grown up doesn't mean we don't care about what our mothers think. 

(Note to self: Remember this in about twenty years.)

Thanks, mom. 

I'll Be Loving Jon Forever!

Guess where I'm going tonight? 

NKOTB live at the Borgata! That's right baby! Jealous?

Tonight was what got me through week of perpetual sickness. Honestly though, it is actually pushing on a week and a half of perpetual sickness. Which, while it doesn't have such a catchy ring, is actually worse than a week of perpetual sickness. 

You get my point.

Since I've already lost my voice I'll just be opening my mouth and pretending to scream when they take the stage. Please don't tell them I'm such a poseur, ok?