Footprints Of God Poem
1 year ago
Sunday, December 12, 2010
An official excuse for not blogging
I will be taking an extended break (and an official break, rather than just being too lazy to write a post once a month) from The Blooperrealist. Read about my new adventures training for the 2011 Boston Marathon at www.meghanrunsboston2011.blogspot.com.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Pottery Barn premonitions
I'm currently sitting in the living room of one of my oldest friends, Lydia, who I've known since first grade. I'm in my hometown of Oneonta because another of our friends, Malorie, is getting married today.
The church she's getting married in is down the street from my childhood home, next door to the home of another of my oldest friends, Joe. We used to carpool together to school. He used to make fun of my lisp. His family, the Tannenbaums, still live in that house. Malorie, Lydia, and I were part of a group of a dozen friends who sang Christmas Carols around the neighborhood one year, stopping to sing "O Tannenbaum!" at Joe's house. Witty, weren't we? We then walked the three blocks back to my house for my mom to make us hot cocoa. (Seriously.)
The same street will be the site of Malorie's wedding in a short few hours. I've been looking forward to Malorie's wedding all summer and I took two days off of work to extend my weekend with old high school friends. Malorie is the first of my friends to get married and I'm not sure that it's quite become real to me yet.
Last night, Lydia and I got two pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream (Phish Food and Half Baked, in case you wondered) and watched "I Hate Valentine's Day." We weren't even trying to be cliche. It just happened.
Two nights ago was Malorie's Bachelorette party. I won't be sharing details.
Three nights ago, I had a terrifying nightmare. I was stuck inside of a Pottery Barn, frantically searching for the perfect wedding gift for Malorie. The walls of the store were closing in on me, and the lights shattered, one by one, leaving me scrambling in the dark to find the perfect item for Malorie's new home and new life.
The implications of this nightmare are far-reaching and obvious. I'm proud to say, however, that I faced my domestic fears and went to a Pottery Barn yesterday to get Malorie's gift. It was calling to me, even though Malorie did not register there. The candle votives weren't so terrifying in person; nor were the matching kitchen sets. In fact, I quite liked the beige apron and potholder duo. The electric salt grinder was also neat.
And now my gift, chosen by my very own subconscious, is professionally wrapped, with a big green ribbon on top, waiting to be enjoyed for years to come.
_________________________________________________
Congrats and best wishes, Malorie and Orlando, even if my subconscious is a bit slow on the uptake!
The church she's getting married in is down the street from my childhood home, next door to the home of another of my oldest friends, Joe. We used to carpool together to school. He used to make fun of my lisp. His family, the Tannenbaums, still live in that house. Malorie, Lydia, and I were part of a group of a dozen friends who sang Christmas Carols around the neighborhood one year, stopping to sing "O Tannenbaum!" at Joe's house. Witty, weren't we? We then walked the three blocks back to my house for my mom to make us hot cocoa. (Seriously.)
The same street will be the site of Malorie's wedding in a short few hours. I've been looking forward to Malorie's wedding all summer and I took two days off of work to extend my weekend with old high school friends. Malorie is the first of my friends to get married and I'm not sure that it's quite become real to me yet.
Last night, Lydia and I got two pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream (Phish Food and Half Baked, in case you wondered) and watched "I Hate Valentine's Day." We weren't even trying to be cliche. It just happened.
Two nights ago was Malorie's Bachelorette party. I won't be sharing details.
Three nights ago, I had a terrifying nightmare. I was stuck inside of a Pottery Barn, frantically searching for the perfect wedding gift for Malorie. The walls of the store were closing in on me, and the lights shattered, one by one, leaving me scrambling in the dark to find the perfect item for Malorie's new home and new life.
The implications of this nightmare are far-reaching and obvious. I'm proud to say, however, that I faced my domestic fears and went to a Pottery Barn yesterday to get Malorie's gift. It was calling to me, even though Malorie did not register there. The candle votives weren't so terrifying in person; nor were the matching kitchen sets. In fact, I quite liked the beige apron and potholder duo. The electric salt grinder was also neat.
And now my gift, chosen by my very own subconscious, is professionally wrapped, with a big green ribbon on top, waiting to be enjoyed for years to come.
