The Archives of Me

The last time I was home my mom informed me that she’s going to start The Great Purge soon – cleaning out my old room.  In my defense, it’s not just my old stuff in that room…there’s a lot of stuff that’s been dumped stored in there since I moved out six years ago.   In an effort to help (and protect my privacy!), I brought home two large containers and started to go through them.  In my biz, that’s called Records Management – determining what’s permanent or temporary, what can be “retained” or “pitched” into the garbage.  In real life, it’s called tossing out all the crap you probably should’ve gotten rid of when you moved out in the first place.  Now, since I’m a borderline hoarder, there’s a lot that I’ll be retaining permanently.  The jury’s still out on the Barbies and the Cabbage Patch Kids though.

Over the next few weeks, I thought I’d share a few of the more interesting “records” from my personal archives.  The first thing I’m going to share is my values essay from 5^th Grade.  I was 11 years old, and in Middle School – a time of huge transition for me; it was a new school where I changed classes, rode a bus, had a locker instead of a cubby, and had classmates with names like Liza and Ellyn.  Fancy, right? 

I didn’t know it then, but looking back now, I can honestly say that 5^th Grade was the last year that I was spunky, fearless Denise.  It was the last year that I didn’t care that I didn’t look exactly like everyone else…or it was the last year that I wasn’t fully aware that people thought of me as being “different”.  Those stories are for another day.  Right now, I present “Two Values and A NOT.” 

In light of my previous post, it is apparent that my proofreading skills were not yet developed!

I know what you’re thinking –

“Reading is similar to a library with pages” – wowsers, stop with the kickass symbolism!  

“If you didn’t have a family, you might feel abandoned” – does this girl have abandonment issues?!  Um, yeah, I do.  But it’s all my mom’s fault – note to parents, it’s always a good idea to have TWO emergency contacts for your child, just in case you decide to go out with your child’s (only) emergency contact and on that particular day, the school decides to lose electricity leaving your hearing-impaired second-grader unable to reach anyone to take her home.  Seriously, I’m fine.  That day no longer haunts me.  Honestly.  Please don’t leave me anywhere though, okay?  ‘Cause I will freak the hell out. 

“I try to draw but never succeed” – ho-hum, what a Debbie Downer!  Actually, that still holds true – I can’t draw to save my life!  Don’t ever ask me to play a game of Pictionary.  I suck at it.  My classmates’ NOT values were things like drugs, bullying, prejudice; my NOT value was art.  I had my priorities straight, didn’t I?  Of course, it’s not as bad as Jason M.’s NOT – he didn’t value when girls dumped him.  He hated it because it made him really mad and he got angry and started punching or kicking things.  Gosh, I sure hope he outgrew that.  (By the way, he was 11…who the heck was he dating at 11?!  Did people date when they were 11?!)   

Stay tuned!  There's more to come!

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On a more serious note, you will notice that my essay is on Page 22.  The essay on Page 32 was written by Alex Fattal, the older brother of Josh Fattal, one of the hikers who remains in an Iranian prison with his friend Shane Bauer.  They have been detained for over 660 days.  To learn more please visit:  http://freethehikers.org/

Cutting Slices of Life

Some random slices of my life from the past week:

Skirting the Issue

On Thursday, I wore a skirt to work.  Why is this significant?  Well, I don’t generally wear skirts or dresses.  In my old position, wearing a skirt wasn’t very practical.  I did a lot of running about and climbing up ladders.  Quite frankly, when you’re up on a ladder, the last thing you want to be wearing is a skirt.  Just in case, if you know what I’m saying.   In my new position, there aren’t too many opportunities to climb up ladders so skirts and fun summery dresses are a definite fashion possibility now.  Thursday was very hot so I figured what the heck?  So, instead of my usual pants, I dug out my H&M khaki skirt that was rolled up in the back of my closet.  It had the potential to look cute yet professionally appropriate or I could’ve looked like I was wearing a potato sack.  I think I ended up somewhere in between…it was a couple inches too long to be really cute so I kinda looked like a nun, but not a habit-wearing nun – more like one of those progressive nuns who wears khaki skirts while she’s out serving the faithful.  Probably the most traumatic thing about wearing a skirt was exposing my freakishly pasty white legs to people; oh, and remembering to cross my legs like a lady.  Overall, I felt very professional in my khaki skirt and I think I’ll try it again in the near future.  To paraphrase Katy Perry, I wore a skirt and I liked it.    

