Dare I say it? I seek and admire other gals’ hairstyles while I commute on the Metra train.
I can’t be the only one who does this. Certainly, we can all spot a hairstyle that we envy. Be it short, medium or long. Curly, straight, kinky or wavy. Smooth as satin or even with a bit of messy frizz. It’s all open to my admiration as I ride the morning train, feeling a less than happy with my own coiffure.
Merriam Webster defines the following…
I do try my best each day to style or arrange my hair into the best that it can be. Naturally, a lot depends on the weather or whether I’ve shampooed and conditioned the evening before.
Still, I’m never quite happy with my personal results. It’s never as stunning as when I leave my hair stylist on a Saturday morning after she’s worked her magic with the blow dryer and curling iron.
Obviously, my stylist has lots of potions to add to the beauty of her clients’ hair. That’s par for the course. Plus, she’s professionally trained in styling to make her patrons look their best. That’s why I keep returning to her every six weeks.
Alas, my own skills are lacking in the hair department. I won’t bore you with the nitty gritty details here. Let’s just say, hair styling is not one of my strengths. I don’t have the patience or time to deal with the intricacies of attractive styling.
That’s where watching others comes in. The daily grind of commuting becomes quite ho hum and dreary, so sometimes I simply watch the parade of people as they stream by (a/k/a People Watching).
I see lots of interesting hairstyles. There are those who got 99% of it right, except for that wee bit at the very back center of their head. No worries — I’m guilty of that as well. It’s difficult to reach back there with a comb or brush.
Last week I watched as a girl applied what appeared to be a smoothing balm to her hair, which was pulled back into a chignon. What new product was this? I wondered to myself. I immediately pulled out my phone and found a similar hair balm on Amazon. Will this tame my own frizzies? Probably not.
I also keep an eye out for cute styles to copy for myself. I surreptitiously take photos of fellow commuters, holding my cell phone just so as I sneak a quick pic of their coif.
Snap, snap, snap. I keep taking pictures of those I admire.
My daughter tells me its shameful, taking photos of people without their permission.
Friends who hang out together dress alike. It’s like they’ve become twins and insist on wearing the same matching outfits.
Marie Claire – (Image credit: ACE Pictures/REX/Shutterstock)
Years ago my sister made an interesting comment:
Friends who hang out together dress alike. It’s like they’ve become twins and insist on wearing the same matching outfits.
Was she correct?
Do we set our sights on those that already mirror our own selves?
I asked my sister for verification, to which she immediately pointed at me and my galpal. Yes, there we were… both in our blue jeans and boho blouses, hoop earrings and sandals. When you looked at the two of us, we even wore the same shade of lipstick. When we realized our “twin-ship,” we immediately laughed at ourselves. What sort of image were we projecting to the world, in our corresponding Saturday clothes?
Had we started out as lookalikes… or was this something that gradually occurred over time? Or was my sister correct? Do we wind up matching one another as friends? Family members? Even lovers?
This first-hand example had me thinking. Do we gravitate toward others who provide a prime replica of ourselves? While navigating life, do we lean in toward those who seem to meet our speed?
This question came up in a Diversity in Life class I took at Roosevelt University. Raising my hand, I suggested that while we should always strive for diversity, many of us initially (while unintentionally), seek out those who are a reflection of our own selves. My professor insisted that I was being less than fair minded. I argued that it’s human nature to seek those that we match.
This type of following others starts early in life. For example, girls tend to group together on the school playground, while boys are inclined to join with other boys.
We connect with each other based on hobbies, backgrounds, personal values, religion, finances. This initial connection brings us together, where we form bonds based on shared interests.
Does this mean we cannot be more diverse and open minded in our alliances?
Of course not!
So what’s my point here today?
ANSWER: There is no point. I merely think it’s hilarious that my sister correctly pointed out that those of us who hang together also tend to dress alike.
Today’s lunchtime pics demonstrate this interesting phenomena:
Twins
Meanwhile, this woman is unique and lovely.
She reminds me of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City…
I spent this past Saturday afternoon running errands. Given that it was the day before Easter Sunday, the crowds were a bit larger than normal. Pastel-colored baskets, jelly beans and marshmallow treats were in abundance. I also spotted the mandatory Easter Bunny standing on the side of bustling LaGrange Road, merrily waving at passers-by.
I’m Unsure If It’s Just Me
For my entire life, starting at childhood and continuing into the present, I found human-sized rabbits a bit unsettling. I suppose I felt their size alone was intimidating. I mean, bunnies hopping around in the wild certainly don’t resemble a six-foot Muppet. Real-life bunnies are sweet and furry as they chew on clover. To a small child, six-foot bunnies look as though they can grab you and gobble you up.
