Someone asked me recently if, given the choice, I would attend law school again. Somedays, the answer is hell, no. Other days, I reflect on how much I love my job and say that I would, if law school itself was somewhat different. In a lot of ways, law school was merely a means to an end. I wanted a graduate degree, I wanted a professional degree, and I've got it. Do I spend time fondly reminiscing about the good times from law school? Absolutely not.
So, here are some of the harsh realities I learned only after leaving law school and actually practicing law:
(1) None of this really matters. Seriously. Most of the crap they teach in law school has absolutely nothing to do with the actual practice of law. I would say about 98% is completely irrelevant. Of all of the classes I took in law school, there is only one I use daily - Legal Research and Writing. And, since most of the "research" part was based on non-electronic paper book research, I don’t use much of that at all. (And, by the way, my worst grade in law school was in the class that taught the type of law I currently specialize in.)
(2) You will lose. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday, you will lose a case. And it will hurt. And it will be completely unfair. And the system will fail you and your client. There is no one in the history of the law who has won every single case. No matter how much you win or lose, you realize there is always a loser and sometimes, both parties lose.
(3) Real life is not the Socratic method. You don’t get to argue with everyone in real life. You don’t get to make your point in a clear and precise manner in a controlled environment. People won't always listen to you and take you seriously. In fact, you may be laughed at or ridiculed. Now that’s being a real lawyer.
(4) You have to payback those student loans. Now, sure . . . I probably knew somewhere in the back of my head that I would have to repay the money I was living off of in law school. However, there is nothing like receiving that first loan payment notice six months after graduation and realizing you could have purchased a nice starter home with the amount of money you owe for student loans plus interest. Right now, my student loan payment is the same amount as my mortgage payment. The education that keeps on educating.
(5) After five years, no one will give a flying fuck if you were on law review. Or graduated at the top of your class. Or won moot court. You want to know why? Because success at the actual profession is significantly more important than pretend success during the education for the profession.
(6) The only thing you have is your reputation. Believe it or not, it does matter what other people think of you. I have seen cases succeed and fail based on the judge’s impression of the lawyers involved. I have seen lawyers not receive high profile cases because of the perception that they are idiots. Watch that people. Ever hear of Sarah Weddington? After law school, she couldn't find a job to save her life. One male partner in a big law firm actually told her he didn't work with women lawyers. Many years later, after Weddington successfully argued Roe v. Wade, she sat on a judicial nominating commission. That male partner was one of the candidates for judicial appointment. Let's just say he didn't get the appointment. Lesson learned.
(7) Be nice to the little people. No, not midgets (unless you have a very specialized practice.) I’m talking about the non-lawyers in the room. Be nice to the court’s staff and to the members of the clerk’s office. I can’t tell you how many times law clerks, staff attorneys, clerks, and court reporters have done favors for me because I am nice to them. Being rude to a court reporter could cost you big time in the end. Need that transcript ASAP? If you’ve pissed off the court reporter, you might as well type that sucker yourself.
(8) Judges are people too. What they teach you in law school is that judges are somehow other-worldly - that they possess special powers of intellect and judgment. They teach you to always address a judge by "judge" or "your honor," even if you are in bed with them (Okay - only one professor told us that, but his wife was a judge, so . . . .) In reality, many judges are very smart and very fair minded. However, they are also real people with families, stress, bad hair days, and stains on their ties. Be respectful but you don’t have to genuflect for christ’s sake.
(9) Your clients will probably hate you. If you went into the practice of law because you thought it would be all about warm-fuzzies and "helping people," grow up. Some of these people need your help and will benefit from your help but will be completely ungrateful the entire time you are helping them. That's the thanks you get, every day. Because, in the end, when you can't blame anyone else, you can always blame your lawyer.
(10) How to tell people to fuck off nicely. Law schools need to teach people to negotiate and discuss problems calmly and like adults. Hanging up on people, calling other attorneys to tell them another attorney was "mean to you," and name calling is not professional. Get over yourselves and act like grown-ups.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
AHHH! My Mind's Eye!!!
My grandfather has a very unique first name. So unique, in fact, I have never met anyone else who has the same name with the same spelling. Consequently, when I see an email in my inbox this morning purporting to be from someone with that name, I opened it.
And, no . . . I did not stop when I saw the subject of the email was, "Mine is Bigger." Sometimes, my grandfather says completely benign things that look weird, but he doesn't really mean it that way. He's 90 years old, for christ's sake.
And then, even when I read the body of the email, it took me awhile to understand what was going on:
Augment your rocket with lots of inches utilizing the unequaled cure.
Go now to _________.com and take a look at the meritorious theraputics within reach.
God Damn spammers. Why on Earth would they use an old Swedish guy's name on an email like that? That sort of set the tone for my entire day.
And, no . . . I did not stop when I saw the subject of the email was, "Mine is Bigger." Sometimes, my grandfather says completely benign things that look weird, but he doesn't really mean it that way. He's 90 years old, for christ's sake.
And then, even when I read the body of the email, it took me awhile to understand what was going on:
Augment your rocket with lots of inches utilizing the unequaled cure.
Go now to _________.com and take a look at the meritorious theraputics within reach.
God Damn spammers. Why on Earth would they use an old Swedish guy's name on an email like that? That sort of set the tone for my entire day.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I Wish I Was Congested
There are workmen in my office constructing some new cubicles or something. They are constructing these things right outside of my office door.
I don't mind the noise.
I don't mind the mess.
I don't mind that they have completely blocked my doorway.
I don't mind the mindless dumb-ass chatter.
I DO mind the skin-peeling, eyelash curling, fingernail biting, nasal passage burning BO.
One of these guys has the worst body odor I have ever, ever, ever smelled. I closed my door because of the body odor. The odor lingered in my office. I sprayed hair spray to cloak the odor. The odor broke through. I sprayed myself with Febreeze. The odor killed it and attached itself to my clothing.
I am THIS close to shoving kleenex up my nostrils.
I don't mind the noise.
I don't mind the mess.
I don't mind that they have completely blocked my doorway.
I don't mind the mindless dumb-ass chatter.
I DO mind the skin-peeling, eyelash curling, fingernail biting, nasal passage burning BO.
One of these guys has the worst body odor I have ever, ever, ever smelled. I closed my door because of the body odor. The odor lingered in my office. I sprayed hair spray to cloak the odor. The odor broke through. I sprayed myself with Febreeze. The odor killed it and attached itself to my clothing.
I am THIS close to shoving kleenex up my nostrils.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I Have a Really Good Explanation for That
I bought a new shirt on Monday. Because this new shirt is kind of sheer, it came with a coordinating camisole. As most women know, camisoles introduce a complex underwear question into the morning dressing routine - to bra or not to bra?
On Tuesday morning, I decided to wear the new shirt and camisole and decided to go with the bra option. Unfortunately, because laundry hasn’t been done by the laundry fairies recently, my bra selection was down to the few uncomfortable bras I still own. But I forged ahead and decided to wear a bra I know is very uncomfortable, thinking that perhaps I had overestimated the level of uncomfortableness of the bra.
Turns out . . . I hadn’t.
But, I hung in there almost all day with the bra. However, around 3 pm, I couldn’t take it any more . . . I had to get that thing off. So, I grabbed my keys and went to the bathroom in my office building, which is outside of our actual office walls. I grabbed my keys because to get back into the office, I have to have my keys.
After shutting myself in a stall, I removed the offensive undergarment and put the camisole and shirt back on and . . . ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . breathed a sigh of relief. Comfort at last.
But now I had an even bigger problem. I am standing in a bathroom stall holding a bra, wearing an outfit without pockets, and carrying no purse or briefcase. Panic sets in. How the hell am I going to make it back to my office without revealing to everyone that I just took my bra off? I tried to squish the bra into my fist. It didn’t work. I carefully folded the straps into the bra and made it as compact as possible. However, it was still painfully obvious that I was carrying underwear in my hand.
I took a deep breath and made a mad dash to the outside door of my office. DAMN! I hadn’t thought about using my key to open the door and I had my bra in my right hand - the hand I usually use to open the door with my key. I tried to fumble the key in the lock with my left hand and failed miserably. Then I tried to keep the bra in my right hand and open the lock at the same time. DAMN! I dropped the bra in the hallway.
Totally flustered, I grabbed the bra with my left hand, opened the door with my right hand, and sprinted to my office. Relieved to have made it without being spotted, I dropped the bra in my briefcase and sat down at my desk.
Ahh, sweet relief. I could last two hours at work, go home and get rid of the bra. No one would ever know.
Well . . . somewhere between 3:15 and 5 pm, I forgot about the bra. Instead of going home for dinner after work (because the food fairies haven’t filled the fridge), I decided to take my daughter out for dinner at One World. We had a lovely dinner and then the waitress brought us the check. Knowing my three year old had limited time left in her good behavior container, I asked the waitress to wait so I could hand her my credit card right then and there.
