It’s spring! Do you know how I know? Fuzzy green trees. Today I ripped my eyes away from my walking feet and saw trees covered in green fuzz – too small and too far away to be distinguishable as leaves. Just a hint of leaves. A chartreuse prelude to the green summer will bring. Tiny feathers evolving into shade in just a few weeks. A reminder that warm days are coming.
My mother. Her lessons on how the world works are tiny seeds planted throughout my life that grow and change producing new life lessons as the years go by.
In grade school, I think third grade, I got a hankering that I needed to run for Student Council: some minor position, like Treasurer or Vice President. I put my campaign posters, buttons and speech together with the idea that I had a few key people I needed to impress and I’d win for sure. My target were the kids that everyone wanted to sit with at lunch, play with at recess and get invites to their birthday parties. As my mom helped me get ready to run she offhandedly mentioned this life lesson-to-be, “You need to remember, even dorks get a vote.”
I remember being affronted by this at the time. Of course you had to get the popular kids to vote for you because everyone does what the popular kids do. As the popular kids go, so goes everyone else. They were the ones who dictated that Outback Red and Forenza were the things to wear, and the next year when the rest of us wore our new Outback Red sweaters the first day of school they showed up in OP. My mom, what did she know?
Well, she knew a lot. She was head girl of her senior class in high school, so I should have known that she understood a thing or two about rallying people around you. Of course, being a kid growing up in the 1980s, I had no idea what a head girl was and wasn’t curious enough about my foremother’s accomplishments to find out. My only student council campaign run ended when I was beaten by the cool kid running against me. I had neglected to realize that my opponent already had ties to the kids I was trying to impress: the same kids who didn’t notice me on a daily basis.
When I look at the United States national political scene today, I realize that all the candidates – no the major political parties – need to sit down and talk to my mom, because the backlash they are seeing is that the dorks are tired of not getting a vote. The dorks are wising up to the political process and realizing that their right to a vote has been absconded with and they want it back. The dorks are worried about their families. The dorks want to ensure a world where their kids have a chance at a better life than they had. The dorks don’t understand why they keep working harder, longer hours and can afford less each year as the cost of living rises more than their annual piddling raises. The dorks wonder why the people who run our country spend most of their time rubbing elbows with themselves, the top 1%, and lobbyists, and only bother to talk to us when they sit down at a diner on the campaign trail. The dorks really just want to eat their eggs and drink their coffee and not be a sound bite for the candidate’s daily propaganda.
The dorks don’t understand PACs or SuperPACs, but are willing to throw a hard-earned buck or two to Bernie Sanders because he’s a dork like us and maybe he thinks our lives matter. The dorks support Donald Trump because he’s different. He may not say the right thing, but the dorks are tired of polished mealy mouthed politicians and want someone who speaks the language of the people, which is angry and sometimes crass right now. I find it hard to believe that anyone really wants a wall, but everyone wants something big, something different, and something to change because we are frustrated. I can only imagine the backlash if the Republican Convention goes to a brokered convention and the cool kids get to pick whatever cool kid friend they want for the nomination. Talk about denying the dorks their vote.
So listen Hillary, Ted, and whatever Republican candidate that is waiting in the wings to claim the cool kids nomination let me try to channel my mom here. You’ve made a great run at building an exclusive club of insiders that kowtow to the privileged few in this country, but the dorks are tired of being ignored. Even if an establishment person becomes president, it’s not going to make the dorks happy. You may go live in your big white house, but if you don’t start doing your job representing the entire country’s needs and keep pretending that bickering with the other party is your most important job, there is going to be hell to pay, because the dorks are ready. We are ready for a collaborating centrist leader and we will support him or her with our votes, our pocket books and our voices. We are hungry for one brave leader to eschew the big dollars behind the two major parties and stand up and represent us, the no longer silent majority.
It may not happen this year, but it will happen if the dorks continue to be ignored. This isn’t elementary school anymore. We are done with the cool kids.
Photo courtesy of jamelah e. and provided under Creative Commons License. My apologies to the photographer if the dork movement does not correspond to his/her views.
April started and the Afthead life ramped up to a new level: gardens to plant, soccer games to play, school and work chaos to wrangle, and why not throw in a construction project to top it all off? Things are busy, not passive aggressive whiny busy, but filled with things we love to do. Today as I rode my bike home from dropping my car off for an oil change I thought about all the things I’m grateful for right now:
Happy Thursday readers! I am so grateful for you too!