The Proof(reading) is in the Puding

In my new position, I’m responsible for ensuring that every archival description submitted for inclusion in our catalog meets all the standards established by the Establishers of Standards for Those Sorts of Things.  I’m like a proofreader on steroids.  Unfortunately, my job is seeping into my personal life.  Now I’m proofing every single thing that I read!  At Tuesday’s HOA meeting, I took one glance at the agenda and shuttered in horror.  One of the most glaring errors – police officers were going to discuss “police presents in the community.”  Grrr.  Today, I was driving down my town’s Main Street and I spotted the banner that hangs proudly across the street advertising the Farmer’s Market on Thursday’s.  Arrrrgh.  Now, I’m not perfect, there are probably typos and errors in my blog (and if there are, my mom will let me know).  In fact, my last Facebook status was a question but I didn’t end it with the proper punctuation.  So, it happens but, boy oh boy, does it drive me crazy!  By the way, I deliberately spelled “pudding” wrong in the subtitle.  Just so you know that I proofread this before I posted it!

Endings

This week was marked by endings.  Oprah’s of course on Wednesday.  At work, the week began and ended with retirement parties for two extremely dedicated colleagues, both of whom are true class acts who are held in high regard by all who know them.  One of these gentlemen played a very significant role in my life because he hired me for my first job at the Archives. Who knows?  If it hadn’t been for him, I might be a children’s librarian somewhere!  Each served almost forty years at the Archives and both spoke of how much they enjoyed their work.  Oprah spoke of that too…the importance of finding something that sparks you, something that you love to do.  I’ve been pretty lucky…I found my spark.  If you haven’t yet, don’t worry, you will.  Oh, and I’m going on record right now to say that I want chocolate cake with chocolate icing at my retirement party in 35 years.    

O, Say it Ain’t So!

Yesterday marked the end of The Oprah Winfrey Show after 25 years.  Turns out, I ended up missing it which was kind of a bummer.  I know, I know, I should have a DVR.  It’s okay because I saw that the final episode is going to be replayed, I’ve seen a bunch of clips, and I just watched a Farewell to Oprah tribute on my local news so I’m good.  But, wow, it’s over. 

Was there life before Oprah?  Yeah, yeah, Phil Donahue.  I seem to remember Merv Griffin and afternoon Wheel of Fortune too.  And after school specials.  Whatever happened to after school specials?  But it was so long ago…I mean, Oprah occupied the four o’clock slot on Channel 6 (the home of the very best news station in the world, Action News!) since I was seven years old! 

I was a latch-key kid so my afternoon routine went a little something like this – got home from school, called my mom at work, watched the last half-hour of General Hospital, and then watched The Oprah Winfrey Show.  I’ve always been a fan of Oprah but sometimes I found her a little annoying.  Actually, I didn’t watch the show too much from the late 90s to the mid 2000s.  So, I missed the Book Club and the Angel Network and the Car Give Away.  I started watching again a few years ago, mainly because I have a crush on Dr. Oz.

I had a secret dream to be on Oprah.  When you’ve got a facial abnormality and feel like a misfit, where do you want to go to share your story?  Oprah, of course!  You’d share your story and everyone would see it and hear it and then they would stop staring or teasing because it was on Oprah and if it was on Oprah, people just seemed to understand and accept.  And yeah, maybe I hoped I’d get a book deal out of it.  Then I grew up. 

I never got to be on Oprah and I never got to be in her studio audience.  But a few years ago, my friend Lidia and I went on a trip to visit friends in Chicago.  Lidia, like me, has TCS.  She was the first person I ever met who looked just like me.  For many years, she was the only person I knew of who looked like me.  When you know there’s one other person out in the world who’s like you, who understands, it feels a little less lonely some days.  I’m pretty sure she had Oprah dreams too (well, actually she got to be on The Tyra Banks Show and Tyra was going to be the next Oprah!)

