Posted by M on Jan 27, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts
The paper mate pencil is a key component of my childhood. It may seem like a rather random and old fashioned artifact, but in fact, it could take some of the responsibility for who I am today.
In my young age, my father was a lawyer at a rather pompous law firm in downtown Lansing. Although it had its perks, like a fully stocked fridge of Mountain Dew, it also had some serious drawbacks. That is, my father was forced to work. Like, a lot. So, sitting at home in the formal living room, he’d talk into his little tape recorder, which his secretary would later type up for him. But, he always had these pencils just laying around. With their custard like shell, pink tip, and twisty bottom, they were magical to me and my brothers. Pencils you don’t have to sharpen? It was amazing. A real feat of physics to six year old.
Dad worked a lot from home, so the pencils were scattered everywhere. Pencils became kind of fixation, one that hooked my older brother. David found mechanical pencils to be fascinating. He’d spend hours in Staples before school started picking out the perfect mechanical pencils to write with. You know those pencils that are outrageously expensive, kept like diamonds in glass cases at high class stores? David was drawn to those like a fat kid to a tub of butter. He wanted them. Once, we went to the University of Kansas and there was an entire aisle, solely of pencils. When I got bored of looking at tshirts with birds on them, I tugged my Dad’s arm and said “let’s bounce.” But we couldn’t. Nope, David was in hog heaven with those pencils.
When we got into middle school and high school, our lovely peers rarely used anything but mechanical pencils. But, they usually got the fancy ones. You know, the ones with the different colors, and you can refill their lead, and all the cool kids were using them. So for a while, Jake and I used the multicolored ones, and Dave used his fancy ones.
Slowly, though, we all switched over to the yellow and brown Paper Mate Sharpwriter #2 pencils. Perhaps we didn’t all want to, necessarily, but we’re all a little absent minded, so our sparkly new pencils would get lost, and Dad, always faithful to those Paper Mates, would have boxes of them just laying around. So, we’d use them and before I knew it, when school shopping came around, all three of us kids were buying boxes of the Paper Mates. We just couldn’t help ourselves.
This tradition lasted through high school and now into college. I never really noticed what a trait it wasin me though, until my first year of college. A girl down the hall from me, halfway through the year, asked me if she could borrow one of those “business looking pencils” for her exam the next day. She traded me two tubes of Dior Lipgloss for them. For those of you who don’t speak Dior, it was a pretty awesome trade in my favor.
It wasn’t until today, however, that I learned what a trait it was in our family. As I sat next to my older brother’s friend in class, he asked if he could borrow a number 2 pencil for our scantron quiz. Of course, I replied, and leaned into my bag to pull out a handful of Paper Mates. He burst out laughing, “You have those too? David had those laying everywhere! What’s with your family?”
What’s with my family? We’re loyal, I suppose. When we find a product we like, we stick with it. And those Paper Mates, well, I have at least four boxes in my desk drawer right now. I write my papers with them, I fill in notes with them, I take tests with them, and when they’re on sale, I stock up on them. Is it weird? I suppose. But hey, when you find something as glorious as the Paper Mate Pencil, devotion is key.
Posted by M on Jan 23, 2009 in
Forced Family Fun Disclaimer: I am, and will forever be, a total Daddy’s girl. I start this post with that because what I write below may come off as a mocking of my father’s parenting techniques, when in fact, I think the world of Cliff.
My dad grew up in a world a little different than the one my brothers and I were brought up in. As a result, he has a few, shall we say…traits?…that have stuck with him throughout his fifty odd years of life.
To begin, when I was younger, David, Jacob, and I were not allowed normal cereal. All we really wanted was some freakin’ fruit loops. But oh no. Dad would take those precious fruitloops and mix them with the healthy cereal. You know, the kind that no one wants, like regular cheerios or kix–without the yummy berries.