Surprisingly, this weekend’s bunny (a/k/a adult dressed in a furry costume with an overly large head) did not scare me. I even waved back at the friendly figure. It was then I determined that I had truly overcome one of my childhood fears.
I never was a fan of visiting folklore characters when I was a youngster. As a child, I shook with fear at holiday events when Santa Claus suddenly appeared in the doorway. Santa was extra loud as his booming voice as he shouted “Ho ho ho” over and over. His cries of cheer echoed through the room as he marched into the fieldhouse with his heavy black boots. Except as a four-year-old , I found his boisterous personality a bit too much to take in. My reaction to to cling to my mother while I encouraged my little brother to do the same.
Still, my mother did her duty and tried to get me to sit on Santa’s lap. I answered her well-meaning prompt with flowing tears, as my outstretched arms begged her to take me away from good ol’ Saint Nick. After a long minute of coaxing, my mother finally gave in and returned me to my seat. Meanwhile, Mom went ahead and accepted the gift on my behalf.
Santa didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed having my long-legged, smiling mother sit on his lap.
EVENTUALLY I WON
After a couple years of tantrums with Santa Claus, my mother finally relented and threw in the towel. She wasn’t going to waste any more time with tradition. Fortunately, I was no longer required to sit on Saint Nick’s lap.
This pleased me to no end, since I figured, either way, I was still going to receive a Christmas gift.
OTHER HOLIDAYS
I had the same feelings about the Easter Bunny in the springtime. For years afterwards, I watched the same scene carry out with other boys and girls. Children were marched up to the Easter Bunny’s chair, while assistants tried to get the crying child to smile for a photo. I felt sorry for those youngsters. No amount of coaxing, candy, nor over-sized faux Easter lilies was going to convince most of those kids that it was intended to be a bright moment in their young lives.
Not one of those children gave a hoot that their parents wanted a photo record of the event. They just wanted out of that scene. Fast.
THEN I BECAME A PARENT
I became a parent at the age of 30, and I already knew that I wanted to be a hip mom. I wasn’t going to force my child to do anything they didn’t want to do. As a cool parent, I knew I wouldn’t take my child on a visit to see Santa Claus or Easter Bunny.
Really, I should be thanked for being so awesome.
There were a few times when I pushed my young daughter in her stroller through the mall. Oops! There was Mr. Bunny Rabbit, ready and waiting for us as we strolled by. Mr. Bunny Rabbit and his team of photographers did their best to persuade me and my daughter onto the flower-laden platform. Except I wasn’t havin’ any of it.
It was nothing personal, but I did my best to avoid all eye contact with the holiday do-gooders. I held my breath while I pushed my child away from the captivating scene and hoped she wouldn’t point and beg to visit the soaring rabbit.
My wishes came true. Or perhaps my DNA came through. My lovely toddler didn’t give one hoot about the holiday characters. In fact, I think I even saw her roll her eyes at the entire scene of children waiting in line to see a faux long-eared rabbit.
Perhaps she, too, felt the large-scaled mammal was a bit bizarre. Maybe the scene of screaming children was a turn-off to her. Whatever her reasons, I simply figured she was a chip off the ol’ block.
Together, she and I went on our merry way, skipping the sugary scene and instead heading toward the shoe store where I could try on new sandals.
I mean, a mom’s got to have her priorities.
MY DAUGHTER IS AMAZING
And this is one of the 480,324,998 reasons why I love my daughter so much. Like me, she turned down both the Easter Bunny and Mr. Claus. She, too, believed the characters were a big off-putting.
She still received an Easter basket filled with goodies. Each Christmas, there were still presents under the tree. Plus, she didn’t have to visit with strangers in order to benefit. Clearly, it was a win-win.
FAST FORWARD TO PRESENT DAY
From time to time, I like to remind my daughter of what a great mommy I was.
“You know I never forced you to visit the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause,” I tell her.
“I know, Mom,” she responds. “And I’ve thanked you for that. Numerous times.”
“Okay, I just wanted to recap that I definitely was a super cool mom.”
“Yes, Mom, I remember,” she says, sighing. “You tell me that every holiday.”
And she rapidly shuts down that conversation with a traditional eye roll.
Except I don’t mind. As I said, I’m a super cool mom.
This post is dedicated to my Super Cool Cousins, who always ask for more servings of PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST. Thank you!!
