My immediate family's quirks are well-documented. Our pets die in mysterious and bizarre ways, we gamble on Christmas Eve, and we used to have chicken on Thanksgiving because it was "close enough."
What most folks don't know is that we've been embroiled in a years-long, epic, Highlander-esque battle to be the only family member who resides in the continental United States. The winner, and there can be only one, is known as the Last Stamey Standing.
We've been exiling family members since 1998, when my mom moved back to her native Australia. Dad was launched into Costa Rica a few years later, and I went overseas in 2003. My sister, Skye, enjoyed several glorious years as the Last Stamey Standing. She solidified her grip on the United States, added a few territories, and gloated her head off.
Then, in 2006, I returned. A mighty battle ensued. Words were spoken, cities were torched, and goats were pilfered. And I, the smallest and youngest, won! Or, rather, Skye's job shipped her off to a six-month assignment in London.
But she's packing her bags and preparing to return home. Her assignment is drawing to a close. And the battle shall begin anew.
All of this is a very convoluted way of saying that if I start posting from the jungles of Peru or the mighty Mongolian steppe, it's because I'm no longer the Last Stamey Standing.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
I'm a Precious Petite Snowflake: Retail Edition
There are many perks to being petite. Flying coach isn’t too horrible. I have a built-in conversation starter, as I can ask complete strangers (and cute boys) to reach things for me. It keeps me looking young. Plus, as my clothes are small, it takes a lot longer for me to amass a full load of laundry. In summer especially, I can go at least two weeks without doing the washing.
But there are disadvantages as well. I can’t reach overhead bars on the Metro. I spend most shows crammed into strangers' armpits. I have been known to greet houseguests with, “Hi! Can I get you a drink? How tall are you? Over 5’8”? Fabulous, I just have a few small things I need from that cabinet there on the left….” Plus, I always get shoved into the front row in group photos. This just increases the creeped-out feeling I get whenever my picture is taken.
But the biggest issue is shopping. No, I have no trouble finding clothes that fit. Most women believe that their bodies are precious little snowflakes, and that no retail institution can possibly accommodate their anatomical quirks and perceived deficiencies. But I believe that with a little creativity and some light tailoring, anyone can find clothes that fit. (Hint for my fellow non-curvy petites: the teen department at Nordstrom! High fashion, dirt cheap.)
No, my issue is the stupid way that stores lay out their clothes. Most shops will lay out their smaller sizes on the top row, running sequentially until the plus-size clothes are on the bottom.
Newsflash, Gap: if a woman is under a size 6, she’s probably not very tall. So why do you put your small-size jeans where only a nine-foot Amazon can reach them? And, Vicky’s Secret, why are the small-band and small-cup bras all the way on the top row? Do you think that all of your patrons are built like a giant bamboo stick with two acorns attached? Shoe stores do this as well, meaning that my 5.5’s are usually suspended somewhere near the rafters.
But my favorite is when petite specialty shops and departments stack items far above where their customers can reach. Petite means 5’4” and under. You’ve decided to specialize in short chicks, but did you actually consult any of us? Oh, that’s nice, Macy’s, I’m guessing you’d like to just not sell any clothes today.
Retail institutions of America, swap the order. Stack the big sizes on the top, running down to the smaller sizes on the bottom. It’s not that hard.
Anybody got a retail peeve they’d like to share? In honor of National Delurking Week, I’d especially like to hear from people who haven’t commented before. And boys, speak up too. What do you hate about shopping? (Besides, “all of it.”)
But there are disadvantages as well. I can’t reach overhead bars on the Metro. I spend most shows crammed into strangers' armpits. I have been known to greet houseguests with, “Hi! Can I get you a drink? How tall are you? Over 5’8”? Fabulous, I just have a few small things I need from that cabinet there on the left….” Plus, I always get shoved into the front row in group photos. This just increases the creeped-out feeling I get whenever my picture is taken.
But the biggest issue is shopping. No, I have no trouble finding clothes that fit. Most women believe that their bodies are precious little snowflakes, and that no retail institution can possibly accommodate their anatomical quirks and perceived deficiencies. But I believe that with a little creativity and some light tailoring, anyone can find clothes that fit. (Hint for my fellow non-curvy petites: the teen department at Nordstrom! High fashion, dirt cheap.)
No, my issue is the stupid way that stores lay out their clothes. Most shops will lay out their smaller sizes on the top row, running sequentially until the plus-size clothes are on the bottom.
