Sneakers

There’s a weird thing going on with me it seems. First I join a gym. Voluntarily. And I go. I even go every morning of the long holiday weekend. I take advantage of the four free training sessions offered with my membership, and I don’t give up when I start wheezing five minutes into my first go on the elliptical. Then, this weekend, I bought new sneakers. And I [heart] them.

I haven’t bought new sneakers in years, and the ones I have just don’t feel right. Honestly, they never did. So with my coupon in hand (well, in cute pink bag), I went to a sporting goods store to check out some new fitness trainers. Listen to me. I fell in love with a pair of Nikes and bought them. They are white mesh, with little patent leather reflective thingies on the side (I guess technically they are “adjustable midfoot support straps, for stability”), and turquoise blue (one of my favorite colors!) on the tongue and sole. They’re so cute—and comfortable! Without my 25 dollar off coupon they would have been the most expensive sneakers I have ever owned. Even with the coupon, I think they are. But the point really is more that I got as excited about wearing them as I did those patent leather shoes whose days are numbered. In fact, I had to wear them the very next day—while I was running errands. I was like a teenager wearing corduroys in mid-September, back-to-school heat or a Fisherman’s knit sweater during Indian summer—excited and unable to wait until the moment was right. There I was tooling around Costco and Shaw’s in my new trainers.

I had already bought a new five pack of socks (so comfy!) when I bought three new sports bras the day before. (My last sports bra purchase dates back longer than sneakers!) What’s next? A fancy, sporty gym watch with built in heart monitor? Matching turquoise ear buds?

Yeah, you’re right. Definitely the matching earbuds.

Time Frames

During the summer one day blends with the next. Summer vacation is like a never-ending weekend. I plan my days according to weather forecasts more than the calendar; I hardly pay attention to days of the week. Housecleaning gets done when I get around to it—usually when it gets on my nerves or when it’s raining out. I go to the grocery store when I run out of something, or am in the mood for something else. Being on vacation lends itself to a sense of timelessness. Nothing has a sense of urgency. I enjoy that. When school starts again I go back kicking and screaming…and eventually find myself on a much different schedule, and in a routine.

Monday through Friday begin at 5:30 am, and end around 9:30 pm. Between 3 and 5 I try to take care of errands and the gym. I try to watch the local and national evening news, eat dinner by 6 and start really winding down by 8. Weekends are for cleaning, and grocery shopping, other errands, laundry, and some sort of fun. Sometimes it includes a big Sunday breakfast, maybe Friday night dinner out, maybe a shopping trip.

That is, once I’m back to school I have structure again, and make good use of my time. I’m productive. And I get more done in a weekend than I do in a week on vacation. (As I tell Tamara, Gas expands to fit its container.) I balance housework and play. My weekend is my both my reward for making it through a week at work and my time to prepare for another one.

I love weekends. Almost as much as I love summer vacation.

[Heart] Note...to Arugula

I know. It’s redundant at this point. You know I love arugula. It’s the name of my blog. But I had arugula around last weekend and had it three different ways over the last few days and fell in love with it all over again…Sunday I had it dressed in lemon juice and olive oil as a bed for my mahi mahi for dinner, Monday I had it in a pasta dish with spicy sausage and last night, so as not to waste a single bit of it, I made a BLT with the last leaves. Make that a BAT. Bacon. Arugula. Tomato.

A piece of baguette cut to double as a hoagie roll and lighted toasted in the oven, mayonnaise, bacon, native tomato slices and arugula.

Sandwich perfection.

Heights

The Big E (The Eastern States Exposition for those unfamiliar)— that Mecca of overpriced carnival food (must-haves include mini donuts!) and infomercial merchandise—starts in a couple of weeks. Looking for a Cham-wow? They’ve got it. New set of Ginsu knives? Of course. In the market for a feather roach clip? They have that too. And chotchkies galore. Of course there are animals and exhibits, parades, and rides, like that famous yellow slide, too. It is a place I used to love to go when I when I was growing up, and now like to bring my nieces and nephews. It is also the place I discovered my newly developed fear of heights--while on the Ferris Wheel with my nieces and nephew.

There we were, Auntie Joanne and her monkeys (except Charlie, who wasn’t born yet), on the gondola-style Ferris Wheel, so that all four of us could ride at once, suspended above the parking lot when I came as close to a panic attack as I ever have in my life. Keep your cool, I coached myself. Look at the kids, not at the ground below. I was shocked. How many times had I been in an airplane, on roller coasters? And now, I was going to panic on a Ferris Wheel? With kids? For whom I was responsible? So not cool.

My next near panic attack came almost a year later on the Newport Bridge. I focused on the road rather than the beautiful scenery and made it across without incident. But I wondered about this height thing. What was going on with me? Had middle age (did I say that?) zap all the boldness out of me? Why was I a scaredy-cat all of the sudden?

Eventually I figured out that this fear wasn’t out of the blue at all. Just a little different.

My father loves to tell a story about when he was building a porch with my uncles and I, 4 or 5 years old at the time, got on a pile of 2 by 4s in the back yard and started crying because after I had climbed up, I was afraid to get down those 6 or 8 harrowing inches. Legend has it I wailed. And I’ve always hated ladders. I don’t mind climbing up, it’s the journey down that makes my heart race and that I avoid at all costs. And now I guess just looking down from somewhere high makes me anxious.

I wonder what that says about me. What might a therapist scribble in a note? Fear of falling, so avoids climbing and heights altogether.

And that's a little too much to think about without a bag of those Big E mini-donuts.

[Heart] Note...to the honesty of children

A while back when I was having my weekly 6 ounce sirloin special at Outback, I overheard a conversation in the bathroom between a woman at the sinks and a young girl in one of the stalls.

First they talked about rides, amusement park vs. carnival rides, which went on for a moment or two. Then, after a lull in conversation, I heard the girl say to the woman waiting, not her mother I assumed since she called her something other than Mom, “It’s okay if you want to go back to the table. It’s going to be a while. [pause] I’m pooping.”

“Okay. Just remember to wash your hands. See you soon.”

Agreement

Life is good. I had a great, relaxing weekend. The weather was perfect-- Chamber of Commerce one might say. I spent some time each day by the pool reading, after going to the gym (go me!) and I am enjoying this slow transition to fall, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get worked up about something. Agreement. A pet peeve passed down from my executive editor to me is agreement errors.

I usually heart the Food Network, but lately they’ve been airing an ad for The Best Thing I Ever Ate, a lame filler show. The commercial says “What Makes Their Mouth Water?” What?!?!?!? All the chefs and FN celebrities share one, collective mouth? Isn’t that interesting? And that’s not even a sentence that would require two singular, gender appropriate options. All that takes to correct is an s. Make mouth plural, and it agrees with their. What makes their mouths water? Each chef has his or her own mouth.

Doesn’t the Food Network have editors? They should. And maybe those editors could spend a little time coaching the chefs and celebs on the overuse of adverbs when adjectives are required, and ending sentences in prepositions. Cooking shows are a hotbed of grammatical gaffes. Why can’t we just fry anymore? Or sauté? Cook or bake? Measure? Seems every time I turn on a cooking show they are cooking or baking something off or frying something up. Since when?

Maybe it happened when healthy foods became healthful. Which is probably about the time all houses became homes, even when they are empty structures. But that’s another post.

100th Post!

As I checked back I saw that Curtain Call was my 100th post. Some posts are short, and a few are just pictures, but 100 times I have tried to communicate something to you all; 100 times I have "shown up at the page," as it were.

Thanks again for reading! Next celebration: 1 year!