That Old Black Magic

Here in the good old United States of America, they follow grand traditions set forth by their fore fathers.  Eating turkey in November because the pilgrims did it (even though I think the Canadians have it right in October - I mean doesn't the last week of November run too close to Christmas?  Spread the turkey love people!), watching a parade of giant balloons because a very old department store wants you to go shopping, and finally, the crazy sales associated with Black Friday.

Fact:  Black Friday is called Black Friday because it is when the stores go from being in the red to being in the black

Fact:  People wake up and go to sales starting at  - are you ready for this? - FOUR IN THE MORNING!  FOUR!!!!!!!!!!  That was JC Penny.  Macy's and Target were five, much more humane.

Fact:  People who get up early and wait for the sales at already cheap stores like Wal Mart should gain some perspective.  Especially when you break a glass window and storm into the store, stampeding over an employee and killing them.  This actually happened in Long Island.  It's horrific and tragic.  My thoughts are with the family and definitely taught me the lesson to stay away from people at Wal Mart - they are clearly crazy.

I wasn't really wanting to be a part of these crowds on Friday, as last year's accidental experience with the Engineer at an outlet mall north of Seattle taught me to fear people and sales, but I was sort of curious what the crowds in New York would be like.  And seeing as a friend was in town, I just couldn't resist.  This is my story of Black Friday.

Century 21:

Century 21 is an upscale department store that is like liquidation world for Prada.  The crowds at this store are crazy on a normal day, Black Friday was clearly catastrophic.  But I needed a wallet so I pushed my way through, picked the cheapest one I could find (a whopping $8.97!  Woohoo!) and pushed my way to the cashier.  Here is when trouble started.

#1.  The price tag was actually not attached to the wallet, but inside the wallet.  The girl rudely told me that she 'don't know if thats true girl' and said to get another one.  My friend graciously offered to push his way to find a replacement.  In the meantime she yelled at me to STEP ASIDE STEP ASIDE

#2.  On having the attached proof of the price of the wallet (take that bitch) she scanned it in, and I handed over my credit card.  Chewing her gum she informed me that my card was not working and I was 'gotta pay with somethin else'.  

#3.  About to take out the cash I had, the cashier next to her told her to type in my numbers.  This is the following conversation:

My cashier:  I don't wanna punch in the numbers.  She can pay with somin else.

The other cashier:  You just bein lazy girl, punch in the numbers

My cashier:  Then i have to get authorization. I don wanna.  She can pay wit somin else

Me:  Actually, I want to pay by credit card.  I'm not from here and it costs me a lot to take out cash (lie)

The other cashier:  yeah girl, it's the holidays you can't be lazy now

My cashier:  (huffs and punches in my numbers)

The other cashier:  Girl, it's just the beginning of the holidays.  You gotta change your attitude.

My cashier:  Don't be talking to me about attitude.  I'm tired and if I don wanna do somin I ain't goin to (roughly throws my card back, I sign the computer thing)

Sign there now

Me:  I did already

My cashier:  GLARE

Me:  Oh I don't need a bag

My cashier:  GLARE

Other cashier:  It's store policy, you have to leave with a bag

Me:  That's bad for the environment

My cashier:  (shoves bag at me)

Other cashier:  Have a nice day

Me: (smile at other cashier) to my cashier You have a fabulous day now, you have been so wonderful to meet!

End Scene

Macy's:

As we walk randomly through the store, suddenly we are yelled at by a store clerk that we are walking the wrong way.  Confused, we look around:  aren't we in a store?  How can you walk the wrong way?  The clerk yells again and asks what part of wrong way don't we understand?  Apparently Macy's during the holidays is like driving a car in Manhattan.  There are one way aisles, stop signs and turning signals if you want to change lanes.  Also, the spots next to things to buy are coveted, sort of like rock star parking.

FAO Schwarz:

I don't know how the service was.  Why?  Because there was a line-up to get it, stretching down from the door to the street, around 59th Avenue ALL the way to Madison where it curled again towards Central Park.  I kid you not.