I opened my briefcase, pulled out my wallet, and FLIP! Out came the bra . . . flying across the table and landing on the floor. Stunned, I grabbed it quickly and shoved it back into the briefcase. "What was THAT, MAMA?" yelled my daughter. Subtle, babe.
Turning to look at the waitress, I said, "I have a really good explanation for that . . . ."
The waitress said, "That’s OK . . . ." and walked away.
You know, sometimes I live in this fantasy world that I have everything under control and my life is absolutely normal. Then I am reminded that I don’t and it isn’t.
On Tuesday morning, I decided to wear the new shirt and camisole and decided to go with the bra option. Unfortunately, because laundry hasn’t been done by the laundry fairies recently, my bra selection was down to the few uncomfortable bras I still own. But I forged ahead and decided to wear a bra I know is very uncomfortable, thinking that perhaps I had overestimated the level of uncomfortableness of the bra.
Turns out . . . I hadn’t.
But, I hung in there almost all day with the bra. However, around 3 pm, I couldn’t take it any more . . . I had to get that thing off. So, I grabbed my keys and went to the bathroom in my office building, which is outside of our actual office walls. I grabbed my keys because to get back into the office, I have to have my keys.
After shutting myself in a stall, I removed the offensive undergarment and put the camisole and shirt back on and . . . ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . breathed a sigh of relief. Comfort at last.
But now I had an even bigger problem. I am standing in a bathroom stall holding a bra, wearing an outfit without pockets, and carrying no purse or briefcase. Panic sets in. How the hell am I going to make it back to my office without revealing to everyone that I just took my bra off? I tried to squish the bra into my fist. It didn’t work. I carefully folded the straps into the bra and made it as compact as possible. However, it was still painfully obvious that I was carrying underwear in my hand.
I took a deep breath and made a mad dash to the outside door of my office. DAMN! I hadn’t thought about using my key to open the door and I had my bra in my right hand - the hand I usually use to open the door with my key. I tried to fumble the key in the lock with my left hand and failed miserably. Then I tried to keep the bra in my right hand and open the lock at the same time. DAMN! I dropped the bra in the hallway.
Totally flustered, I grabbed the bra with my left hand, opened the door with my right hand, and sprinted to my office. Relieved to have made it without being spotted, I dropped the bra in my briefcase and sat down at my desk.
Ahh, sweet relief. I could last two hours at work, go home and get rid of the bra. No one would ever know.
Well . . . somewhere between 3:15 and 5 pm, I forgot about the bra. Instead of going home for dinner after work (because the food fairies haven’t filled the fridge), I decided to take my daughter out for dinner at One World. We had a lovely dinner and then the waitress brought us the check. Knowing my three year old had limited time left in her good behavior container, I asked the waitress to wait so I could hand her my credit card right then and there.
I opened my briefcase, pulled out my wallet, and FLIP! Out came the bra . . . flying across the table and landing on the floor. Stunned, I grabbed it quickly and shoved it back into the briefcase. "What was THAT, MAMA?" yelled my daughter. Subtle, babe.
Turning to look at the waitress, I said, "I have a really good explanation for that . . . ."
The waitress said, "That’s OK . . . ." and walked away.
You know, sometimes I live in this fantasy world that I have everything under control and my life is absolutely normal. Then I am reminded that I don’t and it isn’t.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
10 Jobs I Would Love to Try . . .
. . . if I didn’t have these damn law school loans to repay.
What do you want to be when you grow up? I didn't decide to become a lawyer until after I graduated from college (although my parents will tell you I had been training for it all of my life.) Every once and while, I dream of doing something else . . . something more creative or that would allow me to move to Canada and support myself if this election goes the wrong way.
Here they are:
(1) Architect. I have always wanted to be an architect but I was kept down by "the man." Even when I was a little kid, I was building or drawing houses. Even now, I could study house plans for hours and hours and think about exactly what I would change about every room and every corner.
(2) Interpreter at the United Nations. And not because I love Nicole Kidman. I just always thought it would be really cool to be able to speak several languages and meet people from all over the world. I also would really like to know about all of the stuff they talk about at the U.N. I’ve always been nosey, and the U.N. is the perfect place to learn the big secrets. Plus, I like the idea of traveling in and out of the country every day for work.
(3) Book Store Owner. Not like the owner of a chain book store. More like the owner of a really cool independent book store with an independent coffee shop in it. It would be a place filled with dark woods, overstuffed furniture, and no mass-market paperbacks. I imagine myself reading all the time, shelving books, talking with intellectual customers about the latest Pulitzer Prize winning novel, and snobbishly laughing at the guy who just came in the store to ask for the latest Danielle Steele novel.
(4) Fashion Designer. I know, I know. You people who know me personally are probably thinking, WTF? Admittedly, I am not a fashion plate. But I always loved designing and sewing clothes for my Barbies so I think a career in haute couture is not so far-fetched. Too bad real people won’t let you shove pins into their empty rubber heads to keep their fancy hats on.
(5) Writer. OK, so I am really a writer in real life. But this is not the kind of writing I am envisioning when I say "I want to be a Writer." I mean the type of writer who has already written a best-seller so she could afford to live on an island in Puget Sound or on the Outer Banks and spend the next 10 years contemplating the next best seller. I picture days of walking on the beach, drinking coffee on the deck, shopping at the local farmer’s markets, drinking wine by candlelight, traveling to do "research" and . . . POP . . . out comes my next two million dollars in advances.
(6) Nurse. That’s a lie - I don’t really want to be a nurse. I deal enough with bodily fluids now in my real life. What is appealing about being a nurse is wearing scrubs to work. I can’t tell you how envious I am of those people who don’t have to make any clothing decisions in the morning other than "which pair of comfy pajama pants and shirt should I wear to work today?" No ironing, no suits, no high heels, no nylons, no fancy underwear required. Sounds like heaven to me. Too bad you have to deal with sick people. I hate sick people.
(7) Life Coach/Non-Sexual Dominatrix. Alright . . . before your imagination gets the better of you, what I really mean is someone who comes into someone else’s life and tells them in no uncertain terms what they need to do to make their lives better. I wouldn’t be one of those hand-holding life coaches. Oh, no. Quit yer bitching, stop the whining, and throw some shit out, literally and figuratively. I think everyone could use a good slap in the face every once and awhile. I would love to be paid to be the slapper.
(8) Pastry Chef. No explanation really needed here. Pastries are the most wonderful things ever . . . who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by them day after day?
(9) Brangelina’s Nanny. I was a nanny once. I enjoyed it. However, I always thought it would be super-exciting to be a nanny for a really famous person’s kids. You would get to do all of that traveling, see the world, live the life of a movie star without having to be in the focus of the cameras. Of course, you would probably have to do some really weird shit and end up raising six spoiled brats with limited input from their parents . . . but, seriously. Don’t they employ several other nannies too? In that case, I would want to be the head nanny.
(10) Reality TV Star a la Rachel Zoe or Kathy Griffin. I just want a camera crew to follow me around day after day and capture the seriously crazy shit that happens to me and record some of my more brilliant witizisms for posterity’s sake. I already know what my theme song would be . . . . Too bad I am such a private person. I don't suppose people would watch a reality TV show where the star's face was blacked out, along with her kids' faces, her family's faces, and all of her friends. What? I would let them show the dog and the cat.
I didn't think so.
What do you want to be when you grow up? I didn't decide to become a lawyer until after I graduated from college (although my parents will tell you I had been training for it all of my life.) Every once and while, I dream of doing something else . . . something more creative or that would allow me to move to Canada and support myself if this election goes the wrong way.
Here they are:
(1) Architect. I have always wanted to be an architect but I was kept down by "the man." Even when I was a little kid, I was building or drawing houses. Even now, I could study house plans for hours and hours and think about exactly what I would change about every room and every corner.
(2) Interpreter at the United Nations. And not because I love Nicole Kidman. I just always thought it would be really cool to be able to speak several languages and meet people from all over the world. I also would really like to know about all of the stuff they talk about at the U.N. I’ve always been nosey, and the U.N. is the perfect place to learn the big secrets. Plus, I like the idea of traveling in and out of the country every day for work.
(3) Book Store Owner. Not like the owner of a chain book store. More like the owner of a really cool independent book store with an independent coffee shop in it. It would be a place filled with dark woods, overstuffed furniture, and no mass-market paperbacks. I imagine myself reading all the time, shelving books, talking with intellectual customers about the latest Pulitzer Prize winning novel, and snobbishly laughing at the guy who just came in the store to ask for the latest Danielle Steele novel.
