Tag: honesty

No Time Like the Present

 

Lately, I’ve been describing myself as someone who knows a little bit about a lot of things.    I’m living a “here’s-all-you-need-to-know-about-X-to-get-by” kind of life.  Fake it ’til you make it, ain’t working for me any more.  Sometimes, it’s like I’m about to travel abroad and all I learned to say is “Where’s the toilet?” and “Your mother smells like goat testicles” in a variety of languages .   You know, the bathroom location and bathroom talk,  the essential traveler phrases. 


I’m not really satisfied with that.  


So, I’ve been thinking about all of those things that I know a little bit about and the things that I know how to do just enough of.  I’m thinking, if you’ll indulge the language metaphor a bit more, I’m ready to be fluent in something. 


French. Writing.  Photography. 


Three things I really enjoy.  Three things about which I know a fair amount, though I have yet to learn the word “testicles” in French. 


I know what I want to do. Now, to get to the business of doing it and doing it with purpose.  Learning more about these things, dare I even say mastering them, this is going to be my focus.  


A year from now, I could be living in Paris, working on my second book and taking photos of the girls as they run through the Jardins des Tuileries.  And by the way, I would never tell someone that “ta mere sent testicules de chevre” unless they really had it coming. 

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IN: ON: February 28, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Growing Up Is Hard to Do

I went to a bridal shower for one of my sorority sisters this past week-end.  The bride-to-be is one of the youngest of my sorority sisters from my pledge class.  We used to joke her that she was the baby, that we were bringing her up, bringing her along.

At her shower the other day, I noticed that she, her sister, and her bridesmaids are still in their twenties (late twenties, but twenties nonetheless).  Other guests included her mother, her aunts, her grandmother and other family and friends that were older than me.  Two other of my sorority sisters, one the same age as me, the other slightly younger, were also in attendance.  Talk turned to weddings, parties and receptions.  One remarked that if she were to do it again, she would love to have another big wedding.  The other said that if it were her, she’d keep it small and quiet.

“Why have another big wedding?” I ventured.  “Let’s just have a big blow out party just because. Or let’s do it for the next big birthday.  What’s that going to be anyway?”

*Pause*

“Thirty-five,” we said in unison.

Wow.

I don’t know if my other two sorority sisters felt what I did just then. It was this odd sense of being in an age limbo. Not quite as young as the bride to be and her attendants, but not quite as mature as the mother of the bride and her guests.  Maybe I’m over-thinking, building up that mountain out of nothing.

I never have given much thought to how old I am.  I don’t feel old. I don’t look old (at least not according to the bartender at McCormick and Schmick’s).  And yet, discovering that my next big birthday number is 35 was jarring.

Fact: I’m closer to 35 that I am to 30.  
Turning 30 wasn’t a big deal for a several reasons. 

1. Like I said, I’ve never given much thought to how old I am
2. Now that I share my birthday with Coever, truly, it’s her birthday, not mine.
3. 30 for me fell on the first day of school for the girls and my priorities were elsewhere.

When I turned 25, I had a big blowout at our house.  We hired a DJ, had it catered, had all manner of friends and family.  Truth be told, I liked the planning and the execution of the whole thing. I love getting together with family and friends; I wish we did it more often and on such a large scale.  I’d do it again for 35, but I think it would be more poignant for me because I, in fact, would be turning 35.

When you’re mistaken for 17 one day and then realize you’ll actually be twice that age in a matter of months, it’s easy to see how your nose can get out of joint.
What do you see here? 
 I’ve been blessed with good genes that will serve me in good stead as I mature.  My parents are into their late sixties and are often mistaken for being at least 10 to 15 years younger than they really are.  My brother, well, he’s 9 years older than I am and yet, there have been times when I’ve been mistaken for his older sister. I swear, he’s got a portrait of himself squirreled away in his attic. 
I do have to laugh at myself, though, because I’m sure I’ve lead to you believe that I’m going to be 35 this year.  
Not quite. 
More like in 2013.
 But hey, I’ve always been a planner. I’m just thinking ahead.  You know, as you get older, the mind’s the first thing to go. 
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IN: ON: February 7, 2011 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Resolved

As I finish up saying my good-byes to 2010 and to the first decade of the millennium, I’m left with one burning question. Did anyone else think we’d have flying cars by now?