There were two things I wanted to see when I was in Chicago – Oprah’s studio and the American Girl store.  Look, I’ve had an American Girl doll since I was nine years old – I was hitting up that place.  I don’t care that I was approaching 30.  After perusing that Mecca of Girlness and buying Samantha some new dresses - she’s worn the same dress since I was nine, it was time for a change of clothes; our hosts drove us to the other side of the city and we got to see Oprah’s studio!!

Lidia and I jumped out of the van and had our pictures taken by the sign – pictures that I would’ve posted but I can’t find L  Then Lidia, who is much more outgoing than me, talked to an older gentleman standing by the garage and she asked if he knew Oprah.  When he told us that he saw her everyday and helped her out of the car, or something like that, we were like, WOW!!  We met someone who KNOWS Oprah!  That’s like two degrees of separation between me and Oprah!

Oprah had a huge impact on our culture over the past 25 years.  People have learned so much  by watching her show and, I think, maybe the world is a little kinder because of her influence.

There was life before Oprah and there will be life after Oprah.

Just make sure that life is “your best life.”    

Catchin’ a Little Tail in the Landing

I actually wrote this post last week and was saving it but I figured my big Oprah extravaganza post can wait one more day.  Neighborhoods have been on my mind lately, especially with the devastating tornado that ripped through Joplin, Missouri and the flooding along the Mississippi River.  Tonight, I went to my first ever Homeowners Association meeting and this post seemed timely. 

Almost two years ago, I moved into a development that I’ve affectionately dubbed “the Landing.”  The house that I bought is on an extremely close-knit street; it’s watched over by a pair of dads who keep in line not just their kids but the other kids in our little section of the Landing.  It’s a place where everybody watches out for each other.  There’s even a signal in case something’s wrong.    

On any given day, on any given evening, Mike and John, the dads, are outside playing with a whole pack of kids.  Football, hockey, kickball, rollerblading.  Now, I jokingly ask Mike what the next season’s sport is so I can prepare myself.  And sure, when you’ve got a bunch of kids playing in the street, you have to be careful.  In fact, that’s one of the first things I was told - "We just ask people to slow down when they drive through here because of the kids."  So, I slow to a crawl when I come home and triple-check my mirrors every time I back out of my parking space.  That’s what neighbors – and safe drivers - do.

I never thought I’d really become part of the neighborhood fabric.  I don’t have kids and I’m not much of a joiner.  In fact, it’s very easy for me to be disconnected from larger groups - I am an introvert after all.  I come and go from the Landing just doing my thing.  A polite smile here, a friendly wave there, and then I go inside and shut my door to watch Judge Judy. 

Phoebe - out for her Sunday
morning constitutional

But then a skinny gray cat showed up at my door.  I fought it, I did.  Just ask my friends who kept telling me I should let it in.  You know what happens…one cat becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes eight, and eight becomes Crazy Cat Lady on the Corner.  I’ve seen the Cat Lady documentary…I know how it plays out.  To make a long story short, I let that skittish little stray cat in.  A few weeks later, my mom found out the cat’s back story.  She wasn’t a stray…she was the neighborhood cat and her name was Phoebe.  Phoebe was actually Mike’s wife Vicki’s cat but she’s gentle and docile and was heartlessly bullied by their other mean, nasty cats.  To protect her (although I’m not sure how this protected her), they let her out in the daytime and she made the rounds in the neighborhood.  Last summer, she found me and she’s kinda been mine ever since.  While she’s a wonderful little pal who cuddles up on my lap, she’s done something much more.  She’s connected me to the neighborhood in a way that I don’t think would’ve happened had she not become a part of my life. 

Because of Phoebe, people know that’s there’s a real person living in the corner house…not just a nameless neighbor passing through.  Last Sunday, when I got back from running errands, Mike called over to me – “Hey, Denise!  You want a burger?  We’re having a cook-out.”  I politely declined because I had just eaten lunch but I was touched by the invitation.  A little while later, as I sat on my front step potting some flowers, watching the boys play football in the street, Mike and Vicki’s daughter, Tory, came over to see if Phoebe was around to play.  I explained apologetically that Phoebe was up in her bed napping (now you know why she stayed…she gets a full-size bed all to herself!) but when she woke up, I’d bring her out. 