_________________________________________________
Congrats and best wishes, Malorie and Orlando, even if my subconscious is a bit slow on the uptake!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Moonstruck
The 18-by-24 inch pages of the AAA Road Atlas are difficult to control on my lap as my eyes and nose creep closer to the type. What mountains are on my left? My knees bend inward to steady the center of my gaze, the peripheries out of mind and definitely out of sight. For that day, at least.
Beth sits to my side, pointing out quickly passing waterfalls (“You missed it!”), ruby red canyons, and mountain ranges on the horizon. We spot bikers on picturesque riverside paths, enjoying the weekday afternoon, some stopping to wave at the oncoming train that disrupts their quiet. Fishermen, knee-deep in rubber boots, cast their flies into the calm waters.
For two days, Beth and I enjoy the serenity of the cooperative wilderness and its polite patrons, from the security of our train’s observation car.
As the terrain changes, so do our passers by. Mountains turn into cliffs, snow caps disappear, and still waters turn rapid. Water-goers no longer stand unprotected; skinny, trusting kayaks are replaced with sturdy, tide-defying tanks. White water rafters abound, some breezing by protruding rocks, others preparing for the next big rapid.
Still others have found a balance or temporary calm. Some of these lucky ones bend over, pull down their swimsuit bottoms, and, in case that wasn’t enough fanfare, slap their own butt cheeks. Their fellow rafters wave fervently at the train, laughter surely escaping from their amused faces as they direct our gaze to their half naked friends.
The mooners delight every member of the observation car, producing laughter and “oohs” and “ahhs” from the 8-year olds and 80-year olds alike. Bored faces light up, children cover their mouths to giggle, couples turn to each other to share their smiles. It’s as if a comedian has come aboard to deliver several consecutive, universally-hilarious punchlines; suddenly we all have a shared history. “Did you see the mooners earlier?” a man with glistening white hair asks me with glee as I pass him in the hallway later.
We pass about twenty different boats, and rafters in at least five take this glorious opportunity in the Colorado wilderness, to defy their own vanity and social norms. Little do they know of their impact onboard the California Zephyr. I think of the many opportunities I’ve had, and passed up, to do the same in recent years. What a shame that I have not been spreading joy near and far with nothing more than my own bum.
Never again will I underestimate the power of a naked butt. I hope you won’t either.
__________________________________________________
READER BLOOPERS: Have you ever mooned anyone? How was it received?
Beth sits to my side, pointing out quickly passing waterfalls (“You missed it!”), ruby red canyons, and mountain ranges on the horizon. We spot bikers on picturesque riverside paths, enjoying the weekday afternoon, some stopping to wave at the oncoming train that disrupts their quiet. Fishermen, knee-deep in rubber boots, cast their flies into the calm waters.
For two days, Beth and I enjoy the serenity of the cooperative wilderness and its polite patrons, from the security of our train’s observation car.
As the terrain changes, so do our passers by. Mountains turn into cliffs, snow caps disappear, and still waters turn rapid. Water-goers no longer stand unprotected; skinny, trusting kayaks are replaced with sturdy, tide-defying tanks. White water rafters abound, some breezing by protruding rocks, others preparing for the next big rapid.
Still others have found a balance or temporary calm. Some of these lucky ones bend over, pull down their swimsuit bottoms, and, in case that wasn’t enough fanfare, slap their own butt cheeks. Their fellow rafters wave fervently at the train, laughter surely escaping from their amused faces as they direct our gaze to their half naked friends.
The mooners delight every member of the observation car, producing laughter and “oohs” and “ahhs” from the 8-year olds and 80-year olds alike. Bored faces light up, children cover their mouths to giggle, couples turn to each other to share their smiles. It’s as if a comedian has come aboard to deliver several consecutive, universally-hilarious punchlines; suddenly we all have a shared history. “Did you see the mooners earlier?” a man with glistening white hair asks me with glee as I pass him in the hallway later.
We pass about twenty different boats, and rafters in at least five take this glorious opportunity in the Colorado wilderness, to defy their own vanity and social norms. Little do they know of their impact onboard the California Zephyr. I think of the many opportunities I’ve had, and passed up, to do the same in recent years. What a shame that I have not been spreading joy near and far with nothing more than my own bum.
Never again will I underestimate the power of a naked butt. I hope you won’t either.
__________________________________________________
READER BLOOPERS: Have you ever mooned anyone? How was it received?