Each year I look back and determine the best purchase I made for myself that year. For 2023, my O-Cedar Mop Two-Tank System takes the prize. Let’s back up a bit… the full name is O-Cedar EasyWring RinseClean Microfiber Spin Mop with 2-Tank Bucket System.
And it’s fantastic.
The cleaning bucket comes with two tanks: one to hold the cleaning solution mixed with hot water; the second tank accepts the dirty water. There’s a foot pedal and mop wringer built right in, relieving my having to wring out a dirty mop with my hands.
Truly a life-saver for me. It’s something I’ve been searching for my entire life.
This sort of statement may sound a bit dramatic. Poor girl… the highlight of her year is a mop of all things! Yet it’s true.
My obsession with clean floors most likely started when I was 17 years old. That’s when my mom decided one of my weekly chores was to scrub the kitchen and dining room floors while on my hands and knees. There I was, every Thursday after school, lugging a heavy bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush to get the lousy job over with.
But first I had to sweep the floor, removing bits of dust, food crumbs, the dog and cat kibble surrounding their respective food bowls. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.
I proceeded to scrub the floors, making sure I did a thorough job, so I wouldn’t disappoint my mother. I was proud of my work and wanted to bask in my progress. That’s also just about the time when I became the vexatious person who consistently warned others: ”Get off the floor! I just cleaned it!”
How dare they walk on my clean floor. Couldn’t they just avoid the kitchen for the entire week and let me enjoy my hard efforts? The nerve of them.
The cleaning on my hands and knees continued into my adult years. It was all I knew. Get down there and get the gritty dirty and grime. The only way to do it was by suffering and having dark brown spots on my knees to prove it. Ah, yes, I was the martyr who endured the nasty job but was happy with the end results.
Werner Images
In fact, my preoccupation with clean floors became a bit ridiculous. My brother was the first to notice my compulsion, and he quickly pointed it out to me.
While visiting my brother and his two roommates in California, I immediately was repulsed by the looks of their kitchen floor. Let’s just say it needed some attention, what with the who-knows-what spilled on it and left to harden in its place. The floor was filthy in my mind, and it felt gross just walking on it.
So when the three of them were all at work during the day, I took it upon myself to run a bucket of hot soapy water. I gave their floor a good scrubbing on my hands and knees. I finished off with a mop I found in the garage, going over everything a second time for good measure.
My hands became red and sore as I wrung out the sullied mop. Yet, I was determined that their kitchen floor would be scoured by the end of the afternoon. In that, I was successful, as the three roommates praised my efforts and thanked me for cleaning.
Meanwhile, unkind thoughts simmered in my head, as I wondered just how long it would stay clean. Would any one of them ever take the initiative to clean it again? UGHH! I didn’t even want to think about it.
Pinterest.com
My preoccupation with floor cleaning stayed with me. Years ago, I invited a group of neighborhood mothers and their preschool children over for lunch. When some food crumbs fell on the floor, I quickly apologized to the other mothers. ”I’m so sorry! I ran out of time this morning and never got around to washing my floor,” I explained, hoping they’d forgive me.
One of my guests tsk-tsk’d at me. “Anyone who cleans a floor before preschoolers come over is just stupid,” she remarked.
To that I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I glared at her with steely eyes — hoping she’d catch my silent but scathing reaction to that awful comment she just made.
Boy, I really needed to lighten up.
Years passed, and my rheumatologist advised me well after I suffered from a torn miniscus in my left knee.
“But I have to get on my knees in order to clean my kitchen floor,” I pleaded with her.
“Get a mop!” the doctor bluntly ordered.
There went my days of martyrdom. No longer could I suffer merely for the sake of knowing I had clean floors. Because no one else cared but me.
And now I’ve finally found my perfect mop. The O-Cedar is a pleasure to use, as I swish it around my kitchen and bathrooms floors while listening to Spotify. I’m smiling and my floors are shining. All without the struggle that really was pointless and went unrecognized.
My brother still likes to tease me about my fixation on floor cleaning. Once he asked me why I avoided a certain McDonald’s restaurant. He couldn’t figure out what could set it apart from other McDonald’s.
“Ew, the floors there are disgusting!” I pointed out. “Everything is so sticky around the soda machine, where customers drip their sweet drinks all over the floor. I can’t stand it.” I shuddered just picturing the scene.
My brother gave me a look. “Mmhmm,” was all he said, as he arched his brow.
Still, I stood my ground on the argument for a clean floor. A tidy floor should be a top priority for everyone. I folded my arms in response and sighed, realizing that some folks just don’t get it.
Ahh, dating woes. Most of us have a few tales to share. It’s not easy to find the right person. We all want someone supportive, engaging, funny. That’s human nature.