Duct-tape wallet - never
leave home without it.

On Thursday evening, there was a knock on my door, it was Tory and her friend Courtney.  Trying to hide my grimace because I was on my way to buy my very important umbrella, I told them Phoebe couldn’t play…I was just leaving.  So unneighborly, I know.  Tory said, “No!  We came to give you this!”  “This” was a duct-tape wallet.  “I made it for you because you take care of Phoebe!”  How can you not love that?  I thanked her profusely and then there were hugs all around because I guess ten year olds like to hug.

Phoebe, a now fat gray cat who never quite catches her tail, made me a part of the neighborhood.   

It’s no duct-tape wallet but it’s still a pretty good gift.  I think she deserves a treat.         

You Can Go Home Again. Just Remember to Pay the Tolls.

There’s a reason people on the East Coast don’t call their highways “freeways” like our pals on the West Coast do.  ‘Cause they’re not free.  You have to pay these annoying things called “tolls”. 

I live in Maryland.  My family lives in Pennsylvania.  The northbound trip up 95 (it is not “the 95”) is about 130 miles.  I can usually make the drive in about two hours.  Two hours and fifteen minutes if I get stuck behind a slow-poke.  Two hours and thirty minutes if I get stuck behind a slow-poke while we’re sitting in gridlock at the Delaware Toll Plaza.  The total cost of tolls (round-trip) is 19 bucks!  That’s the price of a dinner followed by a Baskin Robbins milkshake!

When I first moved to Maryland, almost six years ago, I made the trip up to Pennsylvania twice a month.  You figure it out - that’s every other weekend.  I would pack everything up on Friday night and be on the road no later than 4:30 in the morning on Saturday.  Before I knew it I was home. 

Pennsylvania is home.  It’s where I grew up; it’s where my family is; it’s where my history is.  I love being a Pennsylvanian.  We used to have license plates that proudly declared “You’ve Got a Friend in Pennsylvania.”  Isn’t that nice?  You could be cruisin’ around town and you always knew that there was a friend in the car in front of you.  I know stuff about Pennsylvania.  I know there are 67 counties (Heinz 57 plus 10!  I learned that in 4^th grade and never forgot it.  That’s awesome Pennsylvania teaching for you!)  I know that Pennsylvania means Penn’s Woods, named after William Penn’s dad. I know Pennsylvania is one of four Commonwealth states and okay, I don’t really know what a Commonwealth is but it’s my most favorite trivia question.  Do you know what the other three Commonwealths are?  (Don’t cheat.) 

I’m slightly partial to the Southeastern corner of the state which is so much better than the rest of it, except maybe the Poconoes where the Christmas trees grow.  I do have a confession to make - I’m not really from Philadelphia.  I just tell people that because it’s so much easier to say that rather than to say that I’m from Glenside, Cheltenham Township.  Because then people ask -  where’s that?  What direction is that from the city?  How the heck do I know?  Does it look like I carry around a compass?  I think it’s East.  Or it might be Northeast.  I don’t know.  Google Map it. 

I have to specifically say Glenside, Cheltenham Township to differentiate it from Glenside, Abington Township.  Cheltenham and Abington are huge rivals.  I guess Abington’s greatest claims to fame are Abington Township School District v. Schempp and Bob Saget.  That’s Bob Saget of Full House fame - you know, Michelle Tanner’s dad?  What’s Cheltenham known for?  Frank Lloyd Wright architecture - okay, it’s only one building but it is a National Historic Landmark!  And Cheltenham gave the world Mr. October.  So what if he played for the Yankees?  If you don’t like the Yankees, how’s this - the back-up mascot for the San Diego Padres grew up in Cheltenham!  Awesome, right?  And why does Benjamin Netanyahu speak with a bit of Philadelphia accent?  He graduated from Cheltenham High School just like me.  Yep.  CHS can claim a baseball great, a back-up mascot, an Israeli prime minister and a future Archivist of the United States among their notable alumni.  Yep, I’m going for the big time.  That mascot is so not getting on the CHS Wall of Fame before me.   

