I must have been feeling confident, or maybe brave, that first day, as I screwed the little dangle earrings that my sister had given me onto my ears for the first time.
I was welcomed warmly by the other third graders. I made friends with Kristin, Hazzy, and Emily that day, friendships that would be long-lasting.
Kristin was one of three sisters. Her dad worked for Clarke School for the Deaf and they lived in a beautiful old home owned by the school. I spent many afternoons baking in her Easy Bake oven and throwing the baseball with her and Hazzy. Her mom was from the South and she ran a tight ship. They had a strict set of rules at home, including "black marks" for any transgressions. Kristin eventually followed her roots and attended Wake Forest.
Hazzard was the son of a poet father and a musician mother. His mother came to school in 5th grade and taught us to play the bells. Hazzy played the cello and one day played the theme to Jaws for show and tell. I was puzzled by the fact that this family did not own a television. He thought our old Saab was really cool and one day surprised me by stopping by to see the car and walk me to school. He went to Yale.
Emily was the Jeff to my Mutt. She was a petite, sweet and smart girl who giggled at my every joke. She was the one who took me to free swim at the YMCA on Massasoit Street and showed me her butterfly stroke. I imagine my eyes opened wide as I watched her dive down into the water and emerge like a bird, over and over again. Her mom had gone to Smith and her dad was a famous sculptor and professor there. This was a home where I spent a lot of time and this was a family who expected their own to attend schools like Yale, Williams and Amherst.
Emily easily convinced me to try out for the swim team.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Northampton
OK, so my memory has been a little sketchy up until now. Let me apologize. I will try to improve. This next vision is etched in stone: our family, plus Rima and our cat, Mephistopheles, had been driving for about five hours, from New York state to Massachusetts. (I must confess that I have somehow forgotten Mephy in my prior conveyances. Again, my apologies, for he has been with us for longer than even Rima has.) My brother, Lars, and I were so excited about what was to come that we were commenting on everything new we that we saw as we headed down Main Street past Smith College. A Ped Xing sign caught our eye. That, for some reason, was the funniest thing -- like when you're in a new country or beamed onto a new planet and things look a bit queer. We probably traded jokes until we soon rolled up to the new house, the first house my mom purchased by herself -- on Arlington Street.
It was a slate blue colonial with 2 large blue Spruces in the front. It had a porch that wrapped around from the front to the side, with plain pillars spaced in between and arborvitaes along the sides.
All I remember about my room was that it had one wall with wallpaper, in a girly floral, reminiscent of Marimekko. The other walls were white, and all the woodwork was painted bubblegum pink. This was the reason my mom picked the room for me, that pink. And I had a walk-in closet. Heaven.
My mom made a promise to us that day: we will be staying put for five years. I remember thinking, five years?
The first day of school was the next day. You know when a certain smell resonates? I can still smell that brand new fresh start smell wafting in the open windows of my own new perfect room. That smell of excitement and a new beginning.
It was a slate blue colonial with 2 large blue Spruces in the front. It had a porch that wrapped around from the front to the side, with plain pillars spaced in between and arborvitaes along the sides.
All I remember about my room was that it had one wall with wallpaper, in a girly floral, reminiscent of Marimekko. The other walls were white, and all the woodwork was painted bubblegum pink. This was the reason my mom picked the room for me, that pink. And I had a walk-in closet. Heaven.
My mom made a promise to us that day: we will be staying put for five years. I remember thinking, five years?
The first day of school was the next day. You know when a certain smell resonates? I can still smell that brand new fresh start smell wafting in the open windows of my own new perfect room. That smell of excitement and a new beginning.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Holiday Hill Camp
So I had just turned 8 when I went to my first sleepaway camp. Can you spot me in the first row? Hint: culottes and knee socks were all the rage. My sister is in the very top row on the right, but is hard to see due to a mysterious stain on the old photo.
The camp was run by two older women. I still have the sterling silver bracelet made from small circles linked together to make a chain. One of the owners hand-made them and gave them to the new campers. There may have been charms that were added subsequently but this was my only year here.
My mom had ironed all the little name tags in my clothes. We lived in little cabins with cots -- eight girls and their counselor.
Luckily my big sister was a counselor so I wasn't homesick. When I went up to her cabin, her teenage campers fawned over me.