Except it can be super difficult to find someone compatible. And as charming as I am, I ran into lots of difficulties. In other words, I ran into my fair share of fellas who just didn’t make the cut.
In other words, they were soon crossed off The List.
Most of us keep a mental list in our heads while dating. The list contains must-have personality attributes that either make or break a relationship. Communication. Empathy. Honesty. Reliability. These qualities in a significant other are necessary in order to move forward in a solid liaison.
Developing a lasting relationship takes time and patience. While many folks we run into are good souls, we still need to aim for true compatibility. Therefore, the old adage rings true… You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find the handsome prince.
I had my fair share of frogs to date. Although, to be fair, some of them were mighty handsome. Which made the kissing that much more fun.
I met folks through Match.Com. With E-Harmony. Through friends. And colleagues.
Heck, I even met a couple the old-fashioned way: while drinking at a bar.
Stocksy (Disclaimer: Nope, this wasn’t me)
For the most part, I met decent, hard-working gentlemen. They were mannerly and well-behaved on the first date.
If things went well, we might have even made it to two dates. Except many times they simply never called me again. One could never tell why. They weren’t exactly forthcoming in their reasons to stop contacting me.
However, during those dates I subconsciously kept a mental list in my head of when I needed to simply cross that person off from any future dates.
Take – for example – the fella who called me on the telephone. He didn’t have much to say, and I felt compelled to enhance the conversation:
ME: “So, what do you do for a living?”
HIM: “I’m a truck driver.”
ME: (looking to enlarge on that topic) “What do you typically haul?”
HIM: “Plastic forks.”
ME: “Mmhmm…”
SILENCE
ME: “Um… what else?”
HIM: “Plastic spoons.”
MORE SILENCE…
ME: “Well, I gotta run now. My pasta water’s boiling over.”
Next…
Then there was the young fella who seemed like a nice prospect.
Good job. Friendly. Nice looking. Check, check and check.
HIM: “Did I tell you I live in a housing development called CheeseLand?”
ME: “I best be going now.”
Getty images
Speaking of bars, I ran into a hottie who spoke to me about an “agreeance“ he recently entered into with his ex-wife.
Being a word nerd, I had to quickly put the brakes on that one.
But not before we did some serious making out. As I said, he was a hottie.
There was one stand-out gentleman who I dated for a few months. Until the one evening he insisted on nabbing the salt and pepper shakers from the restaurant table and shoving them into his suit pockets.
This all took place at an office holiday party.
In the grand ballroom of an expensive downtown hotel.
In front of my co-workers.
You get the picture.
I broke up with him the following day.
To be fair, he didn’t reciprocate when I handed him his birthday gift that evening (we actually shared the same birthdate). As a generous soul, he let me tip the coat-check person that evening.
And the parking valet too.
Happy Birthday to me.
A few months went by and he talked me into giving him another shot.
I was lonely. So I said Yes.
Until the day he told me the Chicago Park District was giving away free blue recycling bags. He ran over that morning to grab a bundle to keep at his home.
ME: “That’s nice that you’ve decided to separate and recycle your trash.”
HIM: “Actually, I ran home and switched jackets so I could run back to the park and grab another bundle of blue bags. Anyway, I’m not interested in recycling — I’m just gonna use ’em for my regular garbage.”
Below is an earlier post, published several years ago. Please enjoy…
Why Is Everything So Perfect?
How much longer is “Perfect” going to remain the favorite buzzword?
It’s on everyone’s tongues these days… I hear it everywhere I go… Even in settings where it may not be entirely appropriate.
“Perfect, perfect, perfect. “
Is everything really that darned perfect?
That word is a lot to live up to. The Webster’s Dictionary I keep on my desk defines “Perfect” as: 1.a: being entirely without fault or defect: flawless.
I Can’t Take the Pressure!
For example, we were in a training session at work, learning the new electronic filing procedures for the IL state court filing system. Lucky for us, we had an in-person, live demonstration from the spokesperson.
I theorized our speaker was possibly a former military commander. She was a no-nonsense woman, dressed in business-like clothing (grey suit with black pumps), with her hair pulled into a tight bun.
Her crisp, staccato voice certainly had me at attention. And I didn’t want to cross her.
Presenter to the audience:
“Any questions? No? PERFECT. Next slide please,” as she tapped her pointer at the screen.
By this time I was afraid to ask any questions at all for risk of making things less than … well, Perfect. I even abstained from the snacks they offered, for fear of making munching noises.
I’m[more than] Slightly Imperfect
Everyone knows I’m less than Perfect. Such as when I feed food from my plate to the dog, even though the hostess asks me not to do so.