(4) Fashion Designer. I know, I know. You people who know me personally are probably thinking, WTF? Admittedly, I am not a fashion plate. But I always loved designing and sewing clothes for my Barbies so I think a career in haute couture is not so far-fetched. Too bad real people won’t let you shove pins into their empty rubber heads to keep their fancy hats on.
(5) Writer. OK, so I am really a writer in real life. But this is not the kind of writing I am envisioning when I say "I want to be a Writer." I mean the type of writer who has already written a best-seller so she could afford to live on an island in Puget Sound or on the Outer Banks and spend the next 10 years contemplating the next best seller. I picture days of walking on the beach, drinking coffee on the deck, shopping at the local farmer’s markets, drinking wine by candlelight, traveling to do "research" and . . . POP . . . out comes my next two million dollars in advances.
(6) Nurse. That’s a lie - I don’t really want to be a nurse. I deal enough with bodily fluids now in my real life. What is appealing about being a nurse is wearing scrubs to work. I can’t tell you how envious I am of those people who don’t have to make any clothing decisions in the morning other than "which pair of comfy pajama pants and shirt should I wear to work today?" No ironing, no suits, no high heels, no nylons, no fancy underwear required. Sounds like heaven to me. Too bad you have to deal with sick people. I hate sick people.
(7) Life Coach/Non-Sexual Dominatrix. Alright . . . before your imagination gets the better of you, what I really mean is someone who comes into someone else’s life and tells them in no uncertain terms what they need to do to make their lives better. I wouldn’t be one of those hand-holding life coaches. Oh, no. Quit yer bitching, stop the whining, and throw some shit out, literally and figuratively. I think everyone could use a good slap in the face every once and awhile. I would love to be paid to be the slapper.
(8) Pastry Chef. No explanation really needed here. Pastries are the most wonderful things ever . . . who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by them day after day?
(9) Brangelina’s Nanny. I was a nanny once. I enjoyed it. However, I always thought it would be super-exciting to be a nanny for a really famous person’s kids. You would get to do all of that traveling, see the world, live the life of a movie star without having to be in the focus of the cameras. Of course, you would probably have to do some really weird shit and end up raising six spoiled brats with limited input from their parents . . . but, seriously. Don’t they employ several other nannies too? In that case, I would want to be the head nanny.
(10) Reality TV Star a la Rachel Zoe or Kathy Griffin. I just want a camera crew to follow me around day after day and capture the seriously crazy shit that happens to me and record some of my more brilliant witizisms for posterity’s sake. I already know what my theme song would be . . . . Too bad I am such a private person. I don't suppose people would watch a reality TV show where the star's face was blacked out, along with her kids' faces, her family's faces, and all of her friends. What? I would let them show the dog and the cat.
I didn't think so.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I'm So Proud
My three-year old daughter's first independently written word:
Unfortunately . . . I think it is "DOODIE."
Unfortunately . . . I think it is "DOODIE."
Friday, October 10, 2008
The PH Children Fail Picture Day. Miserably.
A couple of weeks ago, the kids' school had picture day. I wasn't holding high expectations for the outcome of picture day (mostly because I have more natural unposed pictures taken by a real professional photographer), but I think it is fun to have the memories of school picture day. Well, the picture day gods and my children had other ideas.
My son was a massive failure at picture day. In all of his Totally Toddler 'Tude, he absolutely refused to participate in the individual picture. He thought it was a much better idea to rip down the set than sit on the silly box and smile. Stupid fake fall leaves . . . he's no sissy boy! Where is his Monster Truck picture background, dammit!! At least get the boy some dirt to play in, for crying outside!
So, no picture of the boy. Not even a picture of a teacher's hands restraining him from behind while he wriggled on the box and knocked over the fall leaves. Nada.
However, they did manage to get him in the class picture, although from the look on his face and his teacher's face, it looks like his teacher was physically restraining him in the picture.
Sigh.
I had higher hopes for my daughter, you know, her being a girly and whatnot. Well, she tried her hardest. But, ultimately, big fat fail. Her face looked liked someone fed her a Sour Patch Kid and then told her to smile. She looked a little like this:
But that wasn't the best part. Oh no . . . the best part was seeing her bright pink Hello Kitty underwear peeking out from in between her legs as she sat spread eagle on the pretty box amid the fall leaves.
Epic fail.
I asked the photographer for a do-over, at least for my daughter. (I didn't feel like paying the damages of her attempting to photograph my son again.) She agreed after I pointed out you could see her underwear. On do-over picture day . . . she's wearing pants.
My son was a massive failure at picture day. In all of his Totally Toddler 'Tude, he absolutely refused to participate in the individual picture. He thought it was a much better idea to rip down the set than sit on the silly box and smile. Stupid fake fall leaves . . . he's no sissy boy! Where is his Monster Truck picture background, dammit!! At least get the boy some dirt to play in, for crying outside!
So, no picture of the boy. Not even a picture of a teacher's hands restraining him from behind while he wriggled on the box and knocked over the fall leaves. Nada.
However, they did manage to get him in the class picture, although from the look on his face and his teacher's face, it looks like his teacher was physically restraining him in the picture.
Sigh.
I had higher hopes for my daughter, you know, her being a girly and whatnot. Well, she tried her hardest. But, ultimately, big fat fail. Her face looked liked someone fed her a Sour Patch Kid and then told her to smile. She looked a little like this:
But that wasn't the best part. Oh no . . . the best part was seeing her bright pink Hello Kitty underwear peeking out from in between her legs as she sat spread eagle on the pretty box amid the fall leaves.
Epic fail.
I asked the photographer for a do-over, at least for my daughter. (I didn't feel like paying the damages of her attempting to photograph my son again.) She agreed after I pointed out you could see her underwear. On do-over picture day . . . she's wearing pants.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
90 Year Old Mojo
My family has many traditions, but one of the most important is giving toasts. Toasts occur at every dinner party were there are more than four people. Most adults are expected to give a toast. This is easier than it may sound because most adults have already had three or four shots before their toast begins. And they have been forced to learn and sing Swedish drinking songs. You would be surprised how easy public speaking is when you are tipsy and already embarrassed.
At my grandfather's birthday party, all family members were expected to give a toast. I have reproduced mine below. I don't go for the sentimental crap other people go for in toasts. You know, the "what-a-great-man-how-I-have-learned-so-much-from-you-and-am-honored-you-breathe-the-same-air-as-me" kind of toasts. Not my thing. Plus, I don't like to cry in front of a room full of people I don't know.
Anyway, here it is. Needless to say, I brought the house down. I rocked the Casbah. I got seven or eight elderly people to use the word "Mojo" in a sentence. Correctly. There is no end to my oratorical prowess.
In the summer before I turned 16, I spent a month with my maternal grandparents. One of the tasks we were to accomplish that summer was me practicing my driving skills. Most of the time, my grandmother let me practice with her Honda Civic. For some reason I will never remember, one day we decided to take my grandfather’s car downtown to the pastry shop. (Of course, I remember why we wanted to go to the pastry shop, what I don’t remember is why we took my grandfather’s car.)
At this time, my grandfather was driving a maroon Toronado. As a kid, I thought this car had mythical properties. I seriously and honestly thought my grandfather was the only one who owned a Toronado - that somehow the car manufacturers decided to make this one car for him and just him. Of course, now I know differently, but there is a small part of me that believes his specific Toronado had mythical powers, even if all others were just normal cars. Anyway, here is a picture of the type of Toronado he had:
It was enormous . . . had a huge front end, giant doors, and was really wide compared to the Honda Civic. Anyway, I safely drove the Toronado downtown and parallel parked (yes parallel parked . . . my grandmother could be a real bitch sometimes) the boat/car in front of the pastry shop. After selecting our pastries, I got back in the car and checked the mirrors. Nothing. So, I started to pull out of the parking space and . . . BOOM . . . was hit by a bus.
Seriously. Hit by a bus.
Now, it couldn’t have been that bad of an impact because the bus didn’t even stop. But my grandmother and I got out of the car and looked at the damage. The driver’s side bumper was bent into the frame. Given the later damage I would cause to other cars, this wasn’t really that bad. However, it was my first car accident and in my grandfather’s mythical Toronado, no less. I burst into tears.
My grandmother, who never had patience for tears, told me to stop crying and assured me it wasn’t that bad. But I was so upset, I couldn’t drive back home. She drove the car home and I ran to the guest room to hide from my grandfather (after all, I had seen him yell at grandchildren for walking barefoot on oriental rugs . . . what would he say about his Toronado?)
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. It was my grandfather. He said, "Come with me" and took me to the garage. I started crying all over again. When we got to the car, he said, "Look. I have been analyzing the damage and I have concluded it was not your fault based on the bend of the fender into the frame. By comparing the angle of the fender and the size and location of the dent into the frame, I have concluded the only way for this accident to have happened was that the bus hit you . . . you did not hit the bus. It was not your fault."