Monday, May 31, 2010
B-line blues
Riding public transportation provides one of the best people-watching platforms that I am aware of. In Boston, riding the T can also be utterly frustrating. When that pedestrian in the orange tee with the extra large Dunkin' Donuts ice coffee beats the train to every traffic light, it takes some mental discipline to avoid making a scene of my restlessness.
There are always those passengers, though, who make this torturous trip slightly more bearable. Take, for example, the seemingly normal 20-something who got on at Packard's Corner yesterday. His Sox cap and North Face backpack hid him well in the crowd of college/post-college B-liners.
At Babcock Street, Normal Guy got out a textbook and began a highlighting frenzy. At St. Paul Street, he whipped out the index cards. By BU Central, the iPhone had his attention. Text twist it is.
Normal Guy stood up at Blandford Street, perched to exit at the last of the completely useless above-ground stops.
The front doors opened. "Rear doors please!" he shouted. They opened, just for him. Normal Guy proceeded to launch a neck-bending, hail-sized ball of spit onto Comm Ave.
With that, he reclaimed his seat and re-focused on the pile of index cards. The train descended into Kenmore Station and suddenly picked up speed.
____________________
READER BLOOPERS: What's the funniest thing you've witnessed on public transportation?
There are always those passengers, though, who make this torturous trip slightly more bearable. Take, for example, the seemingly normal 20-something who got on at Packard's Corner yesterday. His Sox cap and North Face backpack hid him well in the crowd of college/post-college B-liners.
At Babcock Street, Normal Guy got out a textbook and began a highlighting frenzy. At St. Paul Street, he whipped out the index cards. By BU Central, the iPhone had his attention. Text twist it is.
Normal Guy stood up at Blandford Street, perched to exit at the last of the completely useless above-ground stops.
The front doors opened. "Rear doors please!" he shouted. They opened, just for him. Normal Guy proceeded to launch a neck-bending, hail-sized ball of spit onto Comm Ave.
With that, he reclaimed his seat and re-focused on the pile of index cards. The train descended into Kenmore Station and suddenly picked up speed.
____________________
READER BLOOPERS: What's the funniest thing you've witnessed on public transportation?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
A willed blooper
Last week, I went out to dinner with a good friend of mine. We often enjoy dinners out in Boston, and we usually practice some sort of overindulgence when together: whether it be the P.F. Chang's Meal For Two, an entire 8-inch pan of apple crisp, or several bottles of wine. Or some combination of the above.
In my opinion, this tendency to overindulge when together signifies some level of comfort with one another. You can't shovel ice cream down the hatch in front of just anyone. It requires some bond, centered on love for one another ... and not without a love for food, drink, and laughter.
Our dinners are never short on any of those three ingredients. As far as laughter is concerned, the focal point, of course, is usually recent failures and antics we have experienced or witnessed.
"So, yesterday at work," she said, reaching for the bottle of Chardonnay, "I did the dumbest thing." This friend of mine is a fantastic story-teller, so I wiggled in my chair, eyes on her, eagerly awaiting her words.
"I was just sitting at my desk, checking my work e-mail." She shrugged, wine bottle in hand, offering an anticipatory, What the hell was I thinking? Excited to be set up for some laughter, I invested myself in her story. I even followed her movement with my eyes, ending at the corked wine bottle in her hand.
She continued her story.
As she extended the wine bottle towards her glass, I was delighted that a punchline was already approaching -- and somehow words had deemed themselves unnecessary.
I wiggled a bit more in my chair, silently watching my friend create a new blooper to tell and re-tell, my smirk about to burst.
With a flip of her wrist, the glass remained empty.
She looked at me. I unapolagetically returned her gaze and nodded at the cork. Our laughter filled the restaurant.
In my opinion, this tendency to overindulge when together signifies some level of comfort with one another. You can't shovel ice cream down the hatch in front of just anyone. It requires some bond, centered on love for one another ... and not without a love for food, drink, and laughter.
Our dinners are never short on any of those three ingredients. As far as laughter is concerned, the focal point, of course, is usually recent failures and antics we have experienced or witnessed.
"So, yesterday at work," she said, reaching for the bottle of Chardonnay, "I did the dumbest thing." This friend of mine is a fantastic story-teller, so I wiggled in my chair, eyes on her, eagerly awaiting her words.
"I was just sitting at my desk, checking my work e-mail." She shrugged, wine bottle in hand, offering an anticipatory, What the hell was I thinking? Excited to be set up for some laughter, I invested myself in her story. I even followed her movement with my eyes, ending at the corked wine bottle in her hand.