Today is one of my favorite days: new soap day. You can look for it on your calendar, but you won’t find it because new soap day isn’t planned. It begins with anticipation as the soap in the shower becomes a sliver and one day slips right down the drain: the soap fish swimming to freedom is the harbinger of new soap day!
Remember the last time I featured this bathtub in my blog? Much scarier!
This time the tiny soap disappeared on a Wednesday morning which meant I got to look forward to new soap day for two full days- exercise and the start of soccer season means I don’t shower on Thursday. It’s been a crazy week filled with moving everything out of our basement to allow for upgraded wiring, presentations at work, the aforementioned beginning of soccer, and the normal ebbs and flows of balancing work and life. Having a little celebration was a gift at the end of a hectic week.
My sad, blurry, empty basement.
New soap day isn’t a holiday that everyone celebrates, in fact I may be the only participant. The soap day festivities begin with opening the medicine cabinet and evaluating all of the odorous soap options, which I love, but may be overwhelming to the more casual soap user. This morning I had handmade, Zum, and pre de Provence soaps to select from – options from Colorado, Missouri, and France. I had hoped for a bar of Saje, but I must have used my last bar of my favorite Canadian soap this winter. (I may further celebrate soap day by placing an order, but that would be an atypical deviation from the normal soap day.) I sorted through my piles of soap sniffing and touching to find the bar that spoke to me. I selected a round bar of mint Zum soap because of the shape, the minty ambiance and the festive bow left over from Christmas.
I hope that you have your own celebration this weekend, whether it’s wine day, latte day, moonlit walk night, or extra long shower morning. Me, I’m going to scrub up and head out for my gold party tomorrow. I think mint goes well with gold, don’t you? That kind of foresight is key to the successful end of soap day!
It’s been a bit since I’ve ranted here on Afthead, but oh readers, the time has come. One of my biggest rant topics was kindled by an email I received about a work event which said,
I have had a few questions about dress. As these are senior level professionals, we ask that you dress accordingly for the poster session.
Okay. Raise your hand if you know what I’m supposed to wear. Do I have to wear a suit? It’s supposed to snow and my only suit that fits has a skirt – with a really cute kick pleat – that I wear with nice open-toed black pumps. Again though, it’s supposed to SNOW. I only want to break out the suit if it’s required. I have really nice dress slacks, a cardigan sweater and professional boots I could wear too. Is that okay? I have no idea.
This, dear readers, is what makes me crazy about dress codes today. In my mind there are a six dress codes which are understandable by all, or at least consistent enough that you know what you are supposed to wear. They are:
The end. There is no, “As these are senior level professionals, we ask that you dress accordingly” dress code. There is also no cocktail casual or after-six attire, both of which have been suggested to me on recent invitations.
What’s wrong with these?
Cocktail casual: I assume the host meant to convey that the attendee was to wear cocktail attire (sport coats for men, dresses for women) but that the dress is slightly less formal than that. So…can the men skip the sport coat, or should they eschew socks? Are jeans okay? What about footwear? Could nice sneakers and a sport coat suffice? For the women, is this a little black dress, sundress, or a skirt and top function? Is a traditional cocktail dress too fancy, or would that be okay if that’s what you have? Should you wear pumps, or sandals, or are fancy flip flops okay? And hey, let’s be fair. I often enjoy a cocktail in the summer at the park after I go for a run. So my own personal cocktail casual has included run shorts and a tank top. Is that okay? And really, who hasn’t enjoyed a cold beer on a beach in a bathing suit? That’s cocktail casual all the way…
So there might be a little confusion about a cocktail casual event, but probably you’d be okay unless you showed up in running shorts or a bathing suit. Your dress might be too fancy and the men may grouse when someone doesn’t wear a sport coat, but chances are you will be close. A few people will feel awkwardly under-dressed and a few awkwardly overdressed and hey, that’s okay, because the host got to say cocktail casual and he or she is wearing exactly what he or she intended everyone to wear.
Wait. That’s not okay because the point of a dress code is to tell everyone what to wear, not for the host to come up with some new pithy dress phrase and freak their guests out before they even arrive, and then freak them out even more when they show up wearing the wrong thing. Let’s try the other made-up dress code.