Now, I don’t know if that experience made me a better driver, but it did make me a better lawyer. I can tell anyone exactly why something is not their fault.
The second portion of my toast was a story from my grandfather’s second wedding, which was eight years ago. As I was leaving my apartment building to go fly to the wedding, my landlord saw me with the suitcase and asked where I was going:
Me: I’m going to Seattle for my grandfather’s wedding.
Landlord: Really? Wow . . . how old is your grandfather?
Me: 82.
Landlord: REALLY? Man, I hope I have that kind of mojo when I am 82 years old!
At my grandfather's birthday party, all family members were expected to give a toast. I have reproduced mine below. I don't go for the sentimental crap other people go for in toasts. You know, the "what-a-great-man-how-I-have-learned-so-much-from-you-and-am-honored-you-breathe-the-same-air-as-me" kind of toasts. Not my thing. Plus, I don't like to cry in front of a room full of people I don't know.
Anyway, here it is. Needless to say, I brought the house down. I rocked the Casbah. I got seven or eight elderly people to use the word "Mojo" in a sentence. Correctly. There is no end to my oratorical prowess.
In the summer before I turned 16, I spent a month with my maternal grandparents. One of the tasks we were to accomplish that summer was me practicing my driving skills. Most of the time, my grandmother let me practice with her Honda Civic. For some reason I will never remember, one day we decided to take my grandfather’s car downtown to the pastry shop. (Of course, I remember why we wanted to go to the pastry shop, what I don’t remember is why we took my grandfather’s car.)
At this time, my grandfather was driving a maroon Toronado. As a kid, I thought this car had mythical properties. I seriously and honestly thought my grandfather was the only one who owned a Toronado - that somehow the car manufacturers decided to make this one car for him and just him. Of course, now I know differently, but there is a small part of me that believes his specific Toronado had mythical powers, even if all others were just normal cars. Anyway, here is a picture of the type of Toronado he had:
It was enormous . . . had a huge front end, giant doors, and was really wide compared to the Honda Civic. Anyway, I safely drove the Toronado downtown and parallel parked (yes parallel parked . . . my grandmother could be a real bitch sometimes) the boat/car in front of the pastry shop. After selecting our pastries, I got back in the car and checked the mirrors. Nothing. So, I started to pull out of the parking space and . . . BOOM . . . was hit by a bus.
Seriously. Hit by a bus.
Now, it couldn’t have been that bad of an impact because the bus didn’t even stop. But my grandmother and I got out of the car and looked at the damage. The driver’s side bumper was bent into the frame. Given the later damage I would cause to other cars, this wasn’t really that bad. However, it was my first car accident and in my grandfather’s mythical Toronado, no less. I burst into tears.
My grandmother, who never had patience for tears, told me to stop crying and assured me it wasn’t that bad. But I was so upset, I couldn’t drive back home. She drove the car home and I ran to the guest room to hide from my grandfather (after all, I had seen him yell at grandchildren for walking barefoot on oriental rugs . . . what would he say about his Toronado?)
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. It was my grandfather. He said, "Come with me" and took me to the garage. I started crying all over again. When we got to the car, he said, "Look. I have been analyzing the damage and I have concluded it was not your fault based on the bend of the fender into the frame. By comparing the angle of the fender and the size and location of the dent into the frame, I have concluded the only way for this accident to have happened was that the bus hit you . . . you did not hit the bus. It was not your fault."
Now, I don’t know if that experience made me a better driver, but it did make me a better lawyer. I can tell anyone exactly why something is not their fault.
The second portion of my toast was a story from my grandfather’s second wedding, which was eight years ago. As I was leaving my apartment building to go fly to the wedding, my landlord saw me with the suitcase and asked where I was going:
Me: I’m going to Seattle for my grandfather’s wedding.
Landlord: Really? Wow . . . how old is your grandfather?
Me: 82.
Landlord: REALLY? Man, I hope I have that kind of mojo when I am 82 years old!
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
10 Things You Might Want to Know About My Vacation
I'm beginning to think I am a masochist. I just spent the last five days on yet another family "vacation." Yes, I mean "vacation" because it doesn't seem like a real vacation (sans quotes) if I come back more tired and pissed off than I was before I left. This the third such family "vacation" in a month. Man, it is a good thing I get along with my parents because they have been at each of these events as well.
But now I am ready for some alone time. I am not going anywhere for a very long time. I don't care that the holidays are coming up. I don't care that gas prices have come down. I don't care that airfare has come down. I don't want to leave home again. I don't even want to go to East Peoria. Anyway, here's the short summary of some of the events that occurred on my vacation. Expansion posts are forthcoming, but for now, this is just a teaser.
(1) Airport Security. In retrospect, I should have prepared my daughter ahead of time for airport security. This is because, when I asked her to remove her shoes at airport security, she asked, "Why?" In the rush and heat of the moment, I replied, "Because you might have something in them." To which she replied, at full volume, "I DO have something in my shoes, MAMA!" Let me tell you, the TSA has no sense of humor that I am aware of and now thinks my three year old daughter is the next Richard Reid.
(2) Rain. If you are enjoying the rain today, blame me. I brought it back from Seattle with me. It rained for five straight days on our "vacation." That being said, I still prefer the weather out there to the weather in the Midwest.
(3) 90 Year Old Mojo. Apparently, there was a room full of people at my grandfather's birthday party just waiting for the right word to describe my grandfather. Apparently, I provided it to them in my toast. After I spoke, I had to listen to a room full of other 80 and 90 year olds talk about my grandfather's Mojo. *Shudder*
(4) I Have a Step-Family, Who Knew? My grandfather and his wife got married eight years ago. His second marriage, her fourth. I sort of forgot that she has five kids, all of whom are married and have children. Technically, they are my step-family. In reality, they hate my family. No wonder I haven't thought about them for the last eight years.
(5) Happy Birthday x3. I understand singing Happy Birthday in English. I understand singing Happy Birthday in Swedish. What I do not understand is singing Happy Birthday in Dutch for the one Dutchman in the room. And it wasn't even his birthday. Dutch is not an intuitive language. Even though we had the words in front of us, it turned into a sad jumble of mumbling crap. FAIL.
(6) Airplane Etiquette. We did not have many friends on the airplane after my daughter yelled, "STOP THE BUS, I'M GOING TO THROW UP." In her defense, it is a phrase from a Fancy Nancy book and she wasn't referring to the airplane ride or her weak stomach. However, no one sitting around us knew that. The good news is they gave us lots of room during the trip.
(7) A Glimpse of My Future. I got a glimpse of my future and it wasn't pretty. My Aunt M. organized this entire party thing. And she was bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy. I was (not-so-kindly) reminded that I can be just like her when I plan an event. Like the recent family disaster in Galena. Crap. I've gotta learn to take a step back and stop telling people what to do. Yeah, right. I'll just stop telling them what to do in that shrew-like voice.
(8) Make-Up Lesson. I learned never to let my youngest cousin, who is 21 years old and majoring in theatrical make-up artistry, do my make-up for a party. At the end, she said, "OK, you are done. I could have done a lot better if I had my heavier concealer." Gee, thanks.
(9) Eligible Bachelor. Who knew I would meet an eligible bachelor at my grandfather's 90th birthday party? Very eligible, in fact - tall, handsome, well-dressed, well-educated, funny, under 50, and Swedish (like really Swedish - born in Sweden, lived there until 13 years ago and everything! I thought my parents were going to tie our hands together at the dinner table.) Too bad he lives thousands of miles away. Sigh . . . such is my life.
(10) My Brother and Sister-in-Law Suck. Again. Not only did they not come to the birthday party, they didn't send a card, flowers, or even a toast to be read, like my other cousins who couldn't be there did. Asshats.
But now I am ready for some alone time. I am not going anywhere for a very long time. I don't care that the holidays are coming up. I don't care that gas prices have come down. I don't care that airfare has come down. I don't want to leave home again. I don't even want to go to East Peoria. Anyway, here's the short summary of some of the events that occurred on my vacation. Expansion posts are forthcoming, but for now, this is just a teaser.
(1) Airport Security. In retrospect, I should have prepared my daughter ahead of time for airport security. This is because, when I asked her to remove her shoes at airport security, she asked, "Why?" In the rush and heat of the moment, I replied, "Because you might have something in them." To which she replied, at full volume, "I DO have something in my shoes, MAMA!" Let me tell you, the TSA has no sense of humor that I am aware of and now thinks my three year old daughter is the next Richard Reid.
(2) Rain. If you are enjoying the rain today, blame me. I brought it back from Seattle with me. It rained for five straight days on our "vacation." That being said, I still prefer the weather out there to the weather in the Midwest.