I also eat from utensils that drop onto the ground – without pausing to clean them. Yum.
The “Perfect” Buzzword Is Everywhere
Photo: GEMS Dental
I even hear this standard response when I run my errands or make simple phone calls, such as when I recently phoned to make an appointment to see my dentist:
Receptionist: Your last name please.
Me: V as in Victory – a – n. H – o w –e.
Receptionist: Perfect.
Whew! I’ve been practicing that one for decades.
Receptionist: And what is your main concern?
Me: I have a tooth that’s killing me. Gosh, I hope I don’t have to get a root canal.
Receptionist: [typing] Perfect…
Clearly, she’s missing the irony here.
Receptionist: Unfortunately, it seems the dentist has a full schedule. The earliest time we can get you in is Tuesday, January 2, 2018, at 7:30 in the morning. How does that work for you?
I am from the brilliant yellow forsythia and creamy pink magnolias
That bloomed in the spring around my childhood home
Whose long-gone blossoms I remember as if they were my own
Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
Recently I came across a fellow blogger’s post, wherein she created her own version of the trending “I Am” poem template. You’ll find more of her lovely posts at The Spectacled Bean.
The basic poem is Adapted by Levi Romero Inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.
Here’s mine…
I am from books from museum shops, thrift stores and left over from the library
I am from coffee from Aldi and afghan throws knitted by my mother
I am from a duplex surrounded by an arbor of pine trees
A house filled with so many plants, that I typically forget to water one or two
I am from the brilliant yellow forsythia and creamy pink magnolias
That bloomed in the spring around my childhood home
Whose long-gone blossoms I remember as if they were my own
I’m from Lithuanian sausage and potato pancakes from Grandma Martha and Aunt Elvira — Now it’s up to my mom to make them
I’m from years-long arguments and shutting each other out from my aunts
Sister
And others
I’m from “finish what’s on your plate” and “you’ll never be a dancer“
And singing Sloop John B to my dad’s banjo
I’m from Thanksgiving dinners around a long rectangular table in family basements
I’m from Roseland Community Hospital and Chicago and cakes from “Jewel’s“
I’m from learning one of my aunts died from ovarian cancer before I ever came along
She had four children and had to leave three of them with her parents after her death
The fourth child — who moved away with her father — we finally found after years of searching
I’m from spending summers at Indiana Dunes national lakeshore
From trick-or-treating in hand-sewn Halloween costumes, courtesy of Mom
I’m from dusty hat boxes filled with mementos – under my bed, in my closet, in my heart
I come across funny poems, haikus and musings from my daughter… written when she was 11 years old
At now at 29 years of age, she refuses to let me post them here
By: H. Van Howe / Date: November 2023
Now it’s your turn. Go ahead and create your own poems.
Distribute before the holidays and let your guests read their own at the dinner table.
Share with your book club buddies and host an “I Am” party.
Trade essays with your dearest friend and read aloud to each other over a glass of wine.
shorthand – noun 1. a method of rapid handwriting using simple strokes, abbreviations, or symbols that designate letters, words or phrases (distinguished from longhand) http://www.dictionary.com
It was the end of my sophomore year in high school when I registered for my junior year of classes. For a number of reasons, Shorthand and Typing seemed to be useful electives for me. Taken together, the two classes would merit one full major credit.
Other students I spoke with felt those business skills would become valuable in the future — not only for stable office jobs but also for typing up school term papers.
In the end, shorthand did become a beneficial tool for me. For example, I’m impatient by nature, so being able to quickly take notes in Gregg Shorthand makes me very happy indeed.
By the following Fall, I sat in my first Gregg Shorthand class and was already feeling intimidated. For starters, due to the seating chart being designed in alphabetical order, I was placed in the second seat from the front row. This was new to me, since I typically sat in the back of the class — either my height dictated that choice, or the fact that my last name starts with the letter V. Up at the front of the class, I felt exposed. A bit vulnerable. What if I was put on the spot and couldn’t provide an acceptable answer? There I’d sit for the entire class to see my ignorance.
Except the first day of class proved to be both challenging and exciting, since our teacher — Mrs. Lynn Sanders — ensured our class that we’d be writing words in shorthand by the end of that very first session. She explained that Gregg Shorthand replaces letters with symbols for actual sounds. That very morning, we learned the symbols for S, F, V and A.
With those four symbols, we could already write the words: save; as; save; safe; face; and vase.
I immediately fell in love with the system!
I excelled at shorthand.
