Clothing Swap!

Ordinarily, I can come up with few better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than with Chris and my two small people. But this afternoon vied for a pretty high ranking.

I went to a clothing swap, hosted by one of my very extraverted friends. About a dozen or so of us brought our cast off clothes, accessories and shoes to throw in the mix. We laid them out and hung them up in Emily’s living room and at the appointed hour, we went shopping. It was such a hoot! Girls shimmying into eighties style sparkly black tights, flinging off cardigans, pulling up sundresses, laughing as they put on oversized bras, or undersized jeans (hate you, skinny jeans), strutting around in clompy boots and helping each other button, zip and evaluate business suits and elaborate blouses. I brought two bags of stuff, but thankfully only came home with one. The rest of the clothes will be donated to a local social services agency.

We shared gingerbread cake and some incredible pound cake that I must track the recipe down for, and a whole lot of laughs. I even came up with the idea that will make me billions. Possibly trillions.

Are you ready?

A pump up bra. That’s right, ladies. A pump up bra.

Does anyone remember the Nike Air Pumps from the late eighties/ early nineties? The ones that you pumped up with a squeeze button on the tongue? Now Think Air Jordan meets Victoria Secret.

I shall call it...(wait for it...)

My Secret Air.

Just got pulled over for a speeding ticket? No problem. You've got Secret Air. Pump it up (Psshh, psshh!).

Need a quick confidence booster? Secret Air to the rescue. Just pump and go! (Psshh, psshh, psshh!)

Wearing a blouse that is a little loose up top? Secret Air! (psshh, psshh, psshh, psshh!)

Need to show a little extra cleavage to get into that hot night club? psshh, psshh, psshh, psshh, psshh!)

Hot date with that guy in marketing? You get the idea.

I see many overdramatized infomercials in my future. Billions, billions, I tell you! Well, maybe more like millions. Hundreds? O.k. dozens then. Hey, I bet some twelve year old would pay at least ten or eleven bucks for one of those things.

Only problem is, Secret Air kind of sounds like a fart.

I have to go work on my business plan.

Post script: Noooooooo! My future is ruined. Behold the real Air Pump bra:



Oh well. I don't think I would have made a good business woman anyway. I gave away all of my business suits this afternoon.

I speak the language, but I don’t understand.

I went for a run today with a friend who works in the office across the hall. It was her second outside run of the year, having spent the winter running on a treadmill in the gym. During the non-icy parts of the year we often go for lunchtime runs together, as we both do about the same distance and speed.

Before setting out on the run today, she cautioned me that she wasn’t quite up to our usual distance because she is transitioning to outside running, which can be a little more challenging (Take note. That was hint number one). We were about ten or fifteen minutes out when we got to a decision point in the route. Straight would take us over to the lake shore where we could run with Kodi off leash and have an enjoyable crushed rock path to run on. Right would take us back through the city on asphalt but would get us back much sooner.

I asked which direction she wanted to go.

Runner friend: “I’d prefer to go to the right… but it’s up to you” (hint number two)
Me: “Well great! Cause I’d like to go straight and hit that nice crushed rock trail!”

Straight we went. We crossed the street and got to the other side. Here she said, “Well, we could still turn right and head back through the city… but it’s up to you.”

That’s when I realized that we were speaking the same language, but profoundly different dialects.

When someone says, “I’d like to do (insert verb here), but it’s up to you,” I take that as, “Whatever your idea is, it’s great and we should TOTALLY go for it, oh mighty wise one.” Mostly, once I hear, “It’s up to you” the decision is made. I have already forgotten the first part of the statement, which is usually, “I’d prefer to do this, but…”

After countless misunderstandings with Chris, I finally realized that in the Midwest when people say, “I’d like to do (insert verb here)”, that means, “I really, really, really, really, REALLY, OMFG really, want to do this, and if we don’t, I will know that you are a selfish jerk. But I won’t say anything because I am too nice. Probably I will bake you one less cookie next time I bake a batch for you and THAT will demonstrate the severity of my wrath.”

At the risk of oversimplification and coming off as extremely culturally insensitive, I want to share what I have learned over the many years of being married to a Midwesterner: They have opinions.

Really.

I know this may come as a shock, and it certainly shocked me too, but it is the truth. Here is more wisdom I have learned from Chris over the course of our marriage:

When Midwesterners TRULY don’t care about something, they don’t even bother expressing an opinion. When they have a mild preference, they don’t bother expressing an opinion, either. When they have a pretty strong preference you might hear (or might not) hear a vagueish opinion-like statement expressing a kind-of-ish preference. To East Coasters, this may sound like an expression of neutrality
(or *cough, cough*- sissiness)

It is often only when they have a VERY strong preference that you may hear it verbalized. For example, “I’d prefer to go to the right… but it’s up to you.”