I’m just saying. . .

So here we are, on the eve of another new year.  It’s a true sign of getting older when you wake up on New Year’s Eve and think, “Really? Wait, what just happened?”  A whole whopping 365 days have flown by in record time.  Last year, I resolved to keep my expectations lo and maintain the status quo.  So much easier than trying to lose that last five to fifteen, or stop cussin’ or whatever other over-inflated promise I made to myself.

This year, though, I have one resolution: Be nicer to myself.

No, probably not.  

I’m such a bully to Me sometimes.  I gossip about Me to others.  I don’t give Myself enough credit. I rush Myself through things and then berate Myself for not enjoying things.   I ask Myself what happened to the girl I used to be instead of loving Myself for the woman I have become.

Talk about time and energy better spent.

I may not stay up to watch the ball drop.
I may not get up to work-out in the morning.
But, whatever I choose to do — today, tomorrow and the days ahead — I’ll think of Me and play nice.

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IN: ON: December 31, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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C’mon, Get Happy!

That seems to be the theme for 2011.  Pick up any magazine on the newsstands today; everything from Real Simple and Oprah to Success and the Rob Report.  There are tips and tricks, lists to follow and exercises to try. There are ways to streamline your daily routine and ways to help you identify and attain your goals.  There are rules to happiness, definitions of happiness, in case you don’t know.  So much happiness overload! Do all of these things and you, too, can be happy!

I balk at these kinds of things.

The media would have you believe that no matter who you are, where you are and what you do, you’re unhappy.  I would much rather think that there are a handful of people out there trying to make a better situation out what they currently experience, but that most of us are doing just fine.  You pick up these magazines and what it boils down to is people telling you to make changes and voila! — Happiness abounds.

Call me cynical, but I don’t think it works that way.  Aristotle said that happiness depends upon ourselves.  When I think of my happiest times, it’s been when I’ve chosen to simply be in the moment as it unfolds in front of me.   I’m laughing over sushi with my brother. I’m watching my girls streak through my parents’ house in nothing but head bands and smiles. My husband cups my cheek in his hand, kissing me as though it’s the only thing he’s allowed to do.

That’s when I’m happy, no tips or tricks required.

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IN: ON: December 27, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Less Speaking, More Thinking

A good friend and I went out this morning to check out a consignment shop that I had read about in the paper.  GF (good friend) and I dropped the kids off at camp and hauled it down the road to VA Beach in search of a Starbucks and what promised to be some good finds at this place called “The Knapsack.”  


The GPS had me taking all of these twists and turns, every which-a-way off of the interstate to get to this shopping center.  We spotted the Starbucks, a veritable oasis in the midst of the burgeoning commercial sprawl, and hightailed in there for some quad half caf venti 3 pump vanilla 3 pump hazelnut soy extra hot no foam with whip and cinnamon sprinkles lattes.  Did I say hold the whip? 


Anyway, as we are on the clock — camp ends at noon and we’re a good 30 minutes away — we head back to the car, drinks in hand to find this place.  GPS says we’re here.  Google Maps (thanks, iPhone) says we’re here.  We can’t find this place.  No worries, we just call it up and the nice lady on the phone says, “Oh, I’m diagonal from Starbucks”.  Cool; we “U-turn” it over and through the parking lot and pull up to the store.  Out front, there’s a nice sandwich sign proclaiming our favorite word — SALE!!  Sweet!


We go in the store and are immediately greeted by the owner/clerk.  She must have hit up the ‘bucks, too, because she’s talking, talking, talking, fast, fast, fast!   She told us about her friends new store that sells upscale women’s consignments.  She told us about her kids. She told us about why she was in this particular suite in the development as opposed to another.  She told us everything but her social security number and ATM password. 


Now, I don’t really like to shop — no, really — but when I’m ready to, as I was today, I want to be left to my own devices.  No hovering, no shadowing, none of that. Please!  Just let me browse at my leisure.  GF is of the same mindset, but it wasn’t meant to be.   We began picking through the items in the store, giving half-hearted, “Uh-huh’s,” and “Oh, really’s” as this woman kept talking.  And talking. And talking. 