(3) 90 Year Old Mojo. Apparently, there was a room full of people at my grandfather's birthday party just waiting for the right word to describe my grandfather. Apparently, I provided it to them in my toast. After I spoke, I had to listen to a room full of other 80 and 90 year olds talk about my grandfather's Mojo. *Shudder*
(4) I Have a Step-Family, Who Knew? My grandfather and his wife got married eight years ago. His second marriage, her fourth. I sort of forgot that she has five kids, all of whom are married and have children. Technically, they are my step-family. In reality, they hate my family. No wonder I haven't thought about them for the last eight years.
(5) Happy Birthday x3. I understand singing Happy Birthday in English. I understand singing Happy Birthday in Swedish. What I do not understand is singing Happy Birthday in Dutch for the one Dutchman in the room. And it wasn't even his birthday. Dutch is not an intuitive language. Even though we had the words in front of us, it turned into a sad jumble of mumbling crap. FAIL.
(6) Airplane Etiquette. We did not have many friends on the airplane after my daughter yelled, "STOP THE BUS, I'M GOING TO THROW UP." In her defense, it is a phrase from a Fancy Nancy book and she wasn't referring to the airplane ride or her weak stomach. However, no one sitting around us knew that. The good news is they gave us lots of room during the trip.
(7) A Glimpse of My Future. I got a glimpse of my future and it wasn't pretty. My Aunt M. organized this entire party thing. And she was bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy. I was (not-so-kindly) reminded that I can be just like her when I plan an event. Like the recent family disaster in Galena. Crap. I've gotta learn to take a step back and stop telling people what to do. Yeah, right. I'll just stop telling them what to do in that shrew-like voice.
(8) Make-Up Lesson. I learned never to let my youngest cousin, who is 21 years old and majoring in theatrical make-up artistry, do my make-up for a party. At the end, she said, "OK, you are done. I could have done a lot better if I had my heavier concealer." Gee, thanks.
(9) Eligible Bachelor. Who knew I would meet an eligible bachelor at my grandfather's 90th birthday party? Very eligible, in fact - tall, handsome, well-dressed, well-educated, funny, under 50, and Swedish (like really Swedish - born in Sweden, lived there until 13 years ago and everything! I thought my parents were going to tie our hands together at the dinner table.) Too bad he lives thousands of miles away. Sigh . . . such is my life.
(10) My Brother and Sister-in-Law Suck. Again. Not only did they not come to the birthday party, they didn't send a card, flowers, or even a toast to be read, like my other cousins who couldn't be there did. Asshats.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
We're Off to See the Wizard . . .
No, not the wonderful Wizard of Oz, but my maternal grandfather who is turning 90 years old on Saturday. We are flying tomorrow and spending a long weekend with my beloved family. All I can say is that I am kind of glad my brother and sister-in-law are not going to be there. I had enough of them last month.
Anyway, my cousins and I referred to my grandfather as the Wizard of Oz for many years when we were kids. He doesn't so much look like the Wizard of Oz, but he behaved like him when we were little. In some ways, my grandfather was the least "grandparenty" of my grandparents. He was not fond of little children and much preferred to work instead of do grandkid stuff. (My mother has confirmed that he was like this when she was a child as well.)
In the three houses my grandparents lived in that I remember from my childhood, my grandfather always had the largest room as his "library" which was wall-to-wall dark bookcases, maroon velvet curtains, and dark oriental rugs. He could most often be seen sitting behind his giant desk working. As kids, we were never allowed into his library, unless we were bringing him a message from my grandmother that it was time for him to make the before dinner cocktails. Even then, we were only allowed to walk into the room in stocking feet - no shoes and no bare feet.
Being the oldest, I often was elected to go into the library and tell him the message. Even on weekends, he wore white shirts and bowties (he always wore bowties, I have never seen him in a long tie) and dress pants. He would look at me over his reading glasses and invite me to come closer. After telling him the message, he would pat me on the shoulder and say, "Tell her I'll be right there." That was my cue to leave the room.
So, to my cousins and I, he was like the Wizard of Oz - separate, mysterious, and powerful. It was clear everyone in my family viewed him as the supreme head of the family. When my grandfather talked, you stopped talking and you listened. Babies were removed from the room if they were noisy. Children were sent outside. Adult guests were not invited back if they were discourteous to my grandfather. (Unless, of course, if they married into the family . . . then they were tolerated.)
He ruled from his spot at the head of the dining room table. All table manners had to be observed when he was around. No one ate until his plate was full. No one drank until he had taken his first sip. No one else gave a toast until he had given a toast. I remember being glad the kids' table was at the opposite end of the room from him.
I don't mean to convey that my grandfather was mean or that their house was so staid and dim. Some of my best memories come from their house and of the wild dinner parties they threw. Adults getting too drunk (my family still tells the story of the nuns who were too drunk to drive home from one of their parties), people telling off-color stories, singing drinking songs, doing shots, playing charades or cards, and becoming weepy when singing the Wiffenpoof Song.
As I became an adult, my view of him changed. He became more interested in what I had to say and I became more interested in him. We have a very close relationship and I am amazingly lucky to have him still with me at the age of 90. For the last 20 years, he has been working on the "Family History" and writing down the history of his family and my grandmother's family. Because so much of our family history took place in Sweden, it would have been lost to us but for his determined effort to chronicle it.
Anyway, to honor my grandfather, I hope we sing this song at the end of his 90th birthday party on Saturday. Here it is:
The Whiffenpoof Song (start with glasses raised)
To the tables down at Mory's,
To the place where Louis dwells,
To the dear old Temple Bar
We love so well,
Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled
With their glasses raised on high,
And the magic of their singing casts its spell.
Yes, the magic of their singing
Of the songs we love so well:
"Shall I, Wasting" and "Mavourneen" and the rest.
We will serenade our Louis
While life and voice shall last
Then we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.
(Now glasses are put down, everyone joins hands, and sways in time with the music)
We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little black sheep
Who have gone astray.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to eternity
God have mercy on such as we.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Anyway, my cousins and I referred to my grandfather as the Wizard of Oz for many years when we were kids. He doesn't so much look like the Wizard of Oz, but he behaved like him when we were little. In some ways, my grandfather was the least "grandparenty" of my grandparents. He was not fond of little children and much preferred to work instead of do grandkid stuff. (My mother has confirmed that he was like this when she was a child as well.)
In the three houses my grandparents lived in that I remember from my childhood, my grandfather always had the largest room as his "library" which was wall-to-wall dark bookcases, maroon velvet curtains, and dark oriental rugs. He could most often be seen sitting behind his giant desk working. As kids, we were never allowed into his library, unless we were bringing him a message from my grandmother that it was time for him to make the before dinner cocktails. Even then, we were only allowed to walk into the room in stocking feet - no shoes and no bare feet.
Being the oldest, I often was elected to go into the library and tell him the message. Even on weekends, he wore white shirts and bowties (he always wore bowties, I have never seen him in a long tie) and dress pants. He would look at me over his reading glasses and invite me to come closer. After telling him the message, he would pat me on the shoulder and say, "Tell her I'll be right there." That was my cue to leave the room.
So, to my cousins and I, he was like the Wizard of Oz - separate, mysterious, and powerful. It was clear everyone in my family viewed him as the supreme head of the family. When my grandfather talked, you stopped talking and you listened. Babies were removed from the room if they were noisy. Children were sent outside. Adult guests were not invited back if they were discourteous to my grandfather. (Unless, of course, if they married into the family . . . then they were tolerated.)
He ruled from his spot at the head of the dining room table. All table manners had to be observed when he was around. No one ate until his plate was full. No one drank until he had taken his first sip. No one else gave a toast until he had given a toast. I remember being glad the kids' table was at the opposite end of the room from him.
I don't mean to convey that my grandfather was mean or that their house was so staid and dim. Some of my best memories come from their house and of the wild dinner parties they threw. Adults getting too drunk (my family still tells the story of the nuns who were too drunk to drive home from one of their parties), people telling off-color stories, singing drinking songs, doing shots, playing charades or cards, and becoming weepy when singing the Wiffenpoof Song.
As I became an adult, my view of him changed. He became more interested in what I had to say and I became more interested in him. We have a very close relationship and I am amazingly lucky to have him still with me at the age of 90. For the last 20 years, he has been working on the "Family History" and writing down the history of his family and my grandmother's family. Because so much of our family history took place in Sweden, it would have been lost to us but for his determined effort to chronicle it.
Anyway, to honor my grandfather, I hope we sing this song at the end of his 90th birthday party on Saturday. Here it is:
The Whiffenpoof Song (start with glasses raised)
To the tables down at Mory's,
To the place where Louis dwells,
To the dear old Temple Bar
We love so well,
Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled
With their glasses raised on high,
And the magic of their singing casts its spell.
Yes, the magic of their singing
Of the songs we love so well:
"Shall I, Wasting" and "Mavourneen" and the rest.