I had a lot of firsts that summer: horseback riding, riflery, archery, sailing, swimming, and skinny-dipping. I mastered the doggie paddle, but I'm not sure if I was actually swimming.
What I didn't know then is that soon my life would take a turn. With our impending surprise move, seminal figures would enter my life....and learning to swim, as it were, would come in handy.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Utica
I stood at the head of the 2nd grade class as the teacher introduced me as the new girl. That city school had a different feel and I never quite felt comfortable there. I remember my 3-ring binder being full of narrowly-lined white paper and my pencils sharpened and ready. I am trying to remember what we studied that year but all I can picture are brightly colored macaroni Christmas ornaments.
We rented a house near the school, on Kenyon Court, so I could walk there and home. My brother and I had baby sitters and played after school with the neighborhood kids. We built elaborate obstacle courses in the muddy back yard. The Utica Club beer factory was just down the street, and we would sometimes head down there on a Saturday for one of their regular tours to give my mom a break. My mom recently told me that the family next door were Born Again and she became alarmed when I began drawing pictures of God in my free time.
For fun our family would go skiing at Snow Ridge. The others had learned to ski in Switzerland and I was just trying to keep up, as usual. I would bomb down the slopes hoping not to fall. I remember eating our home-made peanut butter sandwiches and peeling oranges in the lodge. One day I proudly announced that it was my mom's birthday and she was 40. She was not happy with me.
My sister was a counselor and avid horsewoman at Holiday Hill camp in Craftsbury Commons, Vermont. After 2nd grade I got to accompany her to camp for part of the summer while my brother went to Boy Scout camp. That summer we were all away, my mom got a new job far away in Northampton, Massachusetts and we moved so suddenly and quickly after camp that I never said goodbye to my best friend.
We rented a house near the school, on Kenyon Court, so I could walk there and home. My brother and I had baby sitters and played after school with the neighborhood kids. We built elaborate obstacle courses in the muddy back yard. The Utica Club beer factory was just down the street, and we would sometimes head down there on a Saturday for one of their regular tours to give my mom a break. My mom recently told me that the family next door were Born Again and she became alarmed when I began drawing pictures of God in my free time.
For fun our family would go skiing at Snow Ridge. The others had learned to ski in Switzerland and I was just trying to keep up, as usual. I would bomb down the slopes hoping not to fall. I remember eating our home-made peanut butter sandwiches and peeling oranges in the lodge. One day I proudly announced that it was my mom's birthday and she was 40. She was not happy with me.
My sister was a counselor and avid horsewoman at Holiday Hill camp in Craftsbury Commons, Vermont. After 2nd grade I got to accompany her to camp for part of the summer while my brother went to Boy Scout camp. That summer we were all away, my mom got a new job far away in Northampton, Massachusetts and we moved so suddenly and quickly after camp that I never said goodbye to my best friend.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Netta's House
We had some pretty colorful friends in upstate New York: poets, writers, and intellectuals, even a couple listed in the New York Social Register -- all enjoying a simpler small-town existence, with sunny summers, rich falls, and thigh-high winters.
My mom and her twin sisters had long left the Mormon church. She tried to get us to go to the Unitarian church in town, as unitarianism was becoming popular as kind of a catch-all faith. Being so young, I went along with the Sunday School thing, but my brother was instinctively opposed to the idea and was not afraid to voice this. One time our minister was caught streaking through town and arrested. This absurd hypocrisy effectively proved our case and she finally threw up her hands about church.
Weekends were often spent with our mom's friends. She had met a woman named Netta who lived in a neighboring town. Netta was the largest woman I had ever seen and probably weighed over 300 pounds. We all loved her. She lived in a capacious old Victorian home that had many interesting things in it, not the least of which was one of those contraptions that had a band which went around your waist or hips and then supposedly vibrated the fat off. That was our first stop when we went to Netta's. We would spend hours down at the creek catching crayfish.
Netta's boyfriend was named Mead, and he was probably a third of her size. Netta's husband had died and she had sued the negligent doctor, winning a huge settlement. She had a rich life in many ways, but always wanted to lose weight. One time my sister went downstairs in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and saw Netta eating a stick of butter in front of the refrigerator.