The Fried Chicken restaurant:

The customer ahead of me ordered a bucket of chicken, a box of mashed potatoes, fries, gravy, four cokes and some biscuits.  When the girl asked her if it was to stay, she replied 'I hardly think I am going to sit down and eat a bucket of chicken by myself' to which the surly worker said 'I don't know your life bitch'

I thought this was the country of customer service?  I mean didn't The Gap invent the greeter and the overly friendly manner?  Isn't TGI Fridays famous for its nauseating happiness and cheer?  Can't the service meet me halfway here?  When I go into a store looking for a specific item, the employee should not shrug and keep folding clothes - shouldn't she go look for it herself?  GAH!

Like Shari said on The View:  what's the point and going out and supporting the economy by spending money,  helping to save jobs in the stores if the sales assistants whose jobs we are spending money to save treat us like crap.  

Black Friday has left a black taste in my mouth.  And the sales weren't even that good.  

island blog is born

Who knows where this will take us?

Island Blog replaces John's 2008 Adventure!

Enchanted

I am the first to admit that this Big Apple has not always been the most sweet to me.  My first visit, I 'liked' the city - after all how could one not the first week of December when Christmas is most charming?  I was the perfect tourist:  carriage ride in Central Park, food from Zabars, eating Magnolia cupcakes in the west village (by the way - Crumbs cupcakes are far superior to Magnolia. I should know,  I have done much market research).  I left thinking that New York was as exciting as they say, but not in a huge rush to come back.

Then there was the spring of this year (you can read about it in the May section) in which stomping the concrete in wedge heels with my best friends proved to be fun but I still did not feel that 'zing' people talk about.  I still could not compare New York to my love for London or Paris; it was still just a big, dirty city.

My first few days (okay, even perhaps weeks) of being here with the Engineer, I thought that the Big Apple was still dirty, was still a bit smelly, and was still too fast for my prairie girl feet.  I tried to convince the Engineer that we should try to settle in Revelstoke because it is so pretty and tranquil.  I missed the fresh Rainy City air, the ocean, the mountains.  I couldn't believe that there was no where in New York to simply escape to nature and recoup (because I do that all the time in Rainy City).

But then I stayed for a few more days . . . 

They say one of the best things about Rainy City is that in one day you can be skiing on a mountain and by the evening walking on the beach.  That is true and wonderful about Vancouver.  But it suddenly dawned on me:  In one day in New York you can be looking at Starry Starry Night by Van Gogh, see Kristen Scott Thomas or Katie Holmes on Broadway, and then run into a member of SNL on the subway home. In one day you can meet your favorite chef, act in a film via movieoke, and watch the sunset from the Empire State Building.  I am pretty sure this city has it all.  In one day you can eat knishes on the Lower East side, cheesecake in Midtown, and tapas in Soho.  Why did it take me so long to see that?

Don't get me wrong, I still love the quiet fresh air of the west coast or the peaceful small town in Alberta I grew up in, but I finally, finally became enchanted with New York.

It crept up on me.  With each new day that I did something out of the ordinary, I got closer and closer to not noticing the odd sewer smell because I was looking up at the Chrysler Building enshrouded in fog. Or I found peace in the middle of Broadway and 34th where I sat eating my fresh salad from Pax, looking at the Macy's Christmas lights.  I no longer heard the honking of horns, just the quiet you can actually find in a city.

I realized it as I was rushing down blocks of busy bodies and looked up.  I noticed I was in New York and I was  . . . happy.  I mean where else are there places devoted entirely to macaroni and cheese?  Macarons?  Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches?  Gluten-free risotto restaurants?  Sugar free bakeries for people on cleanses like me?  Wine stores filled with crazy free wine-tastings (how to pair Chinese food with wine)?  Okay, clearly one can see that I may be influenced by all my food choices.  I should be fat by now.

So I guess I am falling in love with the Big Apple.  Taking a big bite out of it, some would say.

  Big cities are big, noisy, smelly, loud but with time, patience and pure enchantment one will eventually find a piece of them to call home.