Newsflash, Gap: if a woman is under a size 6, she’s probably not very tall. So why do you put your small-size jeans where only a nine-foot Amazon can reach them? And, Vicky’s Secret, why are the small-band and small-cup bras all the way on the top row? Do you think that all of your patrons are built like a giant bamboo stick with two acorns attached? Shoe stores do this as well, meaning that my 5.5’s are usually suspended somewhere near the rafters.
But my favorite is when petite specialty shops and departments stack items far above where their customers can reach. Petite means 5’4” and under. You’ve decided to specialize in short chicks, but did you actually consult any of us? Oh, that’s nice, Macy’s, I’m guessing you’d like to just not sell any clothes today.
Retail institutions of America, swap the order. Stack the big sizes on the top, running down to the smaller sizes on the bottom. It’s not that hard.
Anybody got a retail peeve they’d like to share? In honor of National Delurking Week, I’d especially like to hear from people who haven’t commented before. And boys, speak up too. What do you hate about shopping? (Besides, “all of it.”)
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Little Balls, Little Pins, Little Chance of Injury
I'm accident prone. Most of my family's stories about me focus on my more bizarre childhood injuries. That time I took out a garden gnome playing Superman on a $5 plywood skateboard (earning a fat lip), fell off a jungle gym (four stitches), or was run over by the neighbor's kid on his bicycle (oodles of stitches).
My coordination did not improve with age. By high school, I had fallen off a horse that was standing still, caught pneumonia in May, and gotten lost in my own house. As an adult, I once received a concussion from falling off a barstool. (This isn't as pathetic as it sounds. A waiter knocked into my chair, sending me sprawling onto a marble floor.)
But my most-embarrassing accident ever was in my college bowling class. What? It was for a P.E. credit. Chips and beer were not distributed, instead, we learned the art of overhand vs. underhand throws, picking up spares, the 7-10 split, and so on. Three-step, four-step, and five-step approaches were rehearsed, debated, and scrutinized. This was a serious, no-chumps-no-lumps bowling experience. There were grades.
The various approaches proved to be my undoing. One day, I mixed a three-step with a four-step, creating a nifty Riverdance effect. I'm sure it was lovely to look at, until I put my foot squarely onto the slippery part of the lane. I began to lose my footing. Then my footing was lost entirely. I slid down the lane, while the ball headed straight for my seat (a reversal of the usual procedure). Somehow, I managed to skid down the lane on my stomach, feet-first, which allowed me to watch helplessly as my 7-pound hot pink ball hurtled towards my astonished classmates.
Once the shock and riotous laughter had subsided, my classmates formed a sort of human chain to pull me to safety. I'd acquired a good bit of distance, a beautiful arc, and a couple of top-secret bruises.
Needless to say, bowling scares me to death. I can live in drug-addled or heavily mined nations, but I can't go bowling without a few breathing exercises and a pep talk.
But I've finally found a solution: duckpin bowling. Duckpin involves teeny-tiny pins and bocce-esque balls on normal-sized lanes. Tim and I went on Saturday. I finally see what I've been missing by ignoring Maryland for the last 31 years. I spent the evening trying mightily to hurt myself. I wore a long, flowy scarf to see if it would get caught in anything. Nope. I placed a tentative toe onto the lane, but no slippage. I even tried to drop a ball or two on my foot while Tim was looking the other way, but that didn't even hurt enough to faze me.
People of the world, I can duckpin bowl!
My coordination did not improve with age. By high school, I had fallen off a horse that was standing still, caught pneumonia in May, and gotten lost in my own house. As an adult, I once received a concussion from falling off a barstool. (This isn't as pathetic as it sounds. A waiter knocked into my chair, sending me sprawling onto a marble floor.)
But my most-embarrassing accident ever was in my college bowling class. What? It was for a P.E. credit. Chips and beer were not distributed, instead, we learned the art of overhand vs. underhand throws, picking up spares, the 7-10 split, and so on. Three-step, four-step, and five-step approaches were rehearsed, debated, and scrutinized. This was a serious, no-chumps-no-lumps bowling experience. There were grades.
The various approaches proved to be my undoing. One day, I mixed a three-step with a four-step, creating a nifty Riverdance effect. I'm sure it was lovely to look at, until I put my foot squarely onto the slippery part of the lane. I began to lose my footing. Then my footing was lost entirely. I slid down the lane, while the ball headed straight for my seat (a reversal of the usual procedure). Somehow, I managed to skid down the lane on my stomach, feet-first, which allowed me to watch helplessly as my 7-pound hot pink ball hurtled towards my astonished classmates.