We would sometimes sleep over at Netta's...while the parents had wild late-night poker games with drinks and bags of real money by their sides. There was something mysterious and intriguing about those poker games and I always wished I was old enough to join in.
This bohemian country life didn't last long, as we soon made our next move into the big city of Utica.
My mom and her twin sisters had long left the Mormon church. She tried to get us to go to the Unitarian church in town, as unitarianism was becoming popular as kind of a catch-all faith. Being so young, I went along with the Sunday School thing, but my brother was instinctively opposed to the idea and was not afraid to voice this. One time our minister was caught streaking through town and arrested. This absurd hypocrisy effectively proved our case and she finally threw up her hands about church.
Weekends were often spent with our mom's friends. She had met a woman named Netta who lived in a neighboring town. Netta was the largest woman I had ever seen and probably weighed over 300 pounds. We all loved her. She lived in a capacious old Victorian home that had many interesting things in it, not the least of which was one of those contraptions that had a band which went around your waist or hips and then supposedly vibrated the fat off. That was our first stop when we went to Netta's. We would spend hours down at the creek catching crayfish.
Netta's boyfriend was named Mead, and he was probably a third of her size. Netta's husband had died and she had sued the negligent doctor, winning a huge settlement. She had a rich life in many ways, but always wanted to lose weight. One time my sister went downstairs in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and saw Netta eating a stick of butter in front of the refrigerator.
We would sometimes sleep over at Netta's...while the parents had wild late-night poker games with drinks and bags of real money by their sides. There was something mysterious and intriguing about those poker games and I always wished I was old enough to join in.
This bohemian country life didn't last long, as we soon made our next move into the big city of Utica.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Life on the Farm
Memories of that first little house are sketchy, at best. We only lived there one year.
We moved, but not far, to a house next to a working farm. I didn't have to share a room with my brother and my closet stretched so far that it could easily afford secret places in a game of hide-and-seek.
I didn't spend much time at home because the farm held my interest. I was in first grade now and the woman at the farm watched me after school until my mom got home. There must have been more than twenty cats roaming around. Lightning and Thunder were my favorites. I think one was fluffy and bright orange. I had heard that the color red enrages bulls, so I would purposely wear red when I visited the cows and bull in the barn, just to test the theory. Nothing bad ever happened. There was a goat that wandered around and sometimes my mom would look out to find it standing on our old Saab.
We children had no contact with my father. I suspect my mother was slowly making it through the divorce process with a man who was hard to pin down. He paid no child support. I never realized how poor we were.
We moved, but not far, to a house next to a working farm. I didn't have to share a room with my brother and my closet stretched so far that it could easily afford secret places in a game of hide-and-seek.
I didn't spend much time at home because the farm held my interest. I was in first grade now and the woman at the farm watched me after school until my mom got home. There must have been more than twenty cats roaming around. Lightning and Thunder were my favorites. I think one was fluffy and bright orange. I had heard that the color red enrages bulls, so I would purposely wear red when I visited the cows and bull in the barn, just to test the theory. Nothing bad ever happened. There was a goat that wandered around and sometimes my mom would look out to find it standing on our old Saab.
We children had no contact with my father. I suspect my mother was slowly making it through the divorce process with a man who was hard to pin down. He paid no child support. I never realized how poor we were.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tex
My mom is the oldest of four children born to my Mormon grandparents. Grandpa graduated from BYU, never drank coffee or alcohol, didn't believe we evolved from apes, and had beliefs that my brother and I found odd and challenged when we got old enough to think for ourselves. I never really figured out whether my grandmother was a true Mormon or just went along with it all those years. She drank coffee and alcohol, smoked, and never gave her views on evolution. My aunt once told me that she caught my grandfather kissing another woman in the coat closet during one of their dinner parties.
My mother was impossibly tall and willowy. She was damn near as tall as my grandfather at 6 feet. She had dark hair, wide-set hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a square jaw. She was once approached by a New York modeling scout. My grandmother packed her up and took her in to see the agent, but she was rejected because she couldn't hold a quarter between her legs.
She grew up in Boulder and they moved to Ithaca when she was in high school. The other kids thought she spoke with a twang, so they called her Tex. That name didn't stick after high school.