We will serenade our Louis
While life and voice shall last
Then we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.
(Now glasses are put down, everyone joins hands, and sways in time with the music)
We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little black sheep
Who have gone astray.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to eternity
God have mercy on such as we.
Baa! Baa! Baa!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
10 Ways to Survive (and Enjoy) a Trip to IKEA
I love IKEA. To me, it really is the happiest place on Earth. A secret dream of mine is to be locked (by myself) in IKEA for a week and be able to buy anything I want during that time. IKEA feels like home to me - not so much the actual store - but the store experience is so very Swedish. And, being half Swedish and half Danish, I feel like a bird coming home to roost after a long trip. From the smell of Swedish Meatballs and Lingonberry Jam in the restaurant, to the practical, inventive, and funky designs, it says "home" to me.
But IKEA is not for the faint of heart or soul. IKEA isn't easy - it makes you work for the love. IKEA sets high expectations of its customers and, if you hate IKEA, you just haven't met these high expectations. So, I have compiled a list of 10 ways to survive and enjoy your IKEA shopping experience. How I am qualified to make such a list, you may ask? I have visited a total of five IKEA stores (Los Angeles, Seattle, Minneapolis, and both in Chicago) and have consistently shopped at the stores for the last 10 years. So, heed my advice. Or suffer the consequences.
(1) Some assembly required. If these three words scare you, stay away from IKEA. Please. We don't want your kind. I personally think assembling my own furniture is a challenge and I feel a huge sense of accomplishment every time I build another bookcase or dresser or chair or table. I like that most of the furniture comes flat-packed. That means that those of us who choose not to own giant SUVs or pick-up trucks can still carry furniture in our cars. I have been known to fit quite a bit of stuff in my little four-door sedan, with plenty of room for more.
(2) Only attend during weekday hours. I cannot tell you how important this tip is. Never, ever, never, ever go to IKEA on the weekend or on a holiday. I almost always go on a Thursday. If you go on the weekend or on a holiday (even worse, a Saturday between Thanksgiving and Christmas), you are asking to be crushed in the mass of people entering the door. During one trip, my dad commented, "There are more goddamn people in this store than lived in my home town." (Of course, his hometown only had about 300 people, but still . . . that's a lot of people in one store.)
If you do choose to disobey this rule, you will suffer the consequences. For every hour you spend in IKEA on a weekend or holiday, it will take you two hours to decompress and become non-homicidal toward the GP (that's the General Public for those who have never worked retail.) I have a suspicion that most road rage incidents are directly linked to spending time in IKEA on the weekends.
And here's another tip - you can never just "pop in" to IKEA. No one pops into IKEA. The IKEA experience is one to be savored and enjoyed. It's not Target, for crying outside.
(3) Never go with a spouse. I don't care who you are . . . if you go to IKEA with your spouse, you will have a fight. I have never seen a couple in IKEA who weren't either actively fighting or stomping around glaring at each other. I personally like to shop alone or with one or two selected friends. And, before shopping with a friend, you should agree on your IKEA strategy and philosophy. If you don't agree, don't go to IKEA together.
Furthermore, even though IKEA is one of the most kid-friendly stores I have ever seen, do not bring your children. They won't enjoy it and you will hate them by the end of the day. IKEA has a children's play area called Smaland, allegedly where kids can play while their parents shop. I have my doubts. I think Smaland is actually the portion of the store that sells children in flat-pack boxes. I really believe that is what happens to children who enter the store with their parents. The parents can trade them in for a really nice end table, depending on how cute they are. Some kids may be worth an entire bedroom set.
(4) Enjoy the drive. No matter how far away you live from IKEA or how far you have to drive, you cannot get there from here without taking at least one wrong turn. Every IKEA I have ever been to is located in suburban hell. You can always see IKEA from the major highway, but you can never get there directly. One ill-fated trip to the IKEA in Los Angeles had my cousin and I yelling "Look kids, it's BIG BEN" for nearly 45 minutes because we kept circling in on the building, but never quite getting there.
The good news is that IKEA stores are bright blue and yellow and are impossible to miss, even from miles away. So, you can always see your destination . . . it's the getting there that is a bitch.
(5) Take the first spot. Don't bother driving around the parking lot looking for the "closest" parking spot. It doesn't exist. The cars that are in the first 12 spots are there permanently. They never move. They are display cars put there for marketing purposes only. You will never get a closer spot. Plus, you just wasted half an hour driving around the suburban perimeter of IKEA so take the first spot and get on with your life.
(6) Make a plan of attack but don't follow it. Have a general idea of the major item or items you are looking for and make sure you have measured carefully. However, do not fool yourself into thinking you will only get that one item. In fact, you may spend $200 and never even think of that item. For example, for the last 4 years I have wanted to get new curtains and shades for my bedroom. I have the measurements in my appointment book. In the last 4 years, I have probably been to IKEA 20 times. I still don't have new bedroom curtains. But I do have the rest of my house nearly completely decorated.
Once you enter the store, immediately pick up two catalogs, two measuring tapes, two pencils, and a cart. Believe me, you will need them. Why two catalogs? One to mail to a friend (I always mail one to my cousin in Denver who doesn't have an IKEA yet) and one to keep at home. And you will want to keep it at home. The IKEA catalog is like the bible, but better. I have every catalog from 1998 to 2009. I still look at them all. And no, you can't borrow them.
(7) Take a load off. I personally start every IKEA shopping trip with a meal, to get me in the Swedish mood. A sure thing is always the Swedish Meatballs, new potatoes, and lingonberry jam. Wash it down with a bottle of Kristian Regale and you are set for at least two hours of shopping. Plus, the restaurant is the only place in the store with windows, just in case you forget about the outside world.
(8) Follow directions. IKEA has the path of travel marked for you in every store. Don't try to circumvent their planning - you will get lost. And, when you take the escalator and you place your cart on the cart escalator . . . don't worry. You will get your cart back - no one else will take it. Seriously . . . you don't have to push people down the escalator stairs to get to the bottom before your cart does.
(9) Be prepared to wait. For a really long time in the checkout line. That's just the way IKEA is. Everything runs perfectly until the check out. So, bring a book or the latest New Yorker. Better yet, make friends with the other people in line.
Also - bring your debit card. If you use your debit card at IKEA, they will give you a coupon worth 3% of the total you spend that day. The coupon never expires and can be used at any time. Believe me, it adds up.
(10) You should take it with you. Be prepared to take all of your purchases with you that day. If they won't fit in your car, bring a bigger car. IKEA's shipping costs are extreme (part of the way they save you money is not to tie shipping costs into their furniture costs).
In the future, if you would like to bitch at me about how much you hate IKEA, you will be given the finger. No, not that finger . . . my index finger pointing to this blog post. If you haven't followed these directions and had a shitty time at IKEA, I don't want to hear it. You might have to face the fact that you are not IKEA material. Not everyone can be perfect.
But IKEA is not for the faint of heart or soul. IKEA isn't easy - it makes you work for the love. IKEA sets high expectations of its customers and, if you hate IKEA, you just haven't met these high expectations. So, I have compiled a list of 10 ways to survive and enjoy your IKEA shopping experience. How I am qualified to make such a list, you may ask? I have visited a total of five IKEA stores (Los Angeles, Seattle, Minneapolis, and both in Chicago) and have consistently shopped at the stores for the last 10 years. So, heed my advice. Or suffer the consequences.
(1) Some assembly required. If these three words scare you, stay away from IKEA. Please. We don't want your kind. I personally think assembling my own furniture is a challenge and I feel a huge sense of accomplishment every time I build another bookcase or dresser or chair or table. I like that most of the furniture comes flat-packed. That means that those of us who choose not to own giant SUVs or pick-up trucks can still carry furniture in our cars. I have been known to fit quite a bit of stuff in my little four-door sedan, with plenty of room for more.
(2) Only attend during weekday hours. I cannot tell you how important this tip is. Never, ever, never, ever go to IKEA on the weekend or on a holiday. I almost always go on a Thursday. If you go on the weekend or on a holiday (even worse, a Saturday between Thanksgiving and Christmas), you are asking to be crushed in the mass of people entering the door. During one trip, my dad commented, "There are more goddamn people in this store than lived in my home town." (Of course, his hometown only had about 300 people, but still . . . that's a lot of people in one store.)
If you do choose to disobey this rule, you will suffer the consequences. For every hour you spend in IKEA on a weekend or holiday, it will take you two hours to decompress and become non-homicidal toward the GP (that's the General Public for those who have never worked retail.) I have a suspicion that most road rage incidents are directly linked to spending time in IKEA on the weekends.
And here's another tip - you can never just "pop in" to IKEA. No one pops into IKEA. The IKEA experience is one to be savored and enjoyed. It's not Target, for crying outside.