Dance Dance Revolution

Part of my new New York life, is my new New York gym. I know it is just an American chain but it has been on Sex and the City and is the funnest place ever to work out. They have the best classes in the world – trampoline aerobics (can’t do it though), ‘wings’ yoga, which involves circus like tricks on a hanging swing (some would say I shouldn’t do this one), and my new discovery: African Dance.

I’m not going to lie to you. I was a bit nervous about this one. After all, I live in Brooklyn between two projects and nearly everyone I see is African-American. I was totally expecting the class to be full of AA women with actual booties and really good rhythm. To my surprise I found I was a blonde among many, save for three AA ladies. Great, I am totally going to rock this class.

Wrong. As soon as our instructor started moving with the beats of the drums, ALL the other blonde girls did as well. And even though they had no hips or butts, they still found the beautiful rhythm and movement of the African beat.

I looked like an Orangutan on crystal meth.

I tried my best to wiggle my hips and stomp my feet all the while gracefully moving my arms in the opposite direction. The effect, like I said before, was a crystal meth laced Orangutan who had eaten too much sugar.

I was so bad that when we went in lines, no one would go behind me. She also made us split in to two teams – my team was only 8 big and full of the bad dancers. It was torture.

But the most fun torture I have yet to endure. As much as I was terrible, I had such a great time and sweated like, well I suppose, an Orangutan.

I was having so much fun until the end of the class when we all had to stand in a circle and the dance one by one in the centre. This completely freaked me out so I pretended that my knee had popped out and hid in the corner.

I may be willing to look like a crazed monkey in a group but no way am I going that while people are actually watching.

Doesn't Anyone Work in this Town?

After three weeks of being in New York, I have finally settled into my writing life. I may have been hiding for the first few weeks in my bed, the seasonal change affects me like that. But the other day I emerged, excited and ready to write.

The problem is: where? I love to work at home but I really love to explore the city and find cozy coffee shops that inspire me. Unfortunately, finding a café in New York City is like finding deodorant on a hippie.

Obviously the city is full of coffee shops and cafes, Friends made that statement with Central Perk. The problem is this city is also full of people. People who don’t go to an office and work. People who go to cafes and sit for hours and hog seats so that real writers like me can’t get a seat.

Honestly.

Three days in a row, I have had to walk block after block with my backpack (a laptop is better on your back this way), in the cold, looking for a place to sit. I try my best to avoid Starbucks because I have this at home. And I don’t like their coffee. But on day three I had to relent.

Starbucks it was. And things happened at this Starbucks that I have never seen before.

On my left, there was an actual catfight over a table. Okay, maybe not a catfight per say but a definite rising of voices and odd gesturing. An upper-west side woman who looked constipated and held her lips as if she had a lemon in her mouth shouted at three Japanese ladies trying to sit together. Not only was there a language barrier, but a manner-barrier as well. New Yorkers have none, Japanese have too many. The ladies lost.

On my right, three girls, as in maybe ten years old, sat with their grande non-fat hot chocolates, super expensive Starbucks sandwiches and school bags talking about boys and braces. They were actually well behaved and soft-spoken little girls. It just took me aback to see them sitting there like little grown-ups, caffeine-addicts in training, pouring mounds of sugar in their hot chocolate.

And in the corner, a little old lady cleaning her teeth in her coffee cup.

I swear this city has it all. And more. Maybe too much more . . . .

Jamie Oliver and the Case of the Accidental Shoplifter

The great thing about New York is that, well, that it’s New York. Everything happens here. Everyone comes here. There is always something to see or do. So when I read that Jamie Oliver was making an appearance at the Union Square Barnes & Noble I couldn’t help but wish he were something to see and do.

But he is married. As am I, nearly. So I had to settle for simply seeing him.

I love Jamie Oliver. I just could squish him I love him so much. I love his accent, I love his messy cooking, I love his passion, I love how he says things like ‘bake until it looks delicious’ (this has unfortunately led me to eating half-baked strawberry meringues), I just love love love him.