She was an avid reader and artist. She had a penchant for fashion and I still have a stack of designs she drew while in high school. Her brother was seven years younger than she and the Twins eleven years younger, so my grandmother's monomaniacal matriarchal focus shifted from her eventually. Even though she lived at home while attending Cornell, she was more free to socialize and I suspect began to take full advantage. She dated many handsome bachelors and somehow ended up with the tall rower from Cornwall-on-Hudson.
She once confided to me that her year of graduate school at Syracuse was wonderful. She savored the freedom to study and be free again. It was the 1960s and she embraced the burgeoning women's liberation movement.
My grandparents offered to buy us a house in Ithaca -- but only Ithaca. My mother valued her independence and decided that we would break away and go it on our own.
We moved to a tiny town in upstate New York called Barneveld. We rented a cute little house in the country and she commuted into the Monson Williams Proctor Institute in Utica, where she was the librarian. She once told me she often pulled the little Saab over to the side of the road and cried on the way to work.
My mother was impossibly tall and willowy. She was damn near as tall as my grandfather at 6 feet. She had dark hair, wide-set hazel eyes, high cheekbones and a square jaw. She was once approached by a New York modeling scout. My grandmother packed her up and took her in to see the agent, but she was rejected because she couldn't hold a quarter between her legs.
She grew up in Boulder and they moved to Ithaca when she was in high school. The other kids thought she spoke with a twang, so they called her Tex. That name didn't stick after high school.
She was an avid reader and artist. She had a penchant for fashion and I still have a stack of designs she drew while in high school. Her brother was seven years younger than she and the Twins eleven years younger, so my grandmother's monomaniacal matriarchal focus shifted from her eventually. Even though she lived at home while attending Cornell, she was more free to socialize and I suspect began to take full advantage. She dated many handsome bachelors and somehow ended up with the tall rower from Cornwall-on-Hudson.
She once confided to me that her year of graduate school at Syracuse was wonderful. She savored the freedom to study and be free again. It was the 1960s and she embraced the burgeoning women's liberation movement.
My grandparents offered to buy us a house in Ithaca -- but only Ithaca. My mother valued her independence and decided that we would break away and go it on our own.
We moved to a tiny town in upstate New York called Barneveld. We rented a cute little house in the country and she commuted into the Monson Williams Proctor Institute in Utica, where she was the librarian. She once told me she often pulled the little Saab over to the side of the road and cried on the way to work.
Fall Creek Drive
We spent about one year living with my grandparents in Ithaca while my mom went to graduate school at Syracuse University. My grandfather was a renowned professor of Collective Bargaining/Labor Relations at Cornell and we lived in a stately white-washed brick home overlooking the gorge on Fall Creek Drive. Grandpa was an avid gardener, and I remember making the snapdragons talk by squeezing the petals in just the right way. (When my brother attended Cornell many years later, his friends noticed the house from across the gorge and named it The Secret Garden House, not realizing that it was his grandparents' house.) My grandmother loved having us live with her, especially my brother, whom she doted over. She had a baby grand piano that she played with fingers transformed by arthritis. She taught me how to set up and do dishes properly in the sink and I begged often for this privilege of standing on the stool and helping.
The house was beautiful, with a matching brick wall which stretched out around the back yard, culminating in a little building with a turret, where we kept the pet mice in the nice weather. My brother and I spent most of our time in the basement watching TV. The basement had many rooms with lots of interesting things to look at stored on shelves. Grandpa had a woodworking studio in the back room, which was always covered with shavings. My sister lived in the attic, where she had her own bathroom, of which I was envious. The house always had a certain smell, as if the windows were never opened.
I started preschool, my brother elementary, and my sister yet another in a long string of new schools. My mom would come visit on the weekends in her old Saab named Fritz. I don't remember this being a particular unhappy time, but I do remember dramatic and tearful scenes clinging tightly onto my mother's car door on Sundays when it was time for her to go back to Syracuse.
The house was beautiful, with a matching brick wall which stretched out around the back yard, culminating in a little building with a turret, where we kept the pet mice in the nice weather. My brother and I spent most of our time in the basement watching TV. The basement had many rooms with lots of interesting things to look at stored on shelves. Grandpa had a woodworking studio in the back room, which was always covered with shavings. My sister lived in the attic, where she had her own bathroom, of which I was envious. The house always had a certain smell, as if the windows were never opened.