Three months later, I was beginning to feel like Teacher’s Pet, as Mrs. Sanders took a liking to me. And why not? I always handed in my homework. I could read and transcribe my shorthand notes with ease. My speed that first year were over 80 words per minute… an easy grade A for me.
There was one caveat… The only fault Mrs. Sanders found with me was that I was routinely late to her class, walking in the door 4-5 minutes after her session started.
I didn’t like to be penned in with restrictions. It all started way back in grade school when we lived kitty-corner from our grade school. My siblings and I would wait for the first bell to ring before we burst out our back door and ran across the street to line up with our respective classmates. It drove our mother nuts, but we didn’t see the logic in waiting around any longer than we needed to. Rules, schmules.
By the time I started high school, my bad habits were already in place. For the most part, Mrs. Sanders and I got along quite well, and I thought I had her eating out of the palm of my hand.
Until that one afternoon when Mrs. Sanders made a telephone call home to my mother. She asked my mom to ensure that I start arriving on time to my morning class. Naturally, my mother agreed with her.
The next morning, my mom insisted that I catch an earlier bus to school — an outrageous idea to me. Yet there I found myself walking to the bus stop 30 minutes earlier than my usual practice. I mumbled and grumbled to myself the entire way in.
That morning I was one of the first students at the classroom door. When our teacher approached with keys to unlock the door, she slyly winked at me. “Good morning everyone,” she smiled.
“Good Morning Mrs. Sanders,” we chorused together.
I rolled my eyes and headed toward my seat. Truth is, though, I still liked her.
Mrs. Sanders always believed in me.
“You can do it!” was her favorite phrase. And I believed her. She had so much faith in my abilities that she sent me downtown to participate in a shorthand contest hosted by the City Colleges of Chicago. And, of course, I couldn’t let her down.
A couple weeks later I hopped onto the Dan Ryan Flyer (CTA’s Red Line to you younger readers) to make my way downtown for the shorthand transcription competition. Not entirely sure of where the Loop College was located, I got off the El when I saw a sign for the Marshall Field’s building. At my age, I had no clue where I was going. I asked several strangers on the street for directions, but no one could assist. Finally, a police officer pointed me in the right direction.
I ran toward the college and entered its lobby filled with unease. Out of breath from running, I stopped at the front desk. “Do you know where the shorthand competition is?” I asked in a trembling voice. My shyness certainly had the best of me that morning.
Ninety minutes later, I walked out of that school holding a plaque for taking third place. I couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Sanders!
My shorthand skills stayed strong while I was in school. Mrs. Sanders even arranged for a reporter on our school newspaper to write a short column about my experience at the contest. I blushed. Yet I still keep that winning plaque today.
Big dreams soon dashed…
One year later, I graduated and set my sights on landing a super-duper secretarial post in downtown Chicago, where I could utilize my extraordinary shorthand skills.
One of the first real jobs I had was working for the oldest law firm in the city: Winston & Strawn. Winston had impressive partners and political connections. I felt confident that I could be successful in its demanding legal environment. After all, didn’t I once win a shorthand contest?
During the first week of employment at Winston & Strawn, I found myself filling in for a partner while his secretary was on vacation. He called me in his office to dictate a letter. “Here’s my chance to shine,” I told myself. Unfortunately, once I started transcribing my notes, I became stuck on a couple of words. (Please understand, dear readers, that the faster a stenographer writes, the sloppier their work becomes.)
I didn’t have anyone nearby to ask for help. It was all on me, and I couldn’t figure out those two darned words. Mrs. Sanders had taught us to rely on our memory when we ran into this type of situation. But since I was a novice in the legal industry, I wasn’t having any luck with typical legal jargon.
I thought I’d be a bit silly and lighten the mood in that austere office environment. I went ahead and typed what I thought my notes read: shop class. There! I handed him the draft letter, hoping he’d get a good chuckle and handwrite in the correct words.
He was not amused.
That’s supposed to be “separate correspondence,” the attorney barked at me.
Clearly, he wasn’t in a joking mood.
Even today’s notes gave me trouble
Fifteen or so years went by. I was successful in my job. And (most) of my shorthand was transcribed with positive results. That’s when I ran into a friend from high school, who sadly informed me that our Mrs. Sanders had passed away.
I was surprised to hear that depressing news. Mrs. Sanders was only in her 50’s. What happened? Was she ill? Except there were no more details available.
Mrs. Sanders was a wonderful and inspiring teacher. I know she also taught English, where some of her pupils didn’t view her with the same rose-colored glasses. To me, however, she was strict for a reason. She wanted her students to push themselves beyond their limits and excel.