My friend and I trudged early to the bookstore and settled ourselves neatly in the second row (well, technically third but the front row barely showed up, so we had a very clear view. Actually I did. My friend had the blue monster in front of her so her view was a bit obstructed – too much of Jamie’s cooking perhaps?) two hours ahead of time. I rifled through his new cookbook making odd noises as the recipes made my tummy growl, and perhaps drooling a bit on page 189 (a Pimm’s and Strawberry concoction). I debated actually buying the book, as online it was $23 and in the store it was $38 – hello highway robbery? I wondered if Jamie’s signature was really worth $15 in these tough times.

The closer to 7 it got, the more nervous and excited I got. I had planned on asking a question and this made me want to throw up. Gee whiz, I have met celebrities before (okay, maybe only one), why was this one making me a nutbar?

When they ushered Jamie in, there was an audible gasp (me), someone yelling ‘he’s so cute’ (me) and a general giggling among the women and gay men (me and many many others). He is soooooooo cute in real life! He wore jeans, his little converse slip-on trainer things, and a windbreaker-ish jacket (he is so cute!) just like he does on his shows. And then he talked. I could listen to that southern-Brit accent forever. He talked about how his new cookbook was inspired by growing his own veg and fruit, and working with local farmers to get meat and grain. Keep this in mind.

Question 1: Does he find inspiration in American cooking? Yes, he is learning and is doing a new 8-part show about cooking in America. He started in Louisiana and is going to Arizona, New York (to our house for Thanksgiving hopefully), Chicago, and other places that I forgot.

Question 2: Does he support community growing in America? Ummm, he didn’t know what she meant. Local farmers basically. HELLO? He clearly supports that you MORON; didn’t he just talk about that for his inspiration??

Question 3: Do you like Korean food? Once again, a wasted question from a nervous girl who took ten minutes to ask her freaking question. The man eats ANYTHING and likes pretty much everything, clearly he will like Korean. Grrrrrr

At this the question period ended because there were so many of us getting our books signed. Boo! I didn’t ask my question!

So I decide to go up with my non-purchased book, just so I can meet him and have him call me ‘darling’. Then I would dump the book on a shelf and buy it online.

As I waited in line, I was so nervous/excited my knees were shaking. With each step closer I got more and more like a teenager. I felt the same way I did when I was 14 and met Kurt Browning at Eaton’s after school.

I was the next in line standing near to the security guard and I couldn’t help but tug at his arm and whisper ‘isn’t he cute?’ The security guard didn’t even acknowledge me. At least back home that would get a smile. Here they just think I am crazy. Oh wait . . .

Anyhoo, by the time I got to Jamie I was a nervous wreck. At first all I could blurt was ‘HI’! He looked at me and waited for more. I told him about my travel show and asked him where I should eat in London. He gave me a list but when I went to write it down I discovered I forgot how to hold a pen! GAH! He actually was giving me quite the list so this assistant lady told me to leave. Then I asked him about the rumor that he is opening up a restaurant in Rainy City. He told me no. This made me sad.

In my excitement and elation, I rushed off the stage (without saying thank-you) and promptly left the bookstore with my friend, clutching my newly signed Jamie at Home.

It wasn’t until I was three long blocks away that I realized I had not paid for the signed cookbook. For one split second I was totally, completely intending on marching back to B & N to pay for it. Then I thought about the $15 difference and decided that I would give money to Jamie’s charity instead. B & N didn’t really need my money. So I got on the subway and went home to call my mum.

I am a Buddhist. I know this is going to bite me on the ass one day.

Bad Boys Bad Boys

The Engineer was off to a hockey game the other night, and I was quite happy to cozy in for the evening with the dogs, a steaming mug of tea and my latest pick from Netflix. I was just beginning to truly enjoy season four, disc three of The Office when I hear a strange noise outside: gunshots. At first I thought (or hoped) that it was a car backfiring, but when I heard the car backfire eight more times I was pretty convinced it was a gun.

Not one to panic, I merely continued to laugh at Steve Carell’s antics thinking that the gunshots had happened far away. I also suspected that my overactive imagination had merely made up the gunshots because I am in Brooklyn and that is what happens here.