After we were stuffed with bland crap, Cliff, every Saturday morning for nearly twelve years, drove us 20 minutes to our early piano lessons in the woody mobile. The woody was an old fashioned van that replaced our first van (a prison van that Dad bought from a police station and would drive us to and from daycare in. He’s still proud today that the van, which was so old from carting so many convicts, was sold at a profit from a man who promptly destroyed it for parts). In our maroon and wood paneled van, we’d make the rounds every Saturday to pick up whoever had had birthday party’s the night before or sleepovers and wasn’t home yet. Oh no, no one was exempt from Saturday morning piano lessons. Even at 15 or 16 years of age, we were all driven to and from the lesson by Cliff, who insisted he was making us cultured. This is somewhat funny to everyone today, considering I can’t read, write, or play any music and in fact, don’t even know how to operate my own ipod.
Dad also likes to be chatty. He’s a flirt at heart, probably from his days as a footballer and total small town badass. We still have his varsity sweater, if anyone would like any proof of his prior awesomeness. As a result of his social butterfly status, Dad chats up waitresses. There’s no such thing as a quick order when he’s around. He has to ask the waiter twenty or thirty questions, including personal ones about her taste in beer or music, before our family gets so annoyed, we apologize and pretend like he is not well, you know, mentally.
In terms of shopping, Dad just doesn’t like spending money. The vans I mentioned before? The wood was around for 15 years before he made my brother drive it. And he bought it used. But Dad also recognizes that he has to have clothes. His answer? The Younkers Card.
The Younkers Card is what Dad uses for the semi-annual Younkers sale, where he can get sweaters and pants that don’t exactly fit nor are they in exactly flattering colors, but hey, they’re typically two or three dollars a piece and thirty bucks later, Dad’s set for the season. Of course, you can’t live on Younkers alone, so Dad tends to go through David and Jake’s closets looking for their outgrown clothes, which he promptly takes for himself.
Because Dad grew up in a different time, he’s mighty handy. While he did manage to practically rebuild, by himself, our first family home, today he doesn’t have as many projects. Therefore, the one’s he does have, he is very anal about. Our driveway never has more than thirty minutes worth of snow on it. And our grass? Mowed five times a week. That pristine lawn is also rigorously watched and watered all summer long.
Cliff is also way, way smarter than he gives himself credit for. When he was younger, he wanted to be a teacher and when he couldn’t find a job in Michigan, he did what all aspiring teachers do: He thought what the hell, why not law school? Right. After kicking some ass there, he got his first job at a big law firm downtown raking in a healthy salary. Of course, he was appalled he had to pay the five dollars a day to park, so he would drive to the strip mall several miles away, park his car for free, and then ride the public bus, which houses bums all winter long who need to stay warm, to the office.
Today, to keep his mind active, Dad spends hours doing Sudoku. He won’t put his iphone though, because he likes to erase by hand. It’s therapeutic, apparently. Also, Dad does not listen to the radio. Oh no, that’d be way too normal and not all embarrassing enough for him. Dad listens to books on tape. And when he runs out of books that he likes? Well, he went online and purchased some course lectures. Yes, the very same lectures that I myself hate going to all school year long and periodically fall asleep to. Dad loves ‘em. Listens to them fully and then reports back what he’s learned. How thoughtful of him, right?
Dad is a little corky, but all of those things have made him a pretty awesome Dad. And while I’m quick to complain, all of my friends adore going over to my house, just so they can see what antics he’s up to now. And I hate to admit, that now that I’m out of the house, I don’t eat the fruit loops sans the cheerios. It turns out, I actually like the cheerios by themselves. And they’re cheapter. It scares me a little when I realize that Dad’s cheapness is rubbing off on me. Just shoot me if I ever apply for a Younker’s card.
The first week of April from Kindergarten through senior year of high school was always Springbreak. Springbreak is a legend among kids. It’s the only time of year when everyone you know goes on vacation, to somewhere warm and fun, at the same time. Teachers would go easy on the homework, parents would go easy on the rules, and the countdowns until Springbreak would start soon after Christmas.
My parents, however, did not believe in merely fun Springbreaks. Oh no, if it wasn’t educational, then by golly, we were not doing it. Let me recount to you, my loyal readers, two of our earlier trips:
1. Virginia. This was my dad’s dream trip: seven days of dead President’s houses, museums, and to top it all off: Colonial Williamsburg. Is it warm in Virginia in April? No, sir, it is not. So while all my friends came back with tans and postcards of their tropical extravaganzas, I brought them back a postcard from where Sally Hemmings and Thomas Jefferson got it on. Racy? perhaps. Better than Panama City? No.