These days, I’m a Pennsylvania transplant in Maryland.  Maryland’s okay.  I don't know much about it.  It’s the Free State.  While I don’t really get the whole Baltimore Hon thing, Charm City is home to Michael Phelps and Ace of Cakes.  A guy with a bunch of Olympic medals and a guy who can bake a cake to celebrate.  That’s cool.  Plus, they filmed Homicide:  Life on the Street here and well, you can’t diss anything that a Baldwin brother was in.  There are other nice parts of the state too that I don’t go to often because it’s around the Beltway.  By the way, Inner and Outer Loops…not two circles inside of each other.  I know - I found it misleading too.      

So, I’m not a Marylander and I’ll never consider myself anything other than a Pennsylvanian.  The Great Commonwealth is and always will be my family home.  I always know that I can come home to Pennsylvania, but somewhere along the way, maybe when I started paying a mortgage or started building my life here, Maryland became the place that I go home to.   

It actually doesn’t really matter if I’m going or coming home, because either way, I’ll still have to pay all those damn tolls. 

Giggly Girl

My brother is still friends with a bunch of guys whom he’s known since elementary and high school.  When you’re a little sister with a big brother who has cool, attractive friends, there’s a good chance that at some point in time, let’s say - high school, the little sister may or may not develop crushes on those same cool, attractive friends.  In fact, I think there were a few Sweet Valley High books based upon this very premise.

I loved Sweet Valley High books.

When I was 15, I may or may not have had a teensy, little crush on one of my brother’s friends.  He may or may not have been dubbed Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love (HHBL) by either my dad or my uncle at some point during the crush-phase.  HHBL was two years older than me, in his senior year when I was a sophomore.  He was clean-cut, well-mannered, and played the oboe or sax or something in the Marching Band; which could very well explain my fondness, to this day, for pep rallies.  TEQUILA!

While the juniors and seniors had the Prom,* sophomores in my high school had the Soph Hop.  I guess it was a formal dance…it was certainly more formal than Homecoming.  Anyway, there I was with a huge crush on HHBL and my friend Emily Wilson, who was in Marching Band herself and equally crushing on a trombone or kazoo player, told me I had to take HHBL to the Soph Hop.  I’m pretty sure I giggled nervously and was like, not-unh!  Since my friends knew I certainly wasn’t going to ask him, they asked him for me.  Of course he said yes.  He’s one of the nicest guys on the planet and taking a friend’s little sister to her first formal dance is just something nice guys do.  I vividly remember being in Mr. Cooper’s Western Civ class when Emily Wilson came in and informed me that HHBL said yes, he’d take me to the Soph Hop.  I was like, Ohmigod, what?!  There’s no way I can talk to a boy!!!

On the night of the dance, I wore a black dress from the Limited (the most expensive item of clothing that I had ever worn at that point), there was awkward picture-taking, corsage-pinning, and everything else that happens at a dance.  (That would be dancing, by the way.)  There was, in fact, no dinner eating because there was no way in hell that I was sitting across a table where I would have to converse with a boy.  That would’ve been awkward and the occasion of much stupid giggling.  I was 15 people!  At the end of the night, he dropped me off and that was that. 

Cut to 17 years later.  On Saturday night, my mom had a surprise birthday party for my brother who turned 35 earlier this month.  Why she didn’t wait another five years until he turns 40 is beyond me but whatever.  Anyway, of course my brother’s friends came.  In addition to HHBL, there was Conshy and Very Obnoxious Friend.  I’ve seen them a couple of times over the years and I hear what’s going on in their lives through the grapevine…they’re all very responsible, very respectable, very married (except for Conshy**) Officers of the Law who keep the streets of various Pennsylvania towns safe.  We’ve all grown up and become adults.  Well, except for me, apparently.  Because I was like a stupid, giggly 15 year old girl around them.