Then I heard one round of sirens.

Text the Engineer.

Second round of sirens.

Call best friend.

Third round of sirens.

Call my parents.

At this point I am still pretty calm, thinking that the shooting was at least ten blocks over. So I start washing my dishes while talking to my best friend on the phone. We are sort of laughing about the ‘shooting’ when I hear the fourth round of sirens accompanied by the sound of a helicopter. I shut the tap off, stand up a bit straighter and tell my friend I will call her back. The boys are afraid of the helicopter and are running around the apartment jumping and barking, making me even more nervous.

I open the window in front of my desk and crawl out onto the fire escape to find that the helicopter is directly above my street, shining its’ light brightly on my block. The street is crawling with New York’s finest, both in uniform and in suits. My next-door neighbor is being questioned by one of the boys in blue. I call the Engineer and tell him that the eight to ten ‘backfires’ I heard, were, in fact, gunshots.

I decide this is the safest time to walk the boys, as my street is full of NYPD. Okay, that may not be the complete truth. I was nosey.

Outside we went, where to one end of my street there were cop cars and that yellow homicide tape that you see in cop shows and to the other, life as normal. My neighbor (in her leopard print flannel PJ’s) filled me in on the situation by holding up her hand in a gun gesture and shooting her index finger. I told her I thought it had been gunfire but really far away. Nope, she said, at the end of the street.
So we walked to that end of the street. All the while me telling the boys to poop so it looked like I was out for a real reason. I ran into a cop who was flashing his light under cars. He smiled and said everything was all right but had I heard anything? I told him I had and that the gunshots seemed to be in two different sections – as if the shooter and stopped and ran a bit further. He then asked what caliber of gun I thought it was, how high pitched each shot was and some other gun gibberish. Confused and slightly taken aback, I told him that they sounded like gunshots. He gave me a bemused smiled and asked me if I had ever heard gunshots before. I shook my head. He seemed to think this was sweet.

Another neighbor of mine came walking down the street and asked the cop what had happened. He told her and then informed her that the body ‘fell’ right at the end of my street. She too was in shock, and whispered ‘did he D-I-E?’ The cop shook his head and said that he only had a couple of bullet wounds (only a couple! Well, I suppose I heard 8-10 shots, clearly the shooter was lousy) but that they had ‘spent a lot of money on him’. To which, again confused, I asked ‘Why? Are bullets expensive?”

The cop and my neighbor slowly turned their attention to me and informed me (as if I was an idiot) that this phrase means there were drugs involved. Oh.

Here are some things that New York has taught me. One: I live near a gang. Two: They live in a thing called ‘The Projects’ (Wow, so Jenny from the block really does exist). And Three: There is such a thing as a ‘gunshot virgin’ to which I am no more.

The Thing About Old Friends

I'm just going to say it.  

I am a very popular person.  I have lots of friends.

There it's out there.  

Well maybe you guessed it when I told you I have been a bridesmaid to eight people.  I don't want to put on airs, it's just a simple fact:  I have lots of friends.  I have always had lots of friends.  Probably because I am an only child.

I have new friends, old friends, smart friends, red-headed friends, Greek friends, Prairie friends, school friends, work friends, foreign friends, local friends, friends with dogs, friends with cats.  The list goes on.  So I know about friends.  And there is one pocket of friends that I think is especially special:  the old ones.

I mean the really old ones.  Not as in, they are eighty like my Aquafit friends, but the friends who have been around for a couple of decades.  I have two in the 20-year range (who I have both been a bridesmaid to) but I have only one friend that has been with me for a quarter of a century (yes, I realize this is close to the friends of 20 years friends, but I the difference between 4 and 9 is great, and she has been my friend since I was 4).

When I was a little girl on the farm, I had a pretty idyllic childhood (not that the city one was not, but the country does have its charm).  Idyllic in that my school had skating days on the local pond, that we could go berry picking in the field next to us, and that my BFF lived on a massive farm with her seven siblings.  To an only child on a smaller farm, her life seemed foreign and magical.