2. Washington, D.C. I actually love Washington, D.C. now. But when I was five or six (in my old age, my memory is beginning to suffer), it was one of the worst trips ever. Not because I knew nothing about U.S. history so big statuses of Lincoln or towers like the National Monument (which, by the way, I still hold is overrated. It’s just a big tower. My brothers built more complex ones with legos) meant little. But even worse, we walked like five miles a day. Nowadays, that’s not a huge deal. But in little kid steps, that’s like a marathon. And I was a chubby little kid. So, at the pathetic age of five, I lost my chafing virginity. Just another thing to tell my therapist, I suppose.
When we got a little older, my parents got pretty tired of all our complaining. I think they could tune us out when we were wee ones, with quiet voices that are neither threatening nor insistent. But when we hit teenagehood, the three Flood kids rallied together for a change. And my parents, always the lawyers with their sneaky, conniving little ways, had us fooled.
They suggested we go to Hawaii. “Hallelujah!” said we. A real Springbreak! We’re finally sun chasers like all the other kids! We packed our swimsuits, our towels, and got ready for a week on the beach. The parents, however, must have laughed to themselves all the way over to Maui. Where we spent the week not lounging, but instead, hiking the trails of Hawaii. Gorgeous? of course. Did that mean we wanted to do that? Of course not. As the only daughter in the family, I did get the easy way out. There were several occasions where frail, poor me just couldn’t handle another hike so my Mom and I would head into town to go shopping while my brothers and my Dad were forced on hikes that were so extreme (picture no trail, just a jungle of vines) that they’re still in recovery today.
I don’t mean to mislead you. We had some amazing Springbreaks and I was truly extremely lucky growing up to be taken all over the world. It just seems to be the Flood Curse that no matter how great a vacation we plan, something always ends up awry.
When we went to the Grand Canyon once, there was the first blizzard in twenty odd years, a blizzard so intense that they shut down the Highway. Of course, Michigan natives like ourselves, didn’t really find the blizzard that bad and drove through it. However, the blizzard did mean we couldn’t actually see the Grand Canyon. But hey, that’s in the details.
My parents took us to Italy once when I was in high school. We had to switch planes in D.C., and at the last minute, the flight attendants decided there wasn’t enough overhead room for our family’s carry-ons (nevermind the 100 passengers and their giant bags already onboard). Out of all those people, my poor parents had to have their bags checked. They were promptly lost. Cliff’s was recovered a few days later, tattered and slashed, like a mugger went to town on it. Ann’s bag was never found. Foreign country with a crappy exchange rate and no luggage? Of course that would happen to us.
There’s also the issue we have with getting sick while on vacation. Whether it’s food poisoning or water poisoning or just the a random attack of dehydration, my little brother in particular manages to catch it all. In LA, he had an ear infection that was so intense my mom had to check him in to the Emergency Room. In Mexico, he drank the water and ended up so sick that he asked for us to either illegally buy him morphine or simply knock him unconscious. I was willing to do the later, but my parents were not willing to let me.
In the end, I suppose our education vacations have been remarkably more interesting than my friends and their 12 trips to Panama City. While I didn’t appreciate them growing up, there is something kind of cool about saying that you’ve seen The Tree That Owns Itself or been to more National Parks than you have beaches. At the very least, it’s a quirky little fact about us.
When I was little and complaining, my parents used to tell me that when I grew up and had a family, I could do it my way and hit the beach every April. Now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I think that I would like to torture my children the way I was tortured. After all, they’ve got to lose that chafing virginity sometime…
The search for my life’s mission began when I was a wee little child. According to my baby book, which my mother was religious about updating, I first proclaimed that when I grew up, I wanted to be ”a grandpa.” This may sound a little weird, but when I look back on it, I just think about what a smart little kid I was. My grandfathers are both retired, they both sleep whenever they want, and they both have enough money to live comfortably. Instead of my parents encouraging me to perhaps think of a more realistic way to spend my life, I think they should have been patting me on the back because even as a toddler, I knew what it meant to have it made.