I started preschool, my brother elementary, and my sister yet another in a long string of new schools. My mom would come visit on the weekends in her old Saab named Fritz. I don't remember this being a particular unhappy time, but I do remember dramatic and tearful scenes clinging tightly onto my mother's car door on Sundays when it was time for her to go back to Syracuse.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Jack Be Nimble
A number of my gentle readers have approached me in regards to the previous post about my father and have expressed a curiosity in hearing more. It's a story that's buried like an old bone behind the shed. But it's not buried deep and, if I clear away the weeds and overgrowth, it's easy to unearth. My own brother was surprised to read about my very first memory: my father leaving. He is 3 years older than I. My sister is 11 years older.
I don't have many stories or much information about my father or his family. My grandmother never saw us again either, even though she lived to be well into her nineties. But the stories peppered about casually have been gathered by this girl and hoarded like mementos in a special drawer . The time he called The Pentagon to give his input on an international crisis. The time he showed up with a (surprise) new Jaguar. The time he showed up with a (surprise) new Porsche...well, you have the idea.
Then there was the time he embarrassed her with her newest new friends in yet another new city for his yet-another new position at General Electric. He finally pushed her so far that she hit him over the head with an iron frying pan. She didn't speak of him often, and she didn't degrade him. But I clung to the stories as clues to this mysterious person who shared in making me and then disappeared.
My parents met at Cornell. He had been a Classics major and went on to get his MBA there also. He was a rower in an 8 that made it as far as the Olympic trials. He tested into GE's prestigious sales program. Our family moved frequently before I was born, which was stressful both for my mom and my sister. Things got rocky when they lived in New Hampshire and he commuted into Winter Street on rt. 128 near Boston. He eventually lost his job and came home with the grand idea that he would become a candle-maker. He bought vintage pewter molds and set up a fragrant laboratory of sorts in the basement. He would pack up the tapers and load them into the tiny trunk of his Jag and knock on doors in certain tony Boston suburban neighborhoods, charming the housewives with his good looks and charisma. This endeavor only lasted for one short holiday season.
Soon they moved to Schenectady, where my birth was yet another surprise arrival, and then Louisville, and then Zurich. I think we know how Zurich turned out. My mom knew this was no "business trip." With no money, three kids and that grey dog named Rima, we headed back to the States.
I don't have many stories or much information about my father or his family. My grandmother never saw us again either, even though she lived to be well into her nineties. But the stories peppered about casually have been gathered by this girl and hoarded like mementos in a special drawer . The time he called The Pentagon to give his input on an international crisis. The time he showed up with a (surprise) new Jaguar. The time he showed up with a (surprise) new Porsche...well, you have the idea.
Then there was the time he embarrassed her with her newest new friends in yet another new city for his yet-another new position at General Electric. He finally pushed her so far that she hit him over the head with an iron frying pan. She didn't speak of him often, and she didn't degrade him. But I clung to the stories as clues to this mysterious person who shared in making me and then disappeared.
My parents met at Cornell. He had been a Classics major and went on to get his MBA there also. He was a rower in an 8 that made it as far as the Olympic trials. He tested into GE's prestigious sales program. Our family moved frequently before I was born, which was stressful both for my mom and my sister. Things got rocky when they lived in New Hampshire and he commuted into Winter Street on rt. 128 near Boston. He eventually lost his job and came home with the grand idea that he would become a candle-maker. He bought vintage pewter molds and set up a fragrant laboratory of sorts in the basement. He would pack up the tapers and load them into the tiny trunk of his Jag and knock on doors in certain tony Boston suburban neighborhoods, charming the housewives with his good looks and charisma. This endeavor only lasted for one short holiday season.
Soon they moved to Schenectady, where my birth was yet another surprise arrival, and then Louisville, and then Zurich. I think we know how Zurich turned out. My mom knew this was no "business trip." With no money, three kids and that grey dog named Rima, we headed back to the States.
Reflection
My friend lost his dad this week.
It occurs to me that some fathers are dads, grandfathers, husbands, partners, role models, and best friends. How very lucky for those they touched.