The days I would spend with her on her farm were AWESOME.  We would play all day (and the day seemed to have a billion hours) in the playhouse, on the trampoline, in the house next door that belonged to her great-grandmother but was now empty, in the hay bales, and by the creek in the cow pasture.  The days were filled with snap peas from her garden, chasing cows with the quad, and lying in the grass and watching the sky drift above us.  Through the night we would giggle about boys at school and sneak cookies.

Then I moved away. But we still wrote every week and when I went home to my grandma's we would always have one magical day on the farm.  By the time we hit our early-twenties, she got married and started a family while I moved to the Rainy City to become an actress.  Our lives could not be more different.  But thanks to the wonders of facebook, we now can keep closer tabs on each other and communication is a bit easier.

This is not the point of my now long story.  The point is, that just last week, I drove down to her home and had a very lovely visit.  She now is a mother to five, count them - FIVE, children.  All of whom are minnie-hers, absolutely adorable, and totally well behaved.  We sat in her backyard, under the tall oak trees, drinking iced lattes, talking about our childhood and what happened to all our friends, with her kids playing around us.  She turned to me and said "I love this!  We haven't seen each other in years and I don't feel awkward at all.  It's just normal."  And that's what it was.  Just normal.  

The reason we have friends is so that they can help us become better people.  They teach us lessons and show us ways of living that inspire us and help us live our own lives.  It's a nice circle.  As we sat there, smiling and laughing I felt refreshed and energized by the lesson (and lessons) she was teaching me. 

 #1 - Old friends, no matter how often you see them or talk to them, know you from the beginning and will help remind you of where you come from (so you can go back when you get lost)

#2 - Money isn't everything.  Sometimes in Rainy City I get caught up with the car, the house, the clothes.  But something must be said for maybe not having a ton of money, but enough to eat well and stay at home with a family that loves you.  I don't think I have ever seen anyone as happy as my friend who just loves her life with her whole heart (and looks about 20 - maybe that's why?)

#3 - Do what you love.  My friend has done some cool things - like work in a hospital with nuns in Africa helping deliver babies to women who had been genitally mutilated.  But at a young age, she really knew that what she wanted more than anything was to be a mum.  So she did.  And she is happy happy happy.

I drove home with a sense of peace and a smile on my face.

That's the thing about old friends:  they are always there when you need it most (even if you didn't know it).

Splish Splash Fitness

Due to the fact that my knee was knocked out in the early part of the summer (at a wedding of all places) I have not worked out for two and a half months.    I need to get back in the swing of things but ever so slowly, therefore I thought perhaps the pool was the best place to go.

I convinced a bride friend of mine that Aquafit at her local gym was the way to go.  In Cowtown, her gym is the biggest and best - full of young and old.  I was hoping to debunk the myth that aquafitness is only for old people.  I was wrong.

We were late in getting there so as we rushed in and Mrs. L scanned the pool area (the adult pool area) looking for our class, I happened to spot them first.  We only had enough time for me to turn to her and say 'I am really really sorry'.  Our class was in the training pool, as in training to be a duckling, duck, dolphin pool.  And we were the youngest 'ducklings' by about 30 years.  

The thing I love about older people is that they love us 'young-uns' and they all smiled as we jumped into the pool.  And by jumped I mean splashed as it was three feet deep.  They told us to go up front to the 'deep end' - maybe 3'10''?  So here we were in our bikinis (I was on vacation so only had my ruffly deal that kept coming up around my nipples all class.  Besides, we're in our twenties and childless - we don't have one pieces yet!), surrounded by a graceful woman with white hair in her seventies, an old punjab lady wearing a shower cap, a lady in a bright red bathing suit who wore her glasses the whole time, and two women who were, ummm, how do I say, rather buoyant.

Aquafit is suprisingly tough, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.  You are using the water as resistance which makes lunging and jumping back and forth quite difficult.  So difficult that Mrs. L got a blister on her big toe from trying to keep hold of the pool bottom.  Pretty sure she is the only woman in the universe of Aquafit to get an injury.  