After-six attire: Right now it is after-six. I am wearing leggings and a big cozy bulky sweat shirt. My feet have fuzzy socks on them and my hair is in a pony tail. This is today’s after-six attire. Later in the after-six time frame I will change into my pajamas and head to bed. Some days we go grab dinner and I’ll change out of my work clothes and put on my jeans. If it’s a date night, I might even put on a long skirt and some boots. Oh the myriad of after-six outfits I might wear. I wonder which incarnation my host wants me to have on my body when I show up at his/her event. I’ve even been known to run, hike, swim, do yoga, and garden after six o’clock, and those all have different outfits. Hey, hostess with the mostess, I’m so glad to see you in your cute peasant top, capri leggings and espadrilles, but next time can you at least be more specific? Call it 1960s bohemian chic attire or something so I don’t show up thinking it’s a slumber party!
I know that the dress codes are restrictive, but without set rules clothing options run amok. If your event has a clear and specific theme like BBQ, 1980s, ancient Egypt, or roller girl then let your guests know and enjoy the variety of interpretations that show up. If by “as these are senior level professionals, we ask that you dress accordingly” you mean “wear a suit” then please say “business attire is required.” There’s no wiggle room there. If I don’t own a suit at least I walk in knowing I’ll be under dressed and not surprised by my inaccurate interpretation of your suggestion. Join with me. Let’s end the dress suggestions and go back to the tried and true dress codes.
After tomorrow my next event has no dress code but the theme is “Go for the Gold.” I’m thinking about going naked, but painting myself gold like an Oscar statue. (Hopefully my hubby will help me get to those hard to reach places.) Or maybe I’ll just dress in cocktail attire since it’s a fundraiser and I think that’s how people used to dress for such events before we abandoned the six established, well understood dress codes.
photo credit: Women In Tech – 92 via photopin (license)
A few pictures of this weekend’s Afthead spring break in St. Paul, Minnesota. (Because, you know, nothing says “Spring Break” like Minnesota in March.)
Saturday afternoon the Afthead family enjoyed watching their favorite hockey team, the DU Pioneers, beat Boston University. Our seats were amazing and my kiddo was brave enough to reach her hand out and high five all the big college kids as they went on and off the ice. Her growing bravery makes this momma’s heart proud.
Sunday morning the little Afthead enjoyed a small hotel room Easter egg hunt, followed by a bonus egg hunt at our brunch restaurant. Since she was the only kid in the entire restaurant she rocked that extra egg hunt!
Next, the wee Afthead made friends with Linus and Sally, who had much larger aftheads than she.
Off to the Science museum, which is a must visit if you are in St. Paul. Here the kiddo Afthead controls a T-Rex forehead. Chomp!
Then another forehead adventure as each of us had our faces displayed on the face mask of a three story tall astronaut. That’s one small step for Aftheads, and one giant leap for museum attendees!
Finally another hockey game and another win for DU! They are off to the NCAA Frozen Four. Hopefully they’ll do okay in the next round without Afthead high fives.
Monday we enjoyed a trip to see Lake Harriet and the memorial bench my husband’s family bought for his aunt when she passed away six years ago. She was one of my best friends, so the visit was sad, but I was glad for the opportunity to remember her with my daughter.
Happy Spring Break to those of you who get to enjoy such weeks!
March. I can never remember if it’s in like a lion and out like a lamb, or the other way around. But I know for a fact that late mid March is a doozy!
Cynthia dropped her purse on the floor shedding her date clothes from one end of the apartment to the other, heading to the bathroom to wash off her makeup. The care she had taken to look her best was just embarrassing now. It was the third date, and she’d even put on an itchy lacy thong and matching itchy push up bra thinking tonight she and Sebastian were going to take things to the next level. Well, she wasn’t wrong about that, but when the check came and Sebastian didn’t pick up the tab alarms started to go off, and built to a crescendo when he started the tired, “It’s not you, it’s me” let-her-down-easy soliloquy.
The worst was that she didn’t even like him, but she was lonely and was looking forward to feeling pretty and satisfied for a night. In her secret heart she had even looked forward to ending it herself after a few nights together, but spiky haired Sebastian had beat her to the punch.