(3) Never go with a spouse. I don't care who you are . . . if you go to IKEA with your spouse, you will have a fight. I have never seen a couple in IKEA who weren't either actively fighting or stomping around glaring at each other. I personally like to shop alone or with one or two selected friends. And, before shopping with a friend, you should agree on your IKEA strategy and philosophy. If you don't agree, don't go to IKEA together.
Furthermore, even though IKEA is one of the most kid-friendly stores I have ever seen, do not bring your children. They won't enjoy it and you will hate them by the end of the day. IKEA has a children's play area called Smaland, allegedly where kids can play while their parents shop. I have my doubts. I think Smaland is actually the portion of the store that sells children in flat-pack boxes. I really believe that is what happens to children who enter the store with their parents. The parents can trade them in for a really nice end table, depending on how cute they are. Some kids may be worth an entire bedroom set.
(4) Enjoy the drive. No matter how far away you live from IKEA or how far you have to drive, you cannot get there from here without taking at least one wrong turn. Every IKEA I have ever been to is located in suburban hell. You can always see IKEA from the major highway, but you can never get there directly. One ill-fated trip to the IKEA in Los Angeles had my cousin and I yelling "Look kids, it's BIG BEN" for nearly 45 minutes because we kept circling in on the building, but never quite getting there.
The good news is that IKEA stores are bright blue and yellow and are impossible to miss, even from miles away. So, you can always see your destination . . . it's the getting there that is a bitch.
(5) Take the first spot. Don't bother driving around the parking lot looking for the "closest" parking spot. It doesn't exist. The cars that are in the first 12 spots are there permanently. They never move. They are display cars put there for marketing purposes only. You will never get a closer spot. Plus, you just wasted half an hour driving around the suburban perimeter of IKEA so take the first spot and get on with your life.
(6) Make a plan of attack but don't follow it. Have a general idea of the major item or items you are looking for and make sure you have measured carefully. However, do not fool yourself into thinking you will only get that one item. In fact, you may spend $200 and never even think of that item. For example, for the last 4 years I have wanted to get new curtains and shades for my bedroom. I have the measurements in my appointment book. In the last 4 years, I have probably been to IKEA 20 times. I still don't have new bedroom curtains. But I do have the rest of my house nearly completely decorated.
Once you enter the store, immediately pick up two catalogs, two measuring tapes, two pencils, and a cart. Believe me, you will need them. Why two catalogs? One to mail to a friend (I always mail one to my cousin in Denver who doesn't have an IKEA yet) and one to keep at home. And you will want to keep it at home. The IKEA catalog is like the bible, but better. I have every catalog from 1998 to 2009. I still look at them all. And no, you can't borrow them.
(7) Take a load off. I personally start every IKEA shopping trip with a meal, to get me in the Swedish mood. A sure thing is always the Swedish Meatballs, new potatoes, and lingonberry jam. Wash it down with a bottle of Kristian Regale and you are set for at least two hours of shopping. Plus, the restaurant is the only place in the store with windows, just in case you forget about the outside world.
(8) Follow directions. IKEA has the path of travel marked for you in every store. Don't try to circumvent their planning - you will get lost. And, when you take the escalator and you place your cart on the cart escalator . . . don't worry. You will get your cart back - no one else will take it. Seriously . . . you don't have to push people down the escalator stairs to get to the bottom before your cart does.
(9) Be prepared to wait. For a really long time in the checkout line. That's just the way IKEA is. Everything runs perfectly until the check out. So, bring a book or the latest New Yorker. Better yet, make friends with the other people in line.
Also - bring your debit card. If you use your debit card at IKEA, they will give you a coupon worth 3% of the total you spend that day. The coupon never expires and can be used at any time. Believe me, it adds up.
(10) You should take it with you. Be prepared to take all of your purchases with you that day. If they won't fit in your car, bring a bigger car. IKEA's shipping costs are extreme (part of the way they save you money is not to tie shipping costs into their furniture costs).
In the future, if you would like to bitch at me about how much you hate IKEA, you will be given the finger. No, not that finger . . . my index finger pointing to this blog post. If you haven't followed these directions and had a shitty time at IKEA, I don't want to hear it. You might have to face the fact that you are not IKEA material. Not everyone can be perfect.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Eliminating the Need for Toilet Paper
Recently, my parents decided to make a very wise decision and sell their 100 year old house and buy a townhome. I call this a very wise decision because their current home, while beautiful, would not be livable if one of them were to have significant health and/or mobility problems. Their house had many wonderful quirks found in all old homes, but most importantly, did not have a bedroom or a full bathroom on the main floor. At 68 and 63 years of age, my parents needed to think about these things.
So, they put their house on the market and purchased townhome which was built in 2001. I saw it for the first time this weekend on their final walk through before taking possession later this week. It is much better for their needs - the main level has the living room, dining room, kitchen, master bedroom, laundry, and a study. Therefore, if they needed to, they could live on the main floor.
When most people purchase a home in their 60s, they downsize. Not my parents. The townhouse has the same square footage as their old house. However, my mother was quick to point out one major difference, saying, "The new house has five bathrooms. But one of them is completely unnecessary."
One of the five bathrooms is completely unnecessary?
Yes, sometimes my parents' view of the world is a little skewed.
Anyway, I got a first hand look at these five bathrooms over the weekend. In the end, there are only three full bathrooms and two half baths. And given the layout of the house, it makes sense why someone would want a bathroom in each location. However, the fact that many people (such as myself) make do with just one full and one half bathroom, suggests that five bathrooms is a little excessive.
But there's more . . . these potties are not just holes in the floor with a nearby sink. Oh no. They feature the latest in bathroom technology and I'm not talking about double sinks and pool-sized bathtubs. I'm talking about high-tech toilets.
Now, from first glance, these toilets don't make a big impression. But, while we were touring the house, my daughter had to pee. So, I helped her sit on the toilet. Immediately, she said, "It's HOT, Mama!!" I looked at her and said, "Don't be silly, it's not hot." She insisted that it was and the real estate agent said, "Oh, she must be talking about the heated toilet seat."
WTF? Come again? Heated Toilet Seat?
It seems my parents have purchased a townhome with the latest in toilet technology - the TOTO Washlet Toilet. And yes, this toilet seeks to eliminate the need for toilet paper. How, you ask? Well, let's take a look at its features and maybe you will get the picture:
Auto Flush
Auto Seat Open and Close
Rear Cleanse (yes, as in your rear)
Soft Cleanse
Front Cleanse
Oscillating Cleanse
Pulsating Cleanse
Heated Water (for the cleansing)
Water Pressure and Temperature Control
Water Position Adjustment
Air Purifier
Air Jet Dry
I haven't tried it yet. My dad said he's afraid to try it. My mom tried it and she found it very "refreshing." I chalk that up to the fact that she was raised in Europe.
However, upon further consideration, I think a TOTO toilet would be the answer to my cat-eating-toilet-paper problem. On the other hand, I don't think I want my va-jay-jay "air jet" dried.
So, they put their house on the market and purchased townhome which was built in 2001. I saw it for the first time this weekend on their final walk through before taking possession later this week. It is much better for their needs - the main level has the living room, dining room, kitchen, master bedroom, laundry, and a study. Therefore, if they needed to, they could live on the main floor.
When most people purchase a home in their 60s, they downsize. Not my parents. The townhouse has the same square footage as their old house. However, my mother was quick to point out one major difference, saying, "The new house has five bathrooms. But one of them is completely unnecessary."
One of the five bathrooms is completely unnecessary?
Yes, sometimes my parents' view of the world is a little skewed.
Anyway, I got a first hand look at these five bathrooms over the weekend. In the end, there are only three full bathrooms and two half baths. And given the layout of the house, it makes sense why someone would want a bathroom in each location. However, the fact that many people (such as myself) make do with just one full and one half bathroom, suggests that five bathrooms is a little excessive.
But there's more . . . these potties are not just holes in the floor with a nearby sink. Oh no. They feature the latest in bathroom technology and I'm not talking about double sinks and pool-sized bathtubs. I'm talking about high-tech toilets.
Now, from first glance, these toilets don't make a big impression. But, while we were touring the house, my daughter had to pee. So, I helped her sit on the toilet. Immediately, she said, "It's HOT, Mama!!" I looked at her and said, "Don't be silly, it's not hot." She insisted that it was and the real estate agent said, "Oh, she must be talking about the heated toilet seat."
WTF? Come again? Heated Toilet Seat?
It seems my parents have purchased a townhome with the latest in toilet technology - the TOTO Washlet Toilet. And yes, this toilet seeks to eliminate the need for toilet paper. How, you ask? Well, let's take a look at its features and maybe you will get the picture:
Auto Flush
Auto Seat Open and Close
Rear Cleanse (yes, as in your rear)
Soft Cleanse
Front Cleanse
Oscillating Cleanse
Pulsating Cleanse
Heated Water (for the cleansing)
Water Pressure and Temperature Control
Water Position Adjustment
Air Purifier
Air Jet Dry
I haven't tried it yet. My dad said he's afraid to try it. My mom tried it and she found it very "refreshing." I chalk that up to the fact that she was raised in Europe.