I can talk to guys.  I talk to old guys, young guys, straight guys, gay guys, form-fitting shirt wearing guys.  I think, for the most part, I make sense when I talk to them; except for when I ramble a little…but then they just tell me to shut it and I’m fine.  I’m an International Traveler, I have a Very Expensive Masters Degree, I shop at the Gap, I can operate a lawn mower, and some days I think I’m half-way awesome.  I think I’m interesting and capable of saying interesting things. 

Last night, I couldn’t manage to string together a cohesive sentence to engage in conversation with my brother's friends.  I was back in Mr. Cooper’s Western Civ class all over again!  Ohmigod, I can’t talk to boys!!!  (Although, for the record, it didn’t help matters that my brother and Very Obnoxious Friend were embarrassing the heck out of me.)  

Later on in the night, as they discussed getting older, Conshy asked how old I was.  I admitted, haltingly, that I’m 32. 

Then I giggled like a nervous 15 year old.
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*- Why do some people say “The Prom” and some people just say “Prom” 

**-I’m not sure but I think Conshy’s not married yet because he rides a scooter.

Woman with Lawn Mower



My 1st lawn mower.
It lasted about five minutes.



What I’m going to say next might tick off some of my more feminist-minded friends:  I think some tasks are better left for the men in our lives.  Stuff like car repairs, washing the car, cooking, and, most of all, mowing the lawn.

Now, I’m a pretty forward thinking female.  I believe women can do it all and conquer it all.  I know tons of women who are smart, savvy, and capable of handling whatever life throws at them.  Women rock.  I am woman.  Hear me roar.  And all that jazz.

But then that woman buys a house and while it’s a nice little end-unit townhouse, it comes with some issues.  The biggest one being grass.  There’s grass in the front yard, the side yard, and the backyard.  And it grows.  And you have to cut that grass before the HOA sends you a warning in the mail that your knee-high grass poses a danger to the aesthetic beauty of your neighborhood.  So, what do you do?  Hire someone?  Wait for your dad to visit so he can cut it?  Or do you yell:  I am woman.  Hear me roar.  Let’s mow this lawn!  

Generally, I go for the second option.  My dad is my LawnBoy.  Look, I’m not making him do anything he doesn’t want to do.  He genuinely enjoys it.  If he didn’t, he wouldn’t go two doors down and mow my neighbor’s lawn either.  But since my dad is a mailman and has to work on Saturdays (what do you really think about six day delivery?); he only comes to visit me every six weeks.  Grass can do a lot of growing in six weeks.  That means the homeowner of aforementioned townhouse (that’s me) has to get out the lawn mower and do it…herself. 

My lawn was mowed two weeks ago (thanks, Dad!) but I had to do it again.  So, bright and early this morning, I got up and mowed my lawn.  If the world’s gonna end in a few hours, I want my lawn to look good!  Oh, and also, it made me feel less guilty for not going to running club this morning (I had a steak and a margarita at dinner, there was NO way I was waking up at 6:30 to go running!)

When I moved in, my dad gave me a lawn mower.  When we reminded him that it wasn’t 1946 and I needed something with a little more juice, he gave me an electric lawn mower.  So, every once in a while, I plug the contraption in and start mowing.  I don’t have much of a process – there’s lots of going back and forth….there are no neat, straight mowing lines on my lawn!  Once I got my front lawn cut, I went down and did my neighbor’s, because she did it for me once and well, I don’t want to be known as the neighbor who doesn’t return lawn-mowing favors!

(By the way, the entire time I was mowing the lawn, I was sweaty and annoyed and considering the possibility of just hiring a guy to do it for me.)  

After my neighbor’s lawn was done, I went back to my house to mow my backyard.  That’s when I saw my backyard neighbor mowing her lawn.  She made mowing her lawn look really good…she’s an Indian lady and she was wearing a sari.  She looked very serene.  I just looked sweaty and annoyed.  I’m seeing a sari in my future. 

When I was finished, my grass was beautifully trimmed and at required HOA height.  I’m safe for the next two weeks.  (If any of us are still here in two weeks!)   

I am woman with lawn mower.  Hear us roar.