Unless you count water up your nose and a near drowning to be an injury.  I took a pretty good head dive when I tried to jump over my noodle like a skip rope.  I know that I am an uncoordinated gal but come on!  I fell head first into the pool making all the other women snicker as I bobbed up like a drowned rat.  Clearly I was too tall for the pool and my top heaviness made me topple over.  That is what I will tell myself anyways.  The Punjab lady kept having to show me what to do, including how to jump without risking one's life.  Aquafit is where the seventy-year-olds have us beat - they know the drill.

I also enjoyed the seventy-year old men sitting in the hot tub across the pool taking in our performance.  Watching the hot old birds get fit.  It's like the bar for old people.

By the time we got out, I was pooped.  I looked like I was pooped too.  With mascara running down my face and my hair plastered to my head (they make women coming out of the pool hot on TV.  It's a myth).  All the old ladies asked if we would come again.  Come again to be humiliated in the pool and get more blisters? Sign me up!

And bless their hearts, they thought we were going back to school after class.  That's the best thing about Aquafit:  even though you may have just turned 29, you will always be the youngest person in the class . . . 

An apple a day . . . .

Wow, has this summer flown by or what?  It's hard to believe and yet they told us this would happen:  each year that we get older, the faster the time will fly by.

Kids are going back to school tomorrow.  Not that I envy them having to take annoying classes like math and science or writing essays, but I always feel a bit nostalgic at this time of the year.  I see the kids running to school with their new backpacks and their first day of school clothes and I get the pang.  

I loved the first day of school (yes, geek central here).  I love love loved getting new school supplies that smelled of fresh rubber and wood.  Flipping through new notebooks that were empty and waiting to be filled with a new year of knowledge.  The new backpack that was still clean and had no banana residue at the bottom.  And the new lunch box.  Remember in the eighties when we had those plastic dealies with pictures of our favorite TV-show characters on the front?  With the Muppet babies or Barbie?  On the inside our sandwiches would neatly stack and the thermos was held by a strap in the top part of the lid?  Those were the days.  I loved picking out a new lunch box every year.  Odd for me though, I was the kid who went home for lunch.

My mother used to get so angry at me for insisting on a new eraser when I still had half of one from the previous year.  Pish.  New year, new eraser.  

If I was ten, tonight I would have filled my backpack (after laying out all my new supplies on the dining room table the previous week for inspection), picked my 'back to school' outfit and would be lying in bed for the anticipation of a new year, new teacher and getting to see all my friends everyday.

But I am not ten, I am twenty-eight (with only a week left!) and tomorrow I have to work, pay some bills and walk my dogs.  No lemon scent of school floors (that only last that first week) or choosing seats next to my best friend.  No text books being given out.  No new kids to scope out.  No new grade to show that I am getting older and therefore better (when did we start freaking out about getting older?).  

I'm also envious of the university-aged kids.  When I go back to my old campus now I feel like an impostor.  I walk the familiar grounds of a school that was my home for four years, but it now belongs to new students.  Like being an alien or the foreign student.  Oh University, how I miss watching the leaves slowly turning, scarves blowing in the wind, and feet rushing from building to building between the ten minute gap. 

For heaven sakes, I still go by the school calender and I have been out of school for over five years!  Then again I was in school for nearly twenty years.  No wonder there is such an adjustment when we graduate.

The Engineer goes back tomorrow too.   I am not in the Big Apple, otherwise I would pack him a lunch (in those new fangled un-fun lunch boxes they sell now) and walk him to school - and then promptly go shopping in Soho.  Is that what mothers do when their kids go to school?  Run to the mall and get pedicures?  Wait a minute, I think I like the sound of this new wave of school-dom.  Your kids get to go and learn all the crap they will eventually forget, leaving you for a blissful, quiet six to eight hours of nothingness.  I like it!

Ahh, who am I kidding?  Sign me up for an apple and get me a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils.  School is the best!  

Happy learning kids!