However, upon further consideration, I think a TOTO toilet would be the answer to my cat-eating-toilet-paper problem. On the other hand, I don't think I want my va-jay-jay "air jet" dried.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Dance of the Helicopter Mommies
Last Saturday, my daughter attended her first "class" in her short three year old life. Up until this point, we have not had the opportunity to attend "classes," mostly because classes for preschoolers are usually scheduled during the work day, clearly geared toward stay at home mothers. However, one dance studio in town has a three year old dance class on Saturdays and I signed my daughter up.The hour long class is 20 minutes of ballet, 20 minutes of tumbling, and 20 minutes of tap. I knew she would love the tumbling and I thought she could use the ballet and tap because she is not the most coordinated child in the world. Plus, she is a true girly-girl and loves anything girly. And, man . . . is this G-I-R-L-Y. The entire place is painted pink. My daughter was one of the few girls not wearing a pink leotard and tights (her leotard is lavender). The tap shoes are shiny black with big black ribbon bow ties. It is so cute . . . it brought back all of the girly tendencies from my childhood.
Anyway, this being my first experience of a child class as a parent, I was curious to see how the other parents behaved. I was excited for my daughter and found myself a little anxious as well. What if she didn’t listen to the teachers? What if she wouldn’t participate? What if she got scared? Was I pushing too hard by taking her to a class at three years old? Would the other girls be mean? Would the teachers be mean?
I brought the camera, knowing I should document this like a good parent would. As we sat in the waiting room with the other mini-ballerinas and their parents, my daughter got very quiet. She sat on my lap and just looked at the other kids. But when the teachers came to get her class, she went willingly with them and sat nicely with all the other girls.
Parents are supposed to stay in the waiting room, which is separate from the dance room. I was disappointed because I wanted to watch her a little bit to see how she would do in the beginning. I soon learned why the school wants parents to be separated from their children.
Helicopter Mommies.
But first, about me and my kid. I stood in the doorway at the beginning of class and snapped a few pictures. I admit, a got a little tear in my eye watching her do this on her own. She was so sweet and cute and a pretty good listener. The ballet part was first, which involved learning first position and some steps from that position. What struck me was how weird it is to see your children exhibit behavior that you recognize as your own. Flash! There I was - watching myself 34 years ago.
During the ballet portion, she was semi-compliant, but mostly just looked around and watched the other girls. She looked at them like, "Seriously? You want me to do what?" She didn’t resist when the teachers moved her feet to the right position, but she wasn’t willingly doing the steps either. She glanced at me a few times and gave me a half-smile, as if to say, "What have you done to me, woman?" It was like mini-me from gymnastics at the YWCA in 1975.
After a few moments, I sat down in the waiting room. I checked on her two other times - once during tumbling and once during tap. She really came alive during tumbling and loved it, as well as tap. She was even able to march in step with the music with her tap shoes on. I was so proud (although I will hide the tap shoes at home - that's the last thing we need.)
OK - now back to the Helicopter Mommies.
As I was standing in the doorway snapping my pictures, I became aware of a presence behind me. Close up behind me stood three or four other mothers trying to press their way into the room. I took my pictures and stepped back, figuring they wanted pictures of this occasion as well. As I left, the other mothers took their positions. Their permanent positions in the doorway. One mother sat on the floor in the doorway and watched her child the entire class. Another mother kneeled next to the doorway and also watched. The third leaned against the doorway and watched as well.
What shocked me was the look on their faces. They didn’t look proud or nostalgic or happy or anything like I thought I had looked. They looked analytical and stressed. They looked like they were taking mental notes on every move their daughters made. They looked like they would make their daughters practice at home if they screwed up at class. They looked like this was the freaking Olympics of dance. And they all manned their positions for the entire hour-long class. (Except one kept talking on her cell phone . . . what the hell is that about?)
I feel sorry for those little girls whose mothers are so concerned with their performance in a three year old’s dance class. Sure, I want my kids to be good at things and want to excel at whatever they are doing. But at three years old? This is supposed to be fun, right?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
There's a Whole Lotta Sass Going On
Sass is a big issue in my house. I have a three year old who excels at being sassy and gets relatively frequent time-outs for her sassy behavior. I tend to define sassy behavior as inappropriate sounds or comments coming out of one's mouth, such as spitting, sticking the tongue out, back-talk, and the like.
Frustrated with her behavior, I searched online for some suggestions for dealing with the sassy stuff that didn't involve taping her mouth shut. I didn't get much of anything helpful from parenting websites (most of which tend to lean toward the "attachment" form of parenting, something I don't espouse.) But I did find a really interesting article for Sass on Wikipedia. Apparently, sassy behavior is much more broad than I previously thought.
Here are some examples of sassy behavior that would not make my list of sass:
Speaking in false tongues (or is that just creepy?)
Expelling flatulence in the presence of others (gross? Yes. Funny? Almost always. Sassy . . . no.)
Nose, ear, or belly button picking in public (again . . . gross.)
Cutting or biting finger or toe nails in public (gross . . . especially the toes. Who cuts their toenails in public?)
Scratching private parts (perhaps sass means gross in another language?)
Putting elbows on the table
Putting feet up or sitting back on a chair to "relax" (relaxing is sassy?)
Groaning when someone tries to speak (damn - I must be a real sassy bitch. I suppose eye-rolling is also sassy.)
Putting feet on a chair when someone is sitting in the chair
Sniffing your own armpits or crotch
Sniffing someone else's armpits or crotch (I guess the dog's name should be changed to Sassy)
Wiggling your bottom towards someone (I can't remember the last time someone wiggled their bottom at me. Next time I will be sure to call them on such bad behavior. After I stop laughing.)
Revealing your bare backside to someone (Yeah . . . you know who you are.)
Pointing towards a person (especially with one's middle finger) (Damn - guilty again)
Failure to use napkins
Licking the plate
Taking excessive food from a buffet, especially at a reception
Eating in the street
Waking up others when not otherwise instructed
Aggressive driving/road rage
Tailgating
Excessive honking
Gesturing at fellow drivers
Driving slowly while using a mobile phone
Littering
Smoking in public
Public urination
Eavesdropping
Exhibitionism
Vandalism
Staring at another person's bare private parts, especially when they are in the washroom
At least the article mentions that some of these things are illegal, as well as sassy. But, if these behaviors are classified as sassy, then it is not only my daughter who will spending a lot of time in time out.
Frustrated with her behavior, I searched online for some suggestions for dealing with the sassy stuff that didn't involve taping her mouth shut. I didn't get much of anything helpful from parenting websites (most of which tend to lean toward the "attachment" form of parenting, something I don't espouse.) But I did find a really interesting article for Sass on Wikipedia. Apparently, sassy behavior is much more broad than I previously thought.
Here are some examples of sassy behavior that would not make my list of sass:
Speaking in false tongues (or is that just creepy?)
Expelling flatulence in the presence of others (gross? Yes. Funny? Almost always. Sassy . . . no.)
Nose, ear, or belly button picking in public (again . . . gross.)
Cutting or biting finger or toe nails in public (gross . . . especially the toes. Who cuts their toenails in public?)
Scratching private parts (perhaps sass means gross in another language?)
Putting elbows on the table
Putting feet up or sitting back on a chair to "relax" (relaxing is sassy?)
Groaning when someone tries to speak (damn - I must be a real sassy bitch. I suppose eye-rolling is also sassy.)
Putting feet on a chair when someone is sitting in the chair
Sniffing your own armpits or crotch
Sniffing someone else's armpits or crotch (I guess the dog's name should be changed to Sassy)
Wiggling your bottom towards someone (I can't remember the last time someone wiggled their bottom at me. Next time I will be sure to call them on such bad behavior. After I stop laughing.)
Revealing your bare backside to someone (Yeah . . . you know who you are.)
Pointing towards a person (especially with one's middle finger) (Damn - guilty again)
Failure to use napkins
Licking the plate
Taking excessive food from a buffet, especially at a reception
Eating in the street
Waking up others when not otherwise instructed
Aggressive driving/road rage
Tailgating
Excessive honking
Gesturing at fellow drivers
Driving slowly while using a mobile phone
Littering
Smoking in public
Public urination
Eavesdropping
Exhibitionism
Vandalism
Staring at another person's bare private parts, especially when they are in the washroom
At least the article mentions that some of these things are illegal, as well as sassy. But, if these behaviors are classified as sassy, then it is not only my daughter who will spending a lot of time in time out.
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