Once the shock and riotous laughter had subsided, my classmates formed a sort of human chain to pull me to safety. I'd acquired a good bit of distance, a beautiful arc, and a couple of top-secret bruises.
Needless to say, bowling scares me to death. I can live in drug-addled or heavily mined nations, but I can't go bowling without a few breathing exercises and a pep talk.
But I've finally found a solution: duckpin bowling. Duckpin involves teeny-tiny pins and bocce-esque balls on normal-sized lanes. Tim and I went on Saturday. I finally see what I've been missing by ignoring Maryland for the last 31 years. I spent the evening trying mightily to hurt myself. I wore a long, flowy scarf to see if it would get caught in anything. Nope. I placed a tentative toe onto the lane, but no slippage. I even tried to drop a ball or two on my foot while Tim was looking the other way, but that didn't even hurt enough to faze me.
People of the world, I can duckpin bowl!
Monday, January 07, 2008
Fine, Metro, Take Your Stupid 30 Cents
Today, my Metro base fare rose 30 cents, to a whopping $1.65. I don't suppose I really mind, and I think most folks who complain about rising fares are big old whiners. Once you factor in gas, parking, auto maintenance, and plain old hassle, Metro is still a bargain. Also, as I get told so many times that I hate everyone who mentions it, it's better than some systems (Philadelphia) and worse than others (New York, all of Europe, blah blah blah I know that already).
Here's the Big However: I'm an American taxpayer. This means I have no concept of cause and effect, the reality of rising costs, or really much of anything outside of my self-centered little universe. I think my daily pittance should pay for a myriad of upgrades, service improvements and nifty doodads.
Here's how Metro should spend my abundantly generous daily 60 cents:
Here's the Big However: I'm an American taxpayer. This means I have no concept of cause and effect, the reality of rising costs, or really much of anything outside of my self-centered little universe. I think my daily pittance should pay for a myriad of upgrades, service improvements and nifty doodads.
Here's how Metro should spend my abundantly generous daily 60 cents:
- Find and arrest the busker who travels from station to station, murdering "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall." He's a real slick one, as I've been unable to find him at the same station twice.
- Get some of those white-gloved Tokyo subway guys to shove people into cars. I don't think they'd really need to shove people, just the sight of them will get folks to move to the center of the car.
- If Metro platform employees absolutely MUST stand around in useless clumps, ogling women, at least get them some better scriptwriters. Think of all of those out-of-work TV writers who could make them more entertaining. Or they could all recite Shakespearean sonnets.
- Implant a volume control button on all those annoying, rowdy packs of teenagers that scream on about how horny and badass they are.
- Create a device which scrambles iPods and makes them emit a low shriek every time their owners crank them up so loud that half the car can hear whatever crap they're listening to. Damage your hearing on your own time, buddy.
- Walk left, stand right. Or you have to cagefight Mayor Fenty.
Oh, and one more Metro peeve: when you have the outside seat, and the inside person needs to get up for their stop, STAND UP. Do not daintily twist your legs to one side and expect them to clamber over you. Next time that happens to me, I'm plopping my bony white ass into your lap and telling you what I want for Christmas. And I may or may not give you an accidental elbowing where it hurts.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Obligatory Baby Name Mockery Post, 2008 Edition
Lately, I've been participating in baby name brainstorming sessions. (No, I am not pregnant, so don't get yourselves in a lather).
I think some names qualify as child abuse, others qualify as lofty expectations, and others are just weird. Destiny? Child abuse. Patience, Constance, Faith, or any other positive personality attribute? Lofty expectations. Pilot Inspektor? Just weird.
I hereby declare myself in charge of all future baby names. There will be no naming without my direct involvement and approval. Because I have no kids and am therefore an expert in all things child-related.
First, say these two sentences:
1. "Presenting the next President of the United States, (blank blank)!"
2. "Performing live at the main stage of the Stripper Shack, (blank blank)!"
If sentence 2 is more accurate than sentence 1, it's back to the drawing board. We'll never have a woman president if we keep naming our girls things like Madysonn Misty Sunshine. (Which sounds like a My Little Pony.)
On the other hand, maybe you want to be cruel. Let's say that you don't like kids. And yet, you're thumbing your nose at the Irony Gods and spawning a few. Here are a few ideas for baby names that are fun for you and hell for them:
1. Name you children for the form of birth control that failed you.
Example: "These are my kids, Patch, Ortho-Cyclen, and Trojan."
2. License your children's names to multinational corporations.
Example: "This is Nike, Adidas, and Coca-Cola."
