Do you ever do this? Park your car, go inside a store, then come out and realize you have no idea where you left your vehicle? For me, this is a frequent occurrence.
Yesterday, for example, I parked and went inside the store to grab a few groceries. I usually make a mental note of where my car is just so I can avoid the embarrassing event of getting lost in search for it, but this time the parking lot was relatively empty so I knew there would be no chance of forgetting where my car was.
When I came out I was thinking over my mild guilt at never having any loose change to donate to the bell ringers who stand outside of shopping centers this time of year. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, but was absent mindedly headed in the right direction, flipping through my keys so I would be ready to unlock the door the moment I got to the car. I had been walking towards a grey mass that, from my peripheral vision, I had assumed was my truck. When my eyes zeroed in on it I had a sudden moment of recognition that this was, in fact, not my truck, rather, one that did not resemble it in any way except the color.
I stopped short and had that flash of awkwardness, thinking that now I was going to have to make an about face and go search out the truck that was really mine. I did it quickly, hoping to draw as little attention to my blunder as possible, before I located my vehicle, jumped inside and sped away.
Unfortunately, this is merely one of many such happenings.
I’m not sure why I can't ever remember where I’ve parked when I come out of a store. Whenever I exit a building, I begin walking, in bold confidence, to where I know I’ve parked the car, only to find that it is indeed not where I’ve parked the car. I then end up wandering frantically through the lot, hoping that I can find it before too much attention is drawn to the girl in the red coat who is aimless pushing a shopping cart around, up and down the rows.
I don’t quite know how to solve this problem. Obviously, my method of mentally marking my parking space is not working. Perhaps some type of tracking device attached to the car would work. Or maybe homing pigeons. Although, that could get messy.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Christmas Caroling
I went Christmas caroling the other night and I was struck once again how there is much inherent awkwardness in caroling. The concept of bringing music and treats to someone’s door sounds good, especially when it conjures up romantic images of nineteenth century carolers, men in top hats, women in silk bonnets, singing “Good King Wenceslas” up and down streets lined in Tudor architecture.
When you really think about it though, knocking on a family’s door and standing before them to sing multiple verses of a song all while letting cold air blow into their home as they stand there in shirtsleeves and bare feet is somewhat of a strange idea. No one is ever sure where to look, no one really wants to keep eye contact for the duration of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” so eyes usually nervously flick from person to person and then down at the plate of cookies that has been shoved into their hands right before the singing started.
It’s all kind of awkward. At least, I thought.
When we went caroling last week, I approached the event with mild trepidation, wondering where I would look to avoid the uncomfortable levels of eye contact. I volunteered to hold the pile of treats we would be handing out, taking care of the next question of what to do with my hands during the moments of singing. I was as prepared as I could be.
Door number one brought us a family. Answering our knock was the father who, as we sang our number, tried to beckon his children over, of course not to dispel some of the awkwardness, but to allow his children to enjoy our melodious singing. Of course. The next door was a sliver of light as the resident attempted to keep the cold out while we sang our song. We wedged our Saran wrapped cookies inside and headed to door number three.
Answering this door was a little boy who stood looking at us for a few seconds before deserting our song, we assumed to go in search of others to come and listen. We were in the final strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” when the dad came rushing to the door, a smile on his face, and two little girls in his arms who were dripping wet and wrapped in a bathrobe. Thank you! he said. And I do believe he meant it.
Our final stop was to the home of a new mother. We knocked, hoping that we weren’t waking up mother or baby. Finally the door gently opened and we saw inside the home of a brand new family, just a few days old. The only lights were from the small Christmas tree in the corner. The mother, holding her baby, beckoned us in as we sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” She stood there swaying back and forth with her little bundle as we finished the song. She was crying. (My husband told her after he hoped it wasn’t because of our singing.) I haven’t slept in two days, she said. Thank you.
So caroling was worth it. We brought awkwardness to some, laughter to others, tears to one, and Christmas to all. Including ourselves.