It occurs to me that some fathers are dads, grandfathers, husbands, partners, role models, and best friends. How very lucky for those they touched.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Got My Splits
1 M Schmidt 47 MESC 17:20.94S F
32.30 1:07.23 1:42.61 2:17.85 2:53.09 3:28.25 4:03.32 4:38.22
5:13.16 5:48.01 6:23.17 6:58.25 8:08.19 8:08.19 8:43.48 9:18.47
9:53.41 10:28.49 11:03.41 11:38.31 12:13.24 12:48.13 13:23.00 13:57.62
14:32.34 15:07.32 15:41.89 16:16.44 16:49.49 17:20.94
1 Sam the Man 41 MESC 18:14.99S F
32.46 1:08.05 1:43.46 2:19.17 2:55.45 3:31.53 4:08.12 4:44.58
5:21.73 5:58.53 6:35.31 7:12.36 8:26.83 8:26.83 9:03.74 9:40.61
10:17.81 10:54.86 11:32.42 12:09.50 12:46.55 13:23.61 14:00.73 14:38.09
15:15.22 15:52.24 16:29.13 17:05.61 17:41.73 18:14.99
1 KGirl 44 NEM 19:22.54S F
33.14 1:09.99 1:47.56 2:26.12 3:04.41 3:43.27 4:22.30 5:00.75
5:39.67 6:18.72 6:57.63 7:37.13 8:55.95 8:55.95 9:35.50 10:14.92
10:54.68 11:33.79 12:13.12 12:52.60 13:31.78 14:11.37 14:50.41 15:29.70
16:08.83 16:48.16 17:28.06 18:07.30 18:45.79 19:22.54
It may have been a really small meet, but Mike S. is no joke. I may have taken it out a little too fast, seeing as my best 200 free is 2:25, my best 400 was previously 5:03 (went 4:54 at this meet), my best 800 was 10:52 (from 2 years ago).
400 free:
1 Kirsten Thompson 44 NEM 4:54.95S F
33.88 1:10.64 1:47.98 2:25.87 3:03.56 3:41.53 4:19.43 4:54.95
Hopefully this isn't all The Suit!!
32.30 1:07.23 1:42.61 2:17.85 2:53.09 3:28.25 4:03.32 4:38.22
5:13.16 5:48.01 6:23.17 6:58.25 8:08.19 8:08.19 8:43.48 9:18.47
9:53.41 10:28.49 11:03.41 11:38.31 12:13.24 12:48.13 13:23.00 13:57.62
14:32.34 15:07.32 15:41.89 16:16.44 16:49.49 17:20.94
1 Sam the Man 41 MESC 18:14.99S F
32.46 1:08.05 1:43.46 2:19.17 2:55.45 3:31.53 4:08.12 4:44.58
5:21.73 5:58.53 6:35.31 7:12.36 8:26.83 8:26.83 9:03.74 9:40.61
10:17.81 10:54.86 11:32.42 12:09.50 12:46.55 13:23.61 14:00.73 14:38.09
15:15.22 15:52.24 16:29.13 17:05.61 17:41.73 18:14.99
1 KGirl 44 NEM 19:22.54S F
33.14 1:09.99 1:47.56 2:26.12 3:04.41 3:43.27 4:22.30 5:00.75
5:39.67 6:18.72 6:57.63 7:37.13 8:55.95 8:55.95 9:35.50 10:14.92
10:54.68 11:33.79 12:13.12 12:52.60 13:31.78 14:11.37 14:50.41 15:29.70
16:08.83 16:48.16 17:28.06 18:07.30 18:45.79 19:22.54
It may have been a really small meet, but Mike S. is no joke. I may have taken it out a little too fast, seeing as my best 200 free is 2:25, my best 400 was previously 5:03 (went 4:54 at this meet), my best 800 was 10:52 (from 2 years ago).
400 free:
1 Kirsten Thompson 44 NEM 4:54.95S F
33.88 1:10.64 1:47.98 2:25.87 3:03.56 3:41.53 4:19.43 4:54.95
Hopefully this isn't all The Suit!!
Monday, November 16, 2009
Blue Moon
Would you purchase used undergarments? Probably not.
But I wanted to see what all the hullabaloo was about these infamous tech suits that almost all of the world-class, age group, and elite masters swimmers are wearing. So I purchased a slightly-loved Blueseventy, retail $495, for $130 on Ebay. I was hoping I could use it at least for the BU meet this December, before the suits are deemed illegal by the governing forces. In the interim, I learned that a 1500 short course meter event, not offered at BU, was listed up in Portland, ME yesterday. I jumped at the chance to get a time for that event before I age up...and to try out my new suit.