She continued her story.
As she extended the wine bottle towards her glass, I was delighted that a punchline was already approaching -- and somehow words had deemed themselves unnecessary.
I wiggled a bit more in my chair, silently watching my friend create a new blooper to tell and re-tell, my smirk about to burst.
With a flip of her wrist, the glass remained empty.
She looked at me. I unapolagetically returned her gaze and nodded at the cork. Our laughter filled the restaurant.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Exercising in pink: Hot or not?
In college, I developed an overwhelming dislike of pink workout attire. Well, not just pink workout gear, but matching pink workout gear. White sneaks with pink Nike swooshes, yoga pants with pink trim, and cute tanks with pink accents. All at once! And pink hair ribbons? Don't even get me started. Is the gym really the place for a fashion show of femininity?
Well, if the gym is entitled the Estro-gym, as Williams College's all-cardio equipment workout area was woefully named, I suppose it is asking for just such a display. Unsurprisingly, this is also where my dislike for such a wardrobe began. But doesn't being in a space called the Estro-gym deem such a show unnecessary? Testosterone, be damned! Just walking into this space apparently demands that the entrant possess a pair of X chromosomes. Aren't the ensuing pink trimmings simply reinforcing what is already known and expected?
Moreover, has any male ever entered the Estro-gym? These women are essentially declaring their femininity to the other women in pink tanks, reading Cosmo on the other ellipticals. This is quite literally fruitless.
But surely, there must be a time and a place for some pink workout gear. Every woman likes to feel feminine in her own way, and for many, this involves some harmless color association. I am not above this. But where and when would this practice hold the most value? I fancy myself to have found an answer.
I joined a boxing gym a few weeks ago and immediately faced a dilemma. What color handwraps to buy? Black, red, yellow, or ... pink?
Pink handwraps? But that would go against my deep-seated hatred of combining pink and sweat. And trust me, I have never been more aware of how many pores are on my hands, than I am at the end of a boxing workout. To wrap all of that sweat up in pink is a mind-blowing visual manifestation of all things Estro-gym. Could I really bring myself to that?
Yes. Yes, I could. The Ring is just the space for feminine flair. With 215-pound John and 185-pound Juan to my left and right, and Athena's rock-solid delts in front of me, I rather enjoy a subtle reminder (to myself and to others) that I am, in fact, a woman.
A boxer's hands make the final movements in an exertion of torque that produces a powerful jab, cross, hook, uppercut, or some combination of the above. The hands get the final say. Mine are drenched and callused, yes -- but pink.
Boom.
Well, if the gym is entitled the Estro-gym, as Williams College's all-cardio equipment workout area was woefully named, I suppose it is asking for just such a display. Unsurprisingly, this is also where my dislike for such a wardrobe began. But doesn't being in a space called the Estro-gym deem such a show unnecessary? Testosterone, be damned! Just walking into this space apparently demands that the entrant possess a pair of X chromosomes. Aren't the ensuing pink trimmings simply reinforcing what is already known and expected?
Moreover, has any male ever entered the Estro-gym? These women are essentially declaring their femininity to the other women in pink tanks, reading Cosmo on the other ellipticals. This is quite literally fruitless.
But surely, there must be a time and a place for some pink workout gear. Every woman likes to feel feminine in her own way, and for many, this involves some harmless color association. I am not above this. But where and when would this practice hold the most value? I fancy myself to have found an answer.
I joined a boxing gym a few weeks ago and immediately faced a dilemma. What color handwraps to buy? Black, red, yellow, or ... pink?
Pink handwraps? But that would go against my deep-seated hatred of combining pink and sweat. And trust me, I have never been more aware of how many pores are on my hands, than I am at the end of a boxing workout. To wrap all of that sweat up in pink is a mind-blowing visual manifestation of all things Estro-gym. Could I really bring myself to that?
Yes. Yes, I could. The Ring is just the space for feminine flair. With 215-pound John and 185-pound Juan to my left and right, and Athena's rock-solid delts in front of me, I rather enjoy a subtle reminder (to myself and to others) that I am, in fact, a woman.
A boxer's hands make the final movements in an exertion of torque that produces a powerful jab, cross, hook, uppercut, or some combination of the above. The hands get the final say. Mine are drenched and callused, yes -- but pink.
Boom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
