I ♥ NY

Dear Diary,

They say New Yorkers are rude.
I didn't find them to be any ruder than dwellers from any other large city.
In fact, many were actually pleasant.
Let me reminisce.

The friendliness was apparent as soon as we made our way out of the airport to find a cab; many kind sirs asked if we wanted a ride.  So sweet! In fact many folks near the large tourist landmarks were more than happy to accommodate us for the sake of skipping the long lines or to give us a good deal.  How thoughtful!

After using the restroom in a restaurant, a server kindly got my attention as I made the trek back to my table: "Ma'am, you have a napkin stuck to the bottom of your shoe!"  Well, it was toilet paper, but only a couple squares, so of course out of gratitude I returned the favor and didn't correct him.

After taking pictures in front of the famous Tiffany's, we entered the hallowed building. As we took our first steps into the main floor, taking in the glass cases and dozens of well suited sales and security people, something crashed to the floor at our feet. Glass pieces and liquid Snapple seeped onto the tile while my mortified twelve-year-old turned beet red.  Immediately three or four well dressed men surrounded us assuring, "It's OK, we'll take care of it, don't worry about it."  See?  So kind!

While perusing Saks (Fifth Avenue, in case you want to reference it) my daughters and I decided to browse the shoe floor (yes, ladies, a whole floor devoted to shoes!).  As we roamed displays, gawking and pointing and comparing prices ($$ thousandssss), not one salesperson bothered us.  In fact, it was like we were invisible.  How did they know my three girls and I were "just looking" and didn't need to be bothered? Maybe my Clarks and our Vera Bradley bags were a giveaway.  Boy, they are good.

On our last day in the city, my daughter became visibly ill as we approached the ticket line for the observation deck of the Empire State Building.  A kindly security guard gave us all kinds of advice about "coming back tomorrow" or where to find the drug store for meds or the McD's across the street for ginger ale.  We opted for the ginger ale and a nap.  Here is my two-hour view while the three other family members went up to the 86th floor of the iconic Empire State building and my ill daughter slept in the booth next to me.  Nobody even kicked us out!  Such a nice town.

I do like the Big Apple for big city kicks, but I like town living best. 

Thanks for the memories, New York!
L J

Dressing Room Moments II

Dear Diary,
After several weeks and two failed attempts, I am happy to be publishing a post!

There was a moment in a dressing room recently that I just can't keep to myself.
[Link here for my first dressing room moment post written almost one year ago.]

I want to share it because it was such a cliche moment for us parents grappling with our teens' choices....a charming speech given by a quietly desperate mother trying to steer her daughter's choice into another direction. A moment parents are guaranteed to find themselves in sooner or later.

While my oldest daughter was trying on summer clothes, three mothers, moi included, were stuck in the cramped space outside our daughters' dressing room doors. Much like being in an elevator, those close quarters really only allow for staring at the floor or the door behind which your daughter stands. Occasionally the awkwardness would be broken when a mother decided it was time to talk directly through the door, straining to hear the grumbled/mumbled replies, as if making negotiations at a drive through window.

"Do you need another size?"

 

"Can I see it on you? I am buying it so I need to see it on you."

 

            "Are you almost done?"

 

       "Here, I got you a different color."

And so it went.
Doors opening and shutting,
girls and mothers conferring,
hangars of clothes passing from one hand to another.

A dressing room door nearby opened and The Mom stepped forward to look within. Then I heard a one-way conversation by this mother that went like this:

"Are you sure you want to wear that? I mean in public-- you would wear that in public? You will be wearing that in front of your grandfather; you wouldn't be embarrassed wearing that in front of him?"

I could only imagine what she was viewing on her daughter....a swimsuit? Short shorts? A tank top?

I chuckled, but only because it wasn't me trying to cajole my daughter into wearing something more modest or appropriate.

I was not unsympathetic. I was ready to acknowledge this mother's troubles with my oh-what-we-mothers-put-up-with solidarity face.

My daughters have modesty built into them like a V6 in a Mustang GT.  So I haven't had to make those kinds of arguments with them.
I think it helps that their mother models it.
(Modesty, not the Mustang. But I wish I was modeling the Mustang....I digress.)

Our growing children have minds of their own and a desire for making independent choices. Some of their choices are questionable and require the universal parental admonishment, "If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?" 

Or my new favorite, "Would your grandfather approve?"

Yes, I chuckled at that scene.

And I am oh-so-grateful I haven't had to pull out the "grandfather approval" card.
Yet.

Happy shopping!
LJ

Labor Day's Love is Not Lost

Dear Diary,

Today is the first Monday of September: Labor Day. 

Yup, it has crept up on us already!

For over 100 years, America has been celebrating Labor Day.  This blogger is grateful for a day off of the normal Monday routine. 

Poor Monday; such a hated day of the week.

I dare say that if all American adults were asked for the origin of Labor Day, the majority wouldn't know, and I would be guilty-as-charged.  I would have said that it was a result of a law passed in the '50s to honor America's laborers by giving them:  a day off; an excuse to shop really great deals at local retailers; a reason to pig out at backyard bar-b-ques.

I wouldn't have been completely wrong.  According to the US Dept. of Labor, the holiday was nationalized by Congress in 1894 and

"is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country."
 

On such a celebratory day, I don't want to dwell on the feeling I get from today's government and the divisiveness it propagates for class and labor divisions.  It seems that plenty of bitter union leaders and minimum-wage earners get all the press coverage these days.  The cynicism can be seen in cartoons such as this: 

I am happy that we have workers in all classes, and that America allows for the freedom to better ourselves in our work.