When you really think about it though, knocking on a family’s door and standing before them to sing multiple verses of a song all while letting cold air blow into their home as they stand there in shirtsleeves and bare feet is somewhat of a strange idea. No one is ever sure where to look, no one really wants to keep eye contact for the duration of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” so eyes usually nervously flick from person to person and then down at the plate of cookies that has been shoved into their hands right before the singing started.
It’s all kind of awkward. At least, I thought.
When we went caroling last week, I approached the event with mild trepidation, wondering where I would look to avoid the uncomfortable levels of eye contact. I volunteered to hold the pile of treats we would be handing out, taking care of the next question of what to do with my hands during the moments of singing. I was as prepared as I could be.
Door number one brought us a family. Answering our knock was the father who, as we sang our number, tried to beckon his children over, of course not to dispel some of the awkwardness, but to allow his children to enjoy our melodious singing. Of course. The next door was a sliver of light as the resident attempted to keep the cold out while we sang our song. We wedged our Saran wrapped cookies inside and headed to door number three.
Answering this door was a little boy who stood looking at us for a few seconds before deserting our song, we assumed to go in search of others to come and listen. We were in the final strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” when the dad came rushing to the door, a smile on his face, and two little girls in his arms who were dripping wet and wrapped in a bathrobe. Thank you! he said. And I do believe he meant it.
Our final stop was to the home of a new mother. We knocked, hoping that we weren’t waking up mother or baby. Finally the door gently opened and we saw inside the home of a brand new family, just a few days old. The only lights were from the small Christmas tree in the corner. The mother, holding her baby, beckoned us in as we sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” She stood there swaying back and forth with her little bundle as we finished the song. She was crying. (My husband told her after he hoped it wasn’t because of our singing.) I haven’t slept in two days, she said. Thank you.
So caroling was worth it. We brought awkwardness to some, laughter to others, tears to one, and Christmas to all. Including ourselves.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Further Oblivion
Orem now has an In-N-Out Burger. It is housed in a brand new building which sits on University Pkwy, the main thoroughfare. It's been in operation for quite some time now. There are cars lined up at the drive through window for miles. The parking lot is always full. It's obviously a main attraction here.
Somehow, I totally missed it.
When my husband asked if I wanted to stop at In-N-Out Burger tonight I said sure. I'd been hearing people marvel about it for awhile now, so I thought it was our turn to go and check it out for ourselves.
I wasn't quite sure where it was located. When I found out it was on a street I drive down at least once a week, usually more, I was surprised. When I discovered it was as close to the roadside as it could get, not hidden somewhere in the back of the shopping complex, I felt a little foolish. How in the world could I have driven past this building for the last who knows how long and not even noticed it was being constructed? Did they build it under a cloak of darkness? Have I been partially blind for six months? I'm not sure. All I know is one day there was an empty parking lot next to Office Max and Mimi's. Now there's a burger place. What else is popping up in Orem when I'm not looking. . .
Somehow, I totally missed it.
When my husband asked if I wanted to stop at In-N-Out Burger tonight I said sure. I'd been hearing people marvel about it for awhile now, so I thought it was our turn to go and check it out for ourselves.
I wasn't quite sure where it was located. When I found out it was on a street I drive down at least once a week, usually more, I was surprised. When I discovered it was as close to the roadside as it could get, not hidden somewhere in the back of the shopping complex, I felt a little foolish. How in the world could I have driven past this building for the last who knows how long and not even noticed it was being constructed? Did they build it under a cloak of darkness? Have I been partially blind for six months? I'm not sure. All I know is one day there was an empty parking lot next to Office Max and Mimi's. Now there's a burger place. What else is popping up in Orem when I'm not looking. . .
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
My Obliviousness
I went to the gym about three to four times a week when I lived in Idaho. Gold’s was a mere matter of minutes away from my apartment and somehow my husband convinced me that this was the perfect chance to take that 5:00a.m. spinning class he knew I’d just been pining for. It was our golden opportunity.
So we went and I’m proud to say that we actually lasted longer than three days. For a person who hardly realized that there was a 5:00a.m., this was quite the feat. It took three months before the blaring microphone of the instructor and the blaring beat of the music finally got to us. Funny that those things should do us in before the early hour did. But I wasn’t going to complain. I could start getting up again at 8:00a.m. like a normal person.