Eventually some other customers came in and the clerk glommed onto them with her questions, non-sequitors and anecdotes.  


For the most part, it looked like this trip was going to be a total bust.  “The Knapsack” had a lot of stuff, just not the stuff we were looking for.  GF did score a pair of Lily Pulitzer pants for her kiddo at a decent price.  We thumbed through the books, picked over the shoes, scanned the DVDS and toys.  Maybe we were just here on an off day. 


We make our way to the register and GF hands the clerk the cute pants.  The clerk rings her up and then hands her one of those ubiquitous “Frequent Customer” cards — you know, buy 10 things and get 1 at 10% off or some such.  The clerk asks GF for her information so that GF can receive all kinds of good discounts and assorted junk spam in her email.  GF, though, says, “No thanks, I’m getting ready to move overseas in a few weeks.”  


The clerk says, “Oh wow, that’s gonna be something, what with the new baby and all!”


::::silence::::


Says GF, “I’m.not.pregnant.”



I just kept my head down and prayed that the clerk would say something simple like “Sorry” and save herself (and us) from further embarrassment. 


This idiot goes on to say that the dress GF is wearing looks like a maternity dress they had in the store, something about how she (the clerk) gets that all the time, what with her being super puffy and all (LIAR! She looked pretty average to me). 

The clerk starts talking about how puffy she is “because of my surgeries because I’m having a hysterectomy in a few days” and on and on and on and shove, shove, shove that foot farther into her mouth.  


She tears off the receipt, hands it to GF and says, “Have a nice day!”


Right, because you assuming my friend her is preg-tastic just put the cherry on it. 


GF was ever so gracious, but I know that her feelings were hurt.  I did my best to buffer her up, but really, that’s a tough one.  I just can’t believe the nerve of some people. 


So, dear readers, let this be a lesson to you and one to share with your nearest and dearest.  Never, never, NEVER ask a woman if she’s pregnant.  


Ever!  


Not even if you heard it from her husband/boyfriend/lover/sperm donor/whomever! 


Don’t.


Even if you see the baby crowning between the woman’s legs, don’t ask her if she’s pregnant!


Tell her she looks gorgeous and keep on moving. 






 

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IN: ON: July 22, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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photography projects & DIY

(No) More Mermaids!

So, last June,  I first introduced you all to my novel activity for the summer:  Finding as many Norfolk Mermaids as we can and snapping some photos of the girls with the mermaids.  Never would I have imagined that a year later, we’d still be coming across these statues.  We’ve been armed with our copy of “There Goes a Mermaid” and I’ve consulted my Norfolk Mermaid Poster, but the recent ones we’ve found aren’t even mentioned in those two sources.  I have no clue as to how many mermaids there are, if we’re even close to having found them all or what.   Suffice it to say, I’m over the whole thing.  I did what I set out to do — *koff*koff*Kill daylight ’til bedtime*koff*koff* — and the girls have a nice book of memories as a result.  And yet, here we are, July of 2010. 
 We are still finding mermaids. 

There wasn’t any accompanying plaque or tablet identifying this one, so let’s just call her Stars and Stripes.

I have no idea what to call this one.  I want to say $5 Hoa-ah, since she’s parked out in front of an EconoLodge and a Motel 6 on Military Highway looking like a. . .well. . you know.

It was a situation where, by the time I realized that even though it was one in the afternoon, the locale was still pretty sketch-tastic. The girls had already seen the mermaid and were bugging out in the backseat.  True, I’m a grown-up.  In fact, I’m THE grown-up in the this situation and as such, could have made the executive decision to abort.  But I didn’t.   I will say that the girls could have been doing headstands and picking their noses when I took this picture, for all I cared.  I’m pretty sure the surrounding establishments rent by the hour.  I hustled them to the mermaid, took the snap, hustled them back to the car, locked the door, and laid waste to the parking lot as we high-tailed it back to our neighborhood.    

 As much as I want to talk tough and say that I’m done with this project, I know if I hear of another mermaid, we’ll be there, camera in tow.

And if it’s in a real sketchy area, we may just snap the mermaid from the car and PhotoShop the girls in later.

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IN: photography projects & DIY ON: July 19, 2010 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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