After her second comment, the light bulb flashed on and I understood that she was not really saying it was up to me. I finally got that she was too nice to tell me that she wanted to head back to the office and that if we went any further she would be forced to take out my knees with the hard chunks of gray ice piled along the road. I corrected with a, “Great idea! I never run this route, anyway, it’ll be good for me.” We headed back to the office and have a date to run again next week, so I think my last minute Midwest-East Coast translation must have been successful.

Still, I could use one of those real-time translators like they have in the UN. It’d sure keep me out of trouble from time to time.

Google

When Chris was growing up, he had an imaginary friend, Google. He didn’t play with Google much, mostly because he forgot about him, but from time to time he’d remember and feel guilty about neglecting him, so he’d push Google on the swing at the park or toss a ball his way. Google wasn’t very good at playing catch.

But look where Google is now.

Suffice to say Google has no use for Chris anymore. He’s a household name, never to be forgotten again. Everybody loves him, and he doesn’t need anyone’s pity push. He’s got all the hot chicks, and Chris has… well, me.

I say all this because Jay has an imaginary friend, now, too. Or rather a real friend who is imaginarily with him. Sofie goes with us everywhere. To the playground, to Grandma’s house, to the library, to the grocery store, out to the farmers market and into the bathtub.

He insists that Sofie have a place to sit at the dinner table and takes food off of his plate to share with her. He holds her hand as we cross the street and he asks us to carry her when her legs get tired. It’s really cute and at the same time maddening when we’re trying to get out the door and we have to put on Sofie’s shoes and socks, in addition to our own brood’s gear, and then, wait, no- stop, Mama, you have to help Sofie get on her sandals not her hiking boots, so she can match me, see Mama?

No, I don't see. Argh.

Sometimes he pretends that the whole Parra/Schultz clan is with us and Becca and Julio and Mr. and Mrs. Schultz are in the car, and he worries that there aren’t enough seat belts and cup holders for everyone, but usually, it’s just Sofie. He tells me when she’s laughing at one of my jokes or when she is hungry for graham crackers and milk. Which he needs for himself so that he can share them with her. Obviously.

I can’t blame him, really. I miss my dear friends very much, too.

So, I put on Sofie’s sandals when we go out to the park, carry her around on my shoulders when her legs get tired, and make sure there is enough room at the dinner table each night. She isn’t that much trouble to care for, actually. And it’s important to treat everyone with kindness and respect. Even the ones you can’t see. Besides, you just never know who is going to become an internet sensation and get their very own holiday.

Enjoy Google Commemoration Day, everyone, and give your friends- real, imaginary, or somewhere in between- a hug (or a graham cracker).

Friends!

I have friends! I just discovered a little something called “FaceBook”, you may have heard of it. I also discovered a little something called “email”, a handy little invention called the “wheel” and also, “fire.”

So.

I am not so good with the new technology. Rosie and Becca have been urging me for months (years?) to get on Facebook and I have always demurred. Too much work. I don’t have time. Blah, blah, blah. But then one day I was seized with the undeniable urge to google an old high school acquaintance. Where was she now? Did she go to college? Get married? Travel to India? Does she look old now?

Google didn’t have anything for me, but my new friend Facebook did…

And so began our new relationship. Of course, like any new recruit to Facebook I am filled with a frantic, uncontrollable urge to find as many friends as possible as fast as possible, so I don’t look like that loser sitting all by herself in the cafeteria. I sent a new friend request to Rosie, the most social of social butterflies I know.

And… she did not reply.

Which is like the Facebook equivalent to passing in the hallway and purposely not making eye contact, because she is so busy being cool.

Two minutes later, she STILL did not reply. I got desperate. Frantic. I could see my pathetic future laid out before me. Hanging out with the guys that do AV and making geeky jokes about calculus.

I called her and nagged her. And I was all, HELLO, I am trying to look cool here. Gimme all of your friends, like now, dude, before anyone notices that I don’t have any friends of my own.

And she was all, no loser. I don’t hang with girls who sit all by themselves in the lunchroom and make jokes about pi or whatever.

Finally, finally, finally, she became my friend, and then looky, looky, all of the sudden, I became vicariously cool, too. I have friends, too now.

Of course, I did have to buy her lunch.

But whatever. At least I am not sitting all alone in the Facebook cafeteria like a chump, anymore.
See how cool I am (ahem, Rosie is) , go here.