I did continue to go to the gym, only now when the sun was out. Paying $50 a month for a membership is great motivation to use it. That, and the small fact that they have cable TV on all the treadmills. I’m not ashamed to admit that HGTV, more than health, was my main reason for getting myself to Gold’s each day.
Now that I was heading to the gym at a reasonable hour called daylight, I noticed for the first time that across the street was a big empty plot of land. I’d driven past it many times before, but when the sun isn’t shining and your eyes are barely open, there isn’t a lot that you notice. I wasn’t missing too much since nothing had ever been there but an empty lot of dirt.
For months it continued to be the same expanse of nothing. Then, one morning I drove right past it as I usually did, heading for Pilates class, not really paying attention to the field on my left. Forty-five minutes later as I was waiting for the two-way traffic to recede so I could turn out of the parking lot I saw that the dirt across the street was suddenly covered in trees and half-finished construction projects. It was a double-take moment and I wondered what kind of fast-working construction elves had been doing this while I had been inside, working my core to the music of Jack Johnson. I swear it hadn’t been there forty-five minutes earlier. Or had it?
Hmmm, I wondered. What else had been going on while I hadn't been paying attention? Shrugging my now-limber shoulders, I pulled onto the street and headed home, but not before I saw a little elf run behind some plastic tubing. At least, I think I did. Maybe all the sunlight was playing tricks with my eyes.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Craigslist Codes
You might say I’m a bit of a Craigslist junkie. You know, that website that is virtually an online garage sale? With this site, rather than leaving your house at dawn on a Saturday to get the good stuff before it’s gone, you can simply view other people’s junk from the comfort of your own couch. It’s a beautiful thing. And I take part in it daily, usually more than once. Of course I have to check it to see if that mirror I was thinking of buying is still on the market or if someone has posted the storage shelves I’ve needed but for which I haven’t been able to bring myself to pay store prices. Here I can peruse to my heart’s content without feeling the garage sale guilt that I should buy something I don’t want just because the seller is peering at me from behind the cashbox.
In my perusals of this twenty-first century genius, I have become something of a self-proclaimed professional in deciphering the descriptions. When I first began to dangle my feet in the waters of Craigslist I naively clicked on everything, truly believing that the three word tagline described 100% truthfully everything about the item being advertized. I soon found that words can be deceiving. That, or people are either blind when it comes to their own stuff, or have a skewed sense of what really can and should be labeled “beautiful,” “classic,” or “vintage” when words like “repulsive,” “worn-out,” or “just plain old” would seem more appropriate.
This applies not just in the furniture section, but across the board. For instance, commonly, descriptions on Craigslist of an apartment or house can make it sound like a charming, even historical, home but then the pictures show it for what it really is. There definitely is a code when it comes to Craigslist and I'm starting to crack it. Here is my Rosetta Stone so far:
"Vintage" really means old and somewhat dumpy.
"Cute/Adorable" – small.
"Perfect for newlyweds" – small.
"Cozy" – small.
"Condo" - small apartment.
Yes, I'm definitely on to these people.
And then of course, there is always that post that makes me feel like I’m on Sesame Street, singing along with the gang to “Which of These Things is not Like the Other?” Yesterday was one such time. I was scanning through Craigslist as I commonly do in the mornings, looking for furniture I'm not going to buy, when I came upon this item, right above an ad for ironing boards and just under one for free hamsters:
STRIPPER POLE FOR SALE, $150
I clicked on it out of sheer shock, wanting to find out if this person was serious and lo and behold, there was the pole in all its majesty. Not only is the seller wanting to get rid of this thing, he or she is attempting to sell in order to upgrade to a more expensive model.
All I could think was, Seriously? This is Provo, a fact that the seller did acknowledge as a possible obstacle to his/her trading goals. Yes, this might be a tough sell. Although, I have noticed that the people here are extremely health conscious (I once counted fifteen different runners in a two block radius) so perhaps if the seller took that angle therein might lay success. I mean, I have heard pole dancing is a great workout.