Therefore, today’s post is dedicated to you, Lynn Sanders. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for pushing me to do my best. Thanks (a lot!) for calling my mother and putting an end to my lateness.
Five minutes later, our painter was happily painting our laundry room while singing along to Air Supply …
Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST
Photo: Vocal Media
Blood, Sweat and Tears. That phrase comes in handy when you’re delving into a lot of grueling work. But when it comes to home improvement projects, I’d like to amend that to read: Blood, Sweat, Tears and %&*$$.
This year’s home project focused on replacing our kitchen floor tile. It was outdated and broken in a couple places. After considering new tile for a couple years now, we knew we had to bite the bullet and spend some serious bucks to have the original floor torn up, removed from the premises, and replaced with a beautiful dark grey stone.
Even our laundry room was getting new tile (and a new washer and dryer — think more $$).
As soon as the workers arrived to lay down the new floor, my hubby realized it was also time to paint the kitchen walls. Now was prime time to ask a painter to handle that task. After all, everything was moved out and stored into the living room.
You know how one thing leads to another with these types of things. My hubby felt now was also the time to have the “wood guy” come to replace the baseboards.
The Costs Were Adding Up
Finally, we were nearly done with the project. The painter convinced us to use white paint in the laundry room (previously a pale blue). We were fine with that color choice.
Hubby and I planned it out. He’d stay home and work remotely so he could be available if the painter had any issues. Off I went to my job in downtown Chicago. I truly didn’t want to be around in that messy house any longer than I had to be.
Then I Received The Phone Call
My husband grumbled that he and the painter were at odds over the painting progress. The two of them had argued over the sanding and whether it was smooth enough. They disagreed over whether the white paint was actually covering the former blue paint. Back and forth they went, each getting on each other’s nerves.
I couldn’t understand why the two of them were cantankerous about the entire task. To me, it seemed to be a clear cut project: sand, paint and add another coat.
Except the two coats of white paint didn’t seem to be enough. The painter and my husband had a heated discussion regarding a third coat. Apparently, the painter didn’t think it was necessary.
“But it’s clearly bleeding through,” my husband pointed out. “You can see the blue walls behind it.”
He then pointed out some unsatisfactory sanding the painter had performed. “I want this done right!” he complained.
Unfortunately, the painter must have been having a bad day too. “Look here, it looks alright to me!” he countered. “See here, it’s as smooth as can be,” the painter insisted.
Long story short, the painter relented and gave our walls a third coat of white paint.
I’m So Glad I Missed the Drama
When I returned home from work that evening, my husband was upset over the project.
“Look at the laundry room and tell me I’m not losing my mind,” he insisted. “I can still see the blue showing through the white. We need another coat of paint!”
He was correct. The white paint had failed to cover the old blue.
“We’ll just have to call him back in,” I said.
“I’m not having anything more to do with that guy. He kept saying I was being too picky and that I was seeing things that weren’t there. I’ve had enough of him — go ahead and call him yourself! ”
“I will!” I answered. “I can’t understand why you’re both so cranky. Just get out of the house when he returns, because I don’t want to be here and have the two of you arguing. ”
Time To Crank Up The Music
The next day was Saturday and I texted the painter, explaining how the paint needed yet a fourth coat. Two hours passed before he replied: I’ll be there within the hour.
When he arrived, he wasn’t smiling. Quickly, I explained the situation. Luckily he agreed with me.
“I’ll give it a fourth coat and be outta here within an hour,” he grumbled.
I needed to do something quick to relieve the tension. Earlier that morning, my husband had been streaming Air Supply love songs, and I couldn’t help but sing along with those mellow tunes from the early eighties. Would the same music help to warm up the painter?
I pegged the guy to be in his mid-sixties. Doing mental math, that would put our painter at about 23-24 years old when Air Supply was consistently hitting the top ten in Billboard Hot 100 songs. Those songs would bring back memories for him — back to his heyday.
Photo: Last.fm
It Was Worth a Shot
I placed my Sony speaker on the kitchen counter and selected Air Supply from my Spotify app. What do you know, five minutes later, I could see our painter rolling the laundry room walls while he hummed and sang along to Air Supply …
“making love out of nothing at all… making love…💜💜💜”
It seemed to be working. Nonchalantly, I turned the volume up just a bit, thereby amplifying the music as well as my scheme. I’m so sneaky.
Song number two came on…
“even the nights are better… 🎵🎶 … now that we’re here together.”
I watched him work in our laundry room, as he dreamily rolled and applied a fourth coat of white paint.