So, now that I am a little bit smarter for it, I am happy to celebrate Labor Day in honor of America's workers.

Bring on the food, retail savings, and subsequent four-day workweek!

LJ

Efficient: A Bad Word?

Dear Diary,

As I continue to fill out job applications, touch up my resume, and prepare for interviews, I am reminded of all the adjectival words I need to have at my disposal, so that I can give glowing self-accolades to potential employers while simultaneously showing my humble side.

One such adjective is the word efficient. It does describe me well.  Throughout my adult years, I have always looked for the most efficient way of getting a job done. My days of church work come to mind, which included the menial --but worthwhile-- task of stuffing envelopes and preparing them for the mail.  I actually got a kick out of trying to find the quickest way to seal hundreds of letters in the least amount of time.  Let me tell you, licking a long row of envelope flaps spread out along the conference table is not the best way to do it.

This leads me to the question:  Is being efficient equal to being more productive, or more lazy?

Take my grocery list for example.  Occasionally I get strangers at the store oohing and aahing over it.  For years I wrote lists of items needed on a notepad, scribbling almost-legibly-most-of-the-time, and in no particular order.  Which got annoying at the store when the last item to scratch off the list was in aisle 2A and I was now in aisle 42Y.

One day, after writing "Worcestershire sauce" on the list, which was a lengthy process since spelling it is about as easy as pronouncing it, I'd had it.  I'd had it wasting time writing every item down every week. 

Who has time to write food words? 
Apparently not I at the time.

So I started typing a list.  I mentally took a walk through my most frequented grocery store and tried to group food items together and list them in accordance with the route that I walked.  So, since produce is first in the store, this is what I listed first.

Once the master list was typed and tweaked over the next weeks -- voila! -- personalized grocery list!

Now I just print out a sheet, hang it on my fridge with a highlighter next to it, and when we run out of applesauce--
BAM!
pink highlighter and 2 seconds later I can move on to the important things in life.

Now I ask, is this productive or lazy? 

Efficient is what I'd call it.
LJ

Visiting Death and Shopping for Bargains

Dear Diary,

There is a reason the title of this post makes you scratch your head in wonder.  Let me explain.

This summer I had the honor of attending the visitation of someone dear to my church congregation.  Someone who had been a member of the church his whole life, and whose children and grandchildren still attend. 

Grief aside, "visiting" death is good for the heart and soul. 

It gives life to the senses, and gives the sensible a reality check ruler with which to measure life.
(And hopefully knocks some sense into the senseless.)

There is nothing more sobering than to look upon a bodily vessel, lovingly formed by the grace of God, which has now been emptied of its most valued contents.

After I left the visitation at my church, I drove across the street to my children's school, which was having its annual rummage sale.  I marveled as I wandered around the aisles of stuff that filled the gymnasium.

Here were the old discards,
the devalued,
the cheap, and
sometimes even dirty,
items of our lives.

While, across the street, the family of a man was celebrating the gift of his life. 
Cherished,
precious,
and eternally valued.

Never had the span of a street given me such a juxtaposition of life. 

It was weird being in that gymnasium, which I originally thought would bring on my usual bargain shopping buzz.

My heart, at that moment, much preferred the somber visitation room, which created a more meaningful buzz inside me -- one based on hope, peace and salvation.

Peace out,
LJ

Dressing Room Moments

Dear Diary,

Today let's get beyond the magnifying mirror suctioned to my vanity (read A Beauty-filled Season), and go straight for the full length version, multiplied by three for multi-angled viewing!  (Have you ever seen that mirror room in "What Not to Wear?"  Ooh, gives me the willies!)

I'm talking about dressing rooms.  Rooms which, up until this year, I didn't have too much of a problem being in.  Where trying on cute dresses and tops and crops really was a fun experience.  Until I grew a size bigger. 

Recently I shopped the racks for at least half an hour, and with optimism and excitment at my finds, brought several summery outfits into the dressing room, only to take off every piece in discouragement. 
Why was nothing fitting right? 
Oh, gee, could it be I was shopping last year's size? 
This is a new year and a new size, sistah!
In fact, not to brag, but I am the heaviest I have ever been outside of pregnancy.
IMG!

Returning to the rack to browse a larger dress size had deflated any sense of fun this spree had brought me.
It was a tight-throated, purse-lipped experience. 
Go ahead, purse your lips right now. 
Brings on the tight throat and bleak outlook doesn't it? 
That is when shopping -- and the dressing room -- became a thing no longer desirable.

Call it middle-age spread, or slower metabolism, or just plain weight gain, it all means the same thing.  No matter the person, to "graduate" into the next size up is not an accomplishment to be relished.

These days, though my left brain is telling me, Don't eat another cookie! or Get up and get some exercise!, my right brain is trying to find a less "painful" way to make try-ons a more positive experience.  And I think I have it figured out. 

The next time I take a trip to that dreaded room dressing room, I will have on some emotional
(under)armor to protect me from that image in the three-way mirror.

It's called Spanx.

See you at the next foundation sale!
LJ

P.S.  Here are some other random dressing room moments.

• One of my girls lost her first tooth in a Target dressing room. I think I was trying on shorts.
• During one of my more recent and discouraging dressing room experiences (trying on several pairs of black shorts with my pasty white thighs decorated with squiggly purple lines is not a day brightener), I got a text from my daughter that our pet parakeet, Jayda, had finally chirped his last. I've mentioned my brave, feathered 'keet in Lessons from a Bird Brain. Little did I know in September that the cause of his initial lameness was a tumor growing in his abdomen. It caused many problems at the end. Now we are all at peace. And I am managing to get through the early summer season without any black shorts.