Although I have contemplated many a purchase from Craigslist, I will not be adding this to my list. I have had my share of experience with poles. My husband and I used to live in an apartment that had two metal poles in the entryway. We were never completely sure why they were there, but we learned to live with them. These poles drew quite a few comments from people who came to visit us as they would jokingly wonder if these metal supports were stripper poles. (They weren't.) We've since moved and left those architectural wonders behind us.
However, in light of my newest discovery, perhaps I should have put them up for sale. Apparently they would have been right at home in the “General” section of Craigslist. Next time I’ll know. Only, I hope there won’t be a next time. I much prefer my Craigslist posts to consist of filing cabinets and futons. Speaking of futons, I wonder if there are any for sale today. I’d better go check.
In my perusals of this twenty-first century genius, I have become something of a self-proclaimed professional in deciphering the descriptions. When I first began to dangle my feet in the waters of Craigslist I naively clicked on everything, truly believing that the three word tagline described 100% truthfully everything about the item being advertized. I soon found that words can be deceiving. That, or people are either blind when it comes to their own stuff, or have a skewed sense of what really can and should be labeled “beautiful,” “classic,” or “vintage” when words like “repulsive,” “worn-out,” or “just plain old” would seem more appropriate.
This applies not just in the furniture section, but across the board. For instance, commonly, descriptions on Craigslist of an apartment or house can make it sound like a charming, even historical, home but then the pictures show it for what it really is. There definitely is a code when it comes to Craigslist and I'm starting to crack it. Here is my Rosetta Stone so far:
"Vintage" really means old and somewhat dumpy.
"Cute/Adorable" – small.
"Perfect for newlyweds" – small.
"Cozy" – small.
"Condo" - small apartment.
Yes, I'm definitely on to these people.
And then of course, there is always that post that makes me feel like I’m on Sesame Street, singing along with the gang to “Which of These Things is not Like the Other?” Yesterday was one such time. I was scanning through Craigslist as I commonly do in the mornings, looking for furniture I'm not going to buy, when I came upon this item, right above an ad for ironing boards and just under one for free hamsters:
STRIPPER POLE FOR SALE, $150
I clicked on it out of sheer shock, wanting to find out if this person was serious and lo and behold, there was the pole in all its majesty. Not only is the seller wanting to get rid of this thing, he or she is attempting to sell in order to upgrade to a more expensive model.
All I could think was, Seriously? This is Provo, a fact that the seller did acknowledge as a possible obstacle to his/her trading goals. Yes, this might be a tough sell. Although, I have noticed that the people here are extremely health conscious (I once counted fifteen different runners in a two block radius) so perhaps if the seller took that angle therein might lay success. I mean, I have heard pole dancing is a great workout.
Although I have contemplated many a purchase from Craigslist, I will not be adding this to my list. I have had my share of experience with poles. My husband and I used to live in an apartment that had two metal poles in the entryway. We were never completely sure why they were there, but we learned to live with them. These poles drew quite a few comments from people who came to visit us as they would jokingly wonder if these metal supports were stripper poles. (They weren't.) We've since moved and left those architectural wonders behind us.
However, in light of my newest discovery, perhaps I should have put them up for sale. Apparently they would have been right at home in the “General” section of Craigslist. Next time I’ll know. Only, I hope there won’t be a next time. I much prefer my Craigslist posts to consist of filing cabinets and futons. Speaking of futons, I wonder if there are any for sale today. I’d better go check.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Decoration
Everyone has at least one Christmas decoration that holds special meaning. For some, the entire business of decorating for Christmas is a beloved tradition. This was so in my family. Each year, I would wait with the growing anticipation that is of a unique brand at Christmas time, for my mother to pull out the tattered box that housed our holiday wonders. The process became very methodical for me as I would make sure I first played with the wooden bear, its sled and Christmas tree whose home was the edge of the fireplace. I would then police the placement of each item that followed, making sure the glass rendition of Joseph and Mary on their way to Bethlehem sat on the right side of the piano, just as it had the year before. There was the wooden Rudolph that fit together in pieces like a giant puzzle which guarded the stockings above the fireplace and then the little wooden mouse which sat next to Rudy, the one someone had given my mom a few years before. Of course, there was the Nativity scene with baby Jesus in the center of the manger, and in the center of the season.