After my parents told me being a grandpa wasn’t going to work out for me, I decided instead that I would be a mom. Because I was only three or four at this point, it was seen as adorable to have a little water baby to take everywhere. My first water baby was black. I thought for the longest time that my parents were trying to be really liberal and forward thinking by buying me a doll of the opposite gender, but I found out later it was just that they were all out of white babies and hey, Santa had to bring me something.
I ditched motherhood to be a ballerina. After all, even at five I knew that tutus and pink tights were way better than expelling children from my uterus. My darling mother, certainly aware of my lack of coordination (the amount of times I trip over myself per day is truly remarkable), encouraged me to pursue my dreams by signing me up for Chris’s School of Ballet and purchasing me tickets to the local theatre, where a real ballet was coming to perform. The ballet lessons didn’t go well (besides coordination, it turns out I also lack rhythm) and as for the performance, I fell asleep shortly after the curtains opened.
Since I couldn’t even stay awake to watch my future profession, I decided that ballerina Maggie was just not going to work out. I went through the other typical little girl ideals: pop star, model, fashionista, doctor, cake decorator, bookstore owner, coffee shop owner, travel agent, wnba player, teacher, etc. But, let’s be honest: the pop star thing is out, I can’t carry a tune and after ten years of piano lessons, all I can do is play the chorus of the infamous “Go Tell Aunt Rhody.” I’m too old to be a model, I don’t care enough about clothes to design or sell them, Science hates me, and cake decorators have to be able to bake–without the Sara Lee box.
When I finally reached that mystical senior year of high school, I was told it was time to narrow down my interests. After all, I had to pick a college that had a degree that would help me reach my career, which would give me a pay check, and would eventually allow me to buy my own yorkie (my first one was stolen–more on that later). I came home from school and talked to my parents, working through my options. There was big ten schools, and liberal arts schools, schools decked out in blue, schools in green, and schools in other combinations of colors that were ghastly, not flattering at all when matched to my complexion.
In the end, my dad told me not to fret. I could do whatever, then go to graduate school to do what I wanted. While the idea of going to school for longer my not please all people, I instead thought back to that little girl with the dream of being a grandfather and all the perks that come with it: naps, someone else supporting you, and no job. A student, with nothing to do but classes, is on the same level, except since I’m still young, I won’t have to worry about pills, breaking a hip, or a dwindling retirement fund.
If I could go back and talk to toddler Maggie, I would tell her not to worry: dreams do come true. Grad school, here I come.
The first week of the semester is always pretty rough. There’s new schedules, a new bus route, a new wake up time, and lots of scary professors that look down at you from their giant podiums and declare war against you.
I say war because regardless of what kind of face you put on a teacher, if they hand out a piece of paper with tests on in and large amounts of homework that put a wrench in your weekend plans and cause you to lose sleep, then it’s war. Sure, sometimes it’s a bit less difficult, more of a congress-authorized military engagement, but no matter how you spin it, it’s a battle.
Much like in war, there are moments, perhaps when the game plans are being explained or everyone’s taking the afternoon off to watch a new season of the Office, when silence is expected. I’ve never been very good at those though moments though. I like a bit of chatter. In fact, in one of my classes this week, I thought it would be a good time to go ahead and catch up with an old high school chum. But of course, the professor, likely a blood relative of Benito Mussolini, did not appreciate that. He went ahead and stopped the lecture and asked me and S to stop talking. In front of 700 kids. Via his microphone. So much for keeping a low profile.
Like soldiers, I also have to learn the fastest modes of transportation. For a huge campus like Michigan State, that means the CATA. My roommate (platoon member, if you will) drew out a bus schedule for me and told me where to go, when to get on, and when to get off. I departed class and thought I followed her directions. But instead I managed to take the wrong bus. Twice. In a row. It took me an hour to get home. I’d be ashamed of this if I didn’t find it so ridiculously pathetic that it’s just funny.
I was enrolled in five classes, but I dropped one because I felt that the 4:10 to 5:30 time frame was interfering with my nap schedule. I think it’s important to keep my priorities in order, no matter how intense life gets.
The next few months of battle are undoubtedly going to be difficult. But at least I have this glorious blog to express my deep and important thoughts. I appreciate your future camaraderie.