3. The cruelest option is to name your child after where he or she was conceived. It's painful enough to think about your parents doing the funky monkey, just imagine having to imagine it every time someone says your name.
Example: "I'd like you to meet Paris, New York, and Backseat of a Chevy."
Or, you could get mesmerized by the Name Voyager and suss out names based on the prettiest patterns. Say so long to your productivity, suckers!
I think some names qualify as child abuse, others qualify as lofty expectations, and others are just weird. Destiny? Child abuse. Patience, Constance, Faith, or any other positive personality attribute? Lofty expectations. Pilot Inspektor? Just weird.
I hereby declare myself in charge of all future baby names. There will be no naming without my direct involvement and approval. Because I have no kids and am therefore an expert in all things child-related.
First, say these two sentences:
1. "Presenting the next President of the United States, (blank blank)!"
2. "Performing live at the main stage of the Stripper Shack, (blank blank)!"
If sentence 2 is more accurate than sentence 1, it's back to the drawing board. We'll never have a woman president if we keep naming our girls things like Madysonn Misty Sunshine. (Which sounds like a My Little Pony.)
On the other hand, maybe you want to be cruel. Let's say that you don't like kids. And yet, you're thumbing your nose at the Irony Gods and spawning a few. Here are a few ideas for baby names that are fun for you and hell for them:
1. Name you children for the form of birth control that failed you.
Example: "These are my kids, Patch, Ortho-Cyclen, and Trojan."
2. License your children's names to multinational corporations.
Example: "This is Nike, Adidas, and Coca-Cola."
3. The cruelest option is to name your child after where he or she was conceived. It's painful enough to think about your parents doing the funky monkey, just imagine having to imagine it every time someone says your name.
Example: "I'd like you to meet Paris, New York, and Backseat of a Chevy."
Or, you could get mesmerized by the Name Voyager and suss out names based on the prettiest patterns. Say so long to your productivity, suckers!
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Another Day Older and Deeper in Debt
Dear Student Loan Industrial Complex,
I love you. With all my heart. You made my life possible.
Without you, I would have never gone away to college. I would have lived out my days in Woodbridge, managing an Auntie Anne's pretzel shop, hanging out at the Dale Boulevard Denny's, and producing a new infant of indeterminate sire every spring. I'd live on precisely .25 acres of land and send my legion of brats to the same schools that I attended.
Because you sent me to college, I am a better person. I can write in complete sentences, I can do my own laundry, and I could probably still pull off a keg stand.
But there are a few things we should talk about. First off, a college education is an investment. My investment has not been returned, as my income usually hovers somewhere slightly above that of a fry cook or medical experiment-for-hire. Now, that may be my own fault, but still. Shouldn't I receive at least a partial refund? Or you could comp me a master's degree. Or even a professional gun repairer certificate. At this point, I'd settle for free dessert.
Also, please stop sending me the same letter over and over. Yes, you are perfectly welcome to review my income for 2007. If you can do so with a straight face, even better. Have at it.
But, why do you think I'm still married? Remember that piece of paper I sent you back in 2006 with the words, "Divorce Decree" across the top? Wouldn't you take that to mean I'm no longer married?
Perhaps you're old-fashioned, and you're hoping we'll give things another try. No chance. Or perhaps you're secretly controlled by the Vatican, and I need an annulment to get my ex's name off the forms.
While we're discussing names, my maiden name was restored to me by the great state of Alabama. Other aspects of maidenhood have not been restored, despite fervent prayers and sacrificial goats. But I'm back to my birth name. So please stop sending letters and bills to a woman who no longer exists.
Love,
Not Mrs. Johnson
I love you. With all my heart. You made my life possible.
Without you, I would have never gone away to college. I would have lived out my days in Woodbridge, managing an Auntie Anne's pretzel shop, hanging out at the Dale Boulevard Denny's, and producing a new infant of indeterminate sire every spring. I'd live on precisely .25 acres of land and send my legion of brats to the same schools that I attended.
Because you sent me to college, I am a better person. I can write in complete sentences, I can do my own laundry, and I could probably still pull off a keg stand.
But there are a few things we should talk about. First off, a college education is an investment. My investment has not been returned, as my income usually hovers somewhere slightly above that of a fry cook or medical experiment-for-hire. Now, that may be my own fault, but still. Shouldn't I receive at least a partial refund? Or you could comp me a master's degree. Or even a professional gun repairer certificate. At this point, I'd settle for free dessert.