Then there were the Swedish decorations, representative of our Scandinavian ancestry. For years I watched my mom pull out the Swedish angel chimes and tiny Dala horse. The only time these decorations did not make their appearance in the Hazlett home was during our brief period of cat stewardship. Boo Kitty (as we affectionately called the snowy-white fur ball that more often than not could be found hiding under our couch) didn’t realize the chimes were just for display, rather, she thought they were her own personal swatting toys. Several candles were lost to her claws before my mom carried them away to safety. It was a number of years before they were brought out again.
For some reason, I was always most enthralled by the Swedish decorations, especially the chimes. I would stare in fascination as the candles blew the tiny metal pieces in a circle beneath the angel sitting on top of it all. In sixth grade, I was lucky enough to get my own Swedish decorations. My pen pal, a distant cousin in Sweden, had sent me a tin, beautifully decorated in rich pictures of Santa Claus and filled with Christmas treasures. There were small figurines of St. Lucia children and one of Santa himself, wishing “God Jul” to all. A bag of delicious Swedish candy topped off the gift. This was a beautiful intercontinental exchange of gifts, albeit a rather imbalanced one. While my cousin had sent me thoughtful pieces of her heritage, my present to Sarah was a mix tape with a song selection spanning Mariah Carey and “Gangsta’s Paradise.” I thought it an ultra cool gift then, but I often wonder now what kind of image of America I sent my young Swedish relative that Christmas.
Those porcelain figurines are now part of my tradition, and I pull them out each year first thing when the decorations come out. As I now look around my small apartment at the Christmas trimmings I put up last night I see so many emerging stories that I hope will carry over each Christmas.
For instance, there is the small tree sitting on top of the red secretary desk in the corner, the tree my husband’s niece and nephew gave me for my first Christmas as a Stephens. This tree, only about twelve inches in height, reminds me of the first Christmas my husband and I experienced as a married couple. He was in Pakistan and I was in Idaho. It makes me think about the even smaller apartment I was living in then, while I waited for him to come home. I knew there would be no room for a Christmas tree and I was fine enjoying the one my mom had up in her house and the one my in-laws had up in theirs. I decided to keep it at that. However, this would never due for Justin and Ashley, who were fairly scandalized at the thought that I was going to forgo a Christmas tree in my house!
One afternoon I came home and there, sitting on the sidetable in the hallway, was a tiny Christmas tree, complete with ornaments, ribbon, and a small string of lights. I had a tree after all.
I loved this little tree, but thought it would probably only see one Christmas before we replaced it with a larger version. I was wrong. I put it up last night. It’s now going on its third Christmas with us and I think I will put it up in every house we live in, if nothing more than as a sweet reminder that two children brought Christmas to my apartment. And that my husband is home.
Also decorating my living room, and to make up for the short supply of greenery a twelve inch tree provides, I have green garlands up. These are the same strands of garland that last year covered the strange, bare metal fixtures in our then-apartment which we affectionately called the stripper poles. For at least one month I had a good excuse to cover them. That year we had one tiny tree and two very skinny trees.
Now they’re draped over bookshelves and adorned with the ornaments I’ve collected over the years. There are ones from my childhood, ones from my travels, one representing my love affair with the Harry Potter series. They remind me of the many Christmases spent as children, ceremonially putting them on the family tree while listening to Christmas music and eating Swedish gingersnaps. That reverent ritual always seemed to include the ceremonial fighting between my brother and me over who got to hide the little homemade Hershey’s Kiss holder in the tree, and subsequently, who got to find and eat said Kiss. There was no fight this year, but I imagine some time down the road there will be smaller versions of me running around, fighting over similar things. It makes me smile to think about it. At least, I smile now.
And so, as I look around my now green and red apartment, I know that I am ready for Christmas. There’s no snow outside yet, but it says December 1 on the calendar and I have a tree up so I know it’s time for the festivities to being. That, and I have Santa on my bookshelf wishing to all “God Jul.”