As promised, he was finished in less than one hour. By now, Spotify was playing Reminiscing by The Little River Band. He never did mention the music, but instead he spoke to me in a very friendly tone. While I thanked him for his work, our conversation turned to the fact that our water line was on the fritz ever since the workers installed the new kitchen tile.
My painter — we were good friends by now — took a quick peek at the situation. Next, he pulled out his mobile phone and consulted with his plumber friend.
“Heidi, I’m gonna run to Home Depot and get the parts you need,” my new buddy offered. “I’ll be right back.”
Okay, I felt the tiniest bit guilty. The poor guy was putty in my hands, but I owe it all to the music. I almost felt sorry for him. But then I realized I did him a favor with all the lovey-dovey songs, which I’m sure brought back coveted memories for him.
I handed the painter a very generous $$ tip before he left. He waved good-bye from his van, and I think he even tipped his hat at me. It was a good afternoon.
Later That Same Day…
When my husband returned home, he was both surprised and pleased.
Looking at the freshly painted walls — now a lovely, crisp shade of white, I could tell he was finally content with the work. He was also impressed that our filtered water line was in service once more.
“Tell me… what went on here today?” he inquired.
“Not too much,” I winked, playing the innocent. “I was just being my super sweet self.”
He gave me a hard look, realizing I wasn’t giving him the entire story. I knew I had to confess.
“I simply gave him the ol’ Air Supply treatment.” I shrugged. “Works every time.”
Several years back I sat on a CTA bus. Across the aisle from me were two women — two I saw most days of the week as we commuted to our office jobs.
She Was In A Tizzy
Woman No. 1 was angry that day.
“I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning,” she started.
“Mmm hmm,” Woman No. 2 nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I ordered a sesame bagel for my breakfast,” Woman No. 1 went on. “Except when I went to the counter to look for it, they told me they’d mistakenly given away my bagel to another customer.
“And that’s when I wanted to kill someone!” she sputtered. She was clearly infuriated.
Woman No. 2 just nodded in agreement. .
I, meanwhile, wondered what could have brought on such a heated and bitter reaction. Not only that, but I wondered how Woman No. 2 seemed to immediately agree with Woman No. 1’s outrage.
A bit frightened at this unfolding, I shook my head and looked the other way.
To this day, I still think back to that funny episode, which I now refer to as the Sesame Bagel LadyIncident. I promised myself to never get to that point. Clearly, she was having a bad morning. Nowadays I can relate since menopause can cause unpredictable emotions. One minute you’re doin’ just fine and the next… well, one innocuous remark will set you off.
Silly stories like those can lighten my mood and morning commute. Yep, the Sesame Bagel Lady still makes me chuckle. When I find myself becoming irritable over innocuous events, I remind myself not to become the Sesame Bagel Lady.
Except these days I feel bad for laughing since there’s so much disturbing turmoil and death happening.
Today’s news spoke of a local incident, wherein an irate landlord accused his Muslim tenants for the controversy in Israel these past few weeks. The landlord stabbed the female tenant and her six-year-old son.
The mother is expected to survive.
Her son has died.
Let That Sink In For A Moment
This is the point of the story where many stop reading and try to catch their breath. Try to take it all in. Try to make sense of it all.
Except there isn’t any sensibility to be had.
This was done at the hands of someone who couldn’t control his anger.
His fear.
His irrational hatred.
This news is disturbing. In fact, there’s no adjective that could fully describe these horrific times. I stopped reading the news articles. I didn’t want to read any longer. Nor listen to a podcast. And surfing Pinterest was out.
Everything else seemed so silly and pointless. Because I wanted to focus on at least one of the many victims from this month. And today it was that little boy. He deserved that much. He deserved my tears and silence, while I sat on the train and stared out the window.
I watched the drab scene from my commute through the city. Train tracks. Box cars. Graffiti. A bit of morning sun defrosting the early morning chill.
The Morning Commute Must Go On
I opened my Dunkin app and ordered the usual: Medium iced coffee. Black.
Decided to add a sesame seed bagel. Untoasted. Cream cheese on the side.
Arriving at the Dunkin shop, I immediately noticed my iced coffee was made with cream. Lots of it.
I was agitated. “I ordered a black iced coffee, please,” I urged the cashier.
She took it back and made me a fresh one — no cream this time.
I finally arrived at my desk. Reaching into the Dunkin bag, I pulled out the sesame bagel. It was toasted dark and smothered with cream cheese, which by now turned warm and gooey, melting all over. Exactly not how I ordered it.
Frustrated, I tossed it in trash.
But in this crazy upset world, I was willing to let go of today’s sesame bagel hassle. Instead, I turned back to my keyboard and started my work.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 