Also, please stop sending me the same letter over and over. Yes, you are perfectly welcome to review my income for 2007. If you can do so with a straight face, even better. Have at it.
But, why do you think I'm still married? Remember that piece of paper I sent you back in 2006 with the words, "Divorce Decree" across the top? Wouldn't you take that to mean I'm no longer married?
Perhaps you're old-fashioned, and you're hoping we'll give things another try. No chance. Or perhaps you're secretly controlled by the Vatican, and I need an annulment to get my ex's name off the forms.
While we're discussing names, my maiden name was restored to me by the great state of Alabama. Other aspects of maidenhood have not been restored, despite fervent prayers and sacrificial goats. But I'm back to my birth name. So please stop sending letters and bills to a woman who no longer exists.
Love,
Not Mrs. Johnson
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Should Auld Stameys Be Forgot...
Today, I woke up and had no idea why I had set an alarm. Then I got dressed and forgot where I worked. Then I got on the Metro and couldn't remember what station I needed.
Mind you, this is what I do every morning. It's not just because I'm back at work after ten days off. But my vacation was lovely. I drove 1300 miles in four days, ate a ton of pork products and biscuits, and heard the three-syllable version of my name at least a hundred times. In the South, I'm Sha-yan-non. I also had to get re-accustomed to hearing my dad addressed as Skeeter.
I drove almost ten hours to Cherokee, where I spent Christmas Eve eating steak and playing slots with my dad and uncle. I was asked the best question ever, "So, which one are you? The divorced one or the lesbian?" I also took a side trip to see the rowdy Hartsville Stameys, where Peanut attempted to take us to breakfast at a restaurant called Carolina Lunch (that only serves breakfast). I also had the best conversation ever with my cousin Donna:
Donna: So, no husband, no kids...
Me: (silence, bracing for biological clock comment)
Donna: ...so you must have the cleanest house! Can I come live with you?
My rental car was a bulbous red Ford Focus, which made me feel like I was driving Rudolph's nose. I eventually remembered how to drive, even though I almost wasn't allowed out of the rental agency parking lot. Apparently if you ask the security guard a bunch of questions on how to find the "clicker thingy" and the "wiper doodads," they won't open the gate.
But driving was fun. I even got back into performing my driving rants. "Who in hell painted these line markings? They're all over the place! Picasso? Am I on a Cubist highway?" Lest you think I'm odd for yelling about Cubism while alone in a car, my sister does the same thing. Except in a goofy French accent.
The only bad part of the trip was driving up I-95 the day after Christmas. I made great time. Until Richmond. Then it took more than four hours to get from Richmond to Catonsville (no, I haven't moved to Baltimore). By the time I arrived, I was a babbling hysterical wreck.
I spent the rest of the vacation lounging and spending as little time in cars as humanly possible.
Mind you, this is what I do every morning. It's not just because I'm back at work after ten days off. But my vacation was lovely. I drove 1300 miles in four days, ate a ton of pork products and biscuits, and heard the three-syllable version of my name at least a hundred times. In the South, I'm Sha-yan-non. I also had to get re-accustomed to hearing my dad addressed as Skeeter.
I drove almost ten hours to Cherokee, where I spent Christmas Eve eating steak and playing slots with my dad and uncle. I was asked the best question ever, "So, which one are you? The divorced one or the lesbian?" I also took a side trip to see the rowdy Hartsville Stameys, where Peanut attempted to take us to breakfast at a restaurant called Carolina Lunch (that only serves breakfast). I also had the best conversation ever with my cousin Donna:
Donna: So, no husband, no kids...
Me: (silence, bracing for biological clock comment)
Donna: ...so you must have the cleanest house! Can I come live with you?
My rental car was a bulbous red Ford Focus, which made me feel like I was driving Rudolph's nose. I eventually remembered how to drive, even though I almost wasn't allowed out of the rental agency parking lot. Apparently if you ask the security guard a bunch of questions on how to find the "clicker thingy" and the "wiper doodads," they won't open the gate.
But driving was fun. I even got back into performing my driving rants. "Who in hell painted these line markings? They're all over the place! Picasso? Am I on a Cubist highway?" Lest you think I'm odd for yelling about Cubism while alone in a car, my sister does the same thing. Except in a goofy French accent.
The only bad part of the trip was driving up I-95 the day after Christmas. I made great time. Until Richmond. Then it took more than four hours to get from Richmond to Catonsville (no, I haven't moved to Baltimore). By the time I arrived, I was a babbling hysterical wreck.
I spent the rest of the vacation lounging and spending as little time in cars as humanly possible.
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