Reaching for a hand towel to pat dry her clean face Cynthia knocked a small box out of the linen closet. She reached down to pick up the object and saw that it was the lipstick sized vibrator that she’d been given at a bachelorette party last summer. She’d been so embarrassed by it that she’d shoved it behind the towels, but not before rolling her eyes at the “perfect for travel” splashed across the front of the package. All she could imagine was some blue shirted TSA inspector finding it and turning it on in front of a pack of disheveled travelers.
Cynthia paused before putting the small box back in the linen closet. She was lonely, and had been hoping for some…attention…tonight. Maybe this was better than the Sebastian solution. She couldn’t cuddle, but she could be satisfied. With a flick of anticipation in her stomach she turned the lipstick base, and nothing happened. She looked for a switch, or some other way to turn the device on, but nothing happened. Suddenly the vibrator broke into two pieces and a single AAA battery fell to the floor.
Cynthia leaned over to pick up the battery, but the process of straightening back up reminded her that she had to get out of the damn thong. She dressed in her favorite yoga pants and a soft well-loved tank top and turned on the TV. A late night commercial blasted from the speakers.
AAA BATTERIES DELIVERED AND INSTALLED! NEED BATTERY HELP RIGHT NOW? CALL 1-800-555-5AAA!
Less than fifteen minutes later there was a strong knock at the door. Cynthia slipped her lipstick sized toy into the small pocket on her tank top and looked up to find Adonis on her doorstep. His thick dark hair curled around his ears and was just a little too long for a man, ending right above his name tag: which read “Adonis.” His aquiline nose split two ice blue eyes and his full lips stretched into a smile revealing perfect white teeth. “AAA Battery Delivery and Installation at your service ma’am. May I come in?” His breath had an intoxicating minty cinnamon scent. Cynthia stood aside, speechless, and motioned him in. She glanced outside and saw his truck, proving that this man was from AAA Batteries.
His perfect butt was somehow highlighted by his jumpsuit and a pair of what looked like gun belts crossed his hips. Instead of bullets his belt held rows of AAA batteries. Cynthia couldn’t stop staring as he slowly turned and asked, “Now, how can I help you?”
“I…I need an AAA battery.” Cynthia stammered.
Adonis said in a satiny voice, “AAA Batteries, Delivered and Installed is our motto, ma’am. I can’t just give you a battery, I’ve got to install it for you too.”
Cynthia flushed and reached into the pocket of her tank top, both afraid of this god-like man’s reaction and longing for him to respond to her needs. She held out the small device and he took it from her and professionally installed a single new AAA battery from his belt. When he was done he stared into her eyes and gently twisted the lipstick base and a quiet humming filled the air. He stepped toward her and asked, “Now, is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
Cynthia said nothing but softly moaned….
The second, and more adult version of my AAA Battery Emergency series. I’m vaguely obsessed with all the potential AAA Battery Emergencies, but when the idea of the gunslinger-like delivery man popped into my head I couldn’t help but write the story. I leave it to your imagination how the evening ends. Did the battery belts stay on, or come off?
Normally when I see these trucks I am driving and can’t snap a good picture – they have all turned out so blurry, especially on the highway – but today, gasp one parked! I love the idea of emergencies that need AAA Batteries Delivered and Installed.
It makes me feel secure knowing that my AAA Battery emergencies can be solved with a simple phone call. I’m so glad I’m a member.
Does this translate at all to international readers? As this is my second hysterical battery post I worry that I am alienating all those readers from across the pond that use some other battery nomenclature.
In honor of what would have been my grandmother-in-law’s 97th birthday, I remember her again in this space, and thank her again for encouraging me to try my hand at writing. Emily, you are missed. Thank you for your wonderful stories and your open heart.
I was looking through my closet tonight trying to decide what I’m going to wear to the funeral this weekend. l have a hard and fast rule that I only wear things to a funeral that I am willing to never wear again on the off-chance that it becomes “the dress/pants/sweater I wore to Emily’s funeral”.
Funerals make me sad, and that’s hard as part of my husband’s family. They are quiet-solemn sad people. I am a blubbering red-swollen-face sad person who blows her nose, a lot, and they tend to avoid me at funerals. I do acknowledge that in this situation, my awkward fear of sobbing in front of them is nothing compared to their pain. Emily was their matriarch: mother of four, grandmother to seven, great-grandmother to my daughter and three others with three more great-grandchildren on the way. Her 95 years on this planet were full of learning, creativity and love.
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