Then there were the Swedish decorations, representative of our Scandinavian ancestry. For years I watched my mom pull out the Swedish angel chimes and tiny Dala horse. The only time these decorations did not make their appearance in the Hazlett home was during our brief period of cat stewardship. Boo Kitty (as we affectionately called the snowy-white fur ball that more often than not could be found hiding under our couch) didn’t realize the chimes were just for display, rather, she thought they were her own personal swatting toys. Several candles were lost to her claws before my mom carried them away to safety. It was a number of years before they were brought out again.
For some reason, I was always most enthralled by the Swedish decorations, especially the chimes. I would stare in fascination as the candles blew the tiny metal pieces in a circle beneath the angel sitting on top of it all. In sixth grade, I was lucky enough to get my own Swedish decorations. My pen pal, a distant cousin in Sweden, had sent me a tin, beautifully decorated in rich pictures of Santa Claus and filled with Christmas treasures. There were small figurines of St. Lucia children and one of Santa himself, wishing “God Jul” to all. A bag of delicious Swedish candy topped off the gift. This was a beautiful intercontinental exchange of gifts, albeit a rather imbalanced one. While my cousin had sent me thoughtful pieces of her heritage, my present to Sarah was a mix tape with a song selection spanning Mariah Carey and “Gangsta’s Paradise.” I thought it an ultra cool gift then, but I often wonder now what kind of image of America I sent my young Swedish relative that Christmas.
Those porcelain figurines are now part of my tradition, and I pull them out each year first thing when the decorations come out. As I now look around my small apartment at the Christmas trimmings I put up last night I see so many emerging stories that I hope will carry over each Christmas.
For instance, there is the small tree sitting on top of the red secretary desk in the corner, the tree my husband’s niece and nephew gave me for my first Christmas as a Stephens. This tree, only about twelve inches in height, reminds me of the first Christmas my husband and I experienced as a married couple. He was in Pakistan and I was in Idaho. It makes me think about the even smaller apartment I was living in then, while I waited for him to come home. I knew there would be no room for a Christmas tree and I was fine enjoying the one my mom had up in her house and the one my in-laws had up in theirs. I decided to keep it at that. However, this would never due for Justin and Ashley, who were fairly scandalized at the thought that I was going to forgo a Christmas tree in my house!
One afternoon I came home and there, sitting on the sidetable in the hallway, was a tiny Christmas tree, complete with ornaments, ribbon, and a small string of lights. I had a tree after all.
I loved this little tree, but thought it would probably only see one Christmas before we replaced it with a larger version. I was wrong. I put it up last night. It’s now going on its third Christmas with us and I think I will put it up in every house we live in, if nothing more than as a sweet reminder that two children brought Christmas to my apartment. And that my husband is home.
Also decorating my living room, and to make up for the short supply of greenery a twelve inch tree provides, I have green garlands up. These are the same strands of garland that last year covered the strange, bare metal fixtures in our then-apartment which we affectionately called the stripper poles. For at least one month I had a good excuse to cover them. That year we had one tiny tree and two very skinny trees.
Now they’re draped over bookshelves and adorned with the ornaments I’ve collected over the years. There are ones from my childhood, ones from my travels, one representing my love affair with the Harry Potter series. They remind me of the many Christmases spent as children, ceremonially putting them on the family tree while listening to Christmas music and eating Swedish gingersnaps. That reverent ritual always seemed to include the ceremonial fighting between my brother and me over who got to hide the little homemade Hershey’s Kiss holder in the tree, and subsequently, who got to find and eat said Kiss. There was no fight this year, but I imagine some time down the road there will be smaller versions of me running around, fighting over similar things. It makes me smile to think about it. At least, I smile now.
And so, as I look around my now green and red apartment, I know that I am ready for Christmas. There’s no snow outside yet, but it says December 1 on the calendar and I have a tree up so I know it’s time for the festivities to being. That, and I have Santa on my bookshelf wishing to all “God Jul.”
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