I warmed up in my practice suit because I heard that the tech suits are very hot, tight, and uncomfortable. The guys can unzip theirs and pull them down to their waists, but that would be out of the question, even for me.
The meet was really a mini-meet and was moving along briskly so I decided to change into the B70 before my 400m freestyle and give it a trial run.
I dried off quickly and began to carefully work my large-ish (relatively speaking, for the record, my size 10-11 feet are quite small for my height) feet through the ankle holes and work the legs up. I worked the suit up to my waist, but still had about 3 inches to go. Instinctively I dropped down into a deep-knee bend and yanked....RIP!
Now, some may have thrown in the towel here, but not the KGirl. There was no way I wasn't wearing that stupid cheat suit.
I hereby apologize to my timers, some of them being fairly young and impressionable, and any others who may have had the misfortune to be standing behind my block for my events.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Tears of a Clown
Sure I'm an extrovert -- outgoing and social. But I once heard that the real definition of an extrovert is someone who derives energy from others. That's really more how I see myself.
Believe it or not, I am inherently shy. I used to slump down in my chair and wish myself invisible so that the teacher wouldn't call on me to read aloud in English class (and this was high school). Speech class was a semester of torture. Oh, I tried the audience-in-their-underwear trick, but all I could think about was my labored breathing. There was no fight or flight, just flight.
After graduating from college and spending time in the world of phones and desks, I decided to go back to school to learn how to teach. I would conquer those fears, once and for all, just as everyone said I could. But for each and every new class I would scan the syllabus to see if a presentation was required. The presentations never got any easier.
I got my masters and moved on to the real test: the practicum. Student teaching was challenging and mostly dreadful. Lesson plans and stage fright. I hadn't had the Sunday Night Blues since college. Desks and phones were looking pretty good. Luckily I got pregnant.
Shakespeare said that the world is a stage and we are merely players. The trick is having the right stage, the right audience, and a good supporting cast.
Believe it or not, I am inherently shy. I used to slump down in my chair and wish myself invisible so that the teacher wouldn't call on me to read aloud in English class (and this was high school). Speech class was a semester of torture. Oh, I tried the audience-in-their-underwear trick, but all I could think about was my labored breathing. There was no fight or flight, just flight.
After graduating from college and spending time in the world of phones and desks, I decided to go back to school to learn how to teach. I would conquer those fears, once and for all, just as everyone said I could. But for each and every new class I would scan the syllabus to see if a presentation was required. The presentations never got any easier.
I got my masters and moved on to the real test: the practicum. Student teaching was challenging and mostly dreadful. Lesson plans and stage fright. I hadn't had the Sunday Night Blues since college. Desks and phones were looking pretty good. Luckily I got pregnant.
Shakespeare said that the world is a stage and we are merely players. The trick is having the right stage, the right audience, and a good supporting cast.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Flip Turn as Metaphor
With my 1500m freestyle looming and pace numbers running through my already-jumbled mind, I can't help thinking: damned flip turns.
Fact: I used to be, in my lithe-yet-flat-chested years, a competent distance swimmer. I believe my 1650 time was 17:19. Yes, I was young and peppy, but my turns must have been at least good enough not to elicit jeers from my lanemates.
Now fast forward. (If I were a piece of toast, I'd be just getting crispy and slightly browned.) Sure, I swim slower in practice than I used to. That's natural. But the flip turn should be like the dive...ageless. It's like when you gain weight -- your feet stay the same size! And your ears and nose. But I digress.
I'm not sure if it's the turn or the the push-off which is technically my biggest problem. I was convinced it was my push-off, so last year I invested in a 20-lb. kettlebell so that I could secretly do rigorous squat-and-swing workouts at home and surprise my teammates with my super-girl push-offs. Sadly, it hurt my back and is now sitting in the corner getting in the way of my feeble attempts to vacuum.
Having discovered open water swimming recently, I am suddenly and deeply in love. I don't know whether it's the freedom of the wide open, the ease with which I can find a rhythmic pace, or the total and complete absence of walls to contend with that make it such a good fit for me. Perhaps my "head-up" body position, once again ridiculed by some lanemate (s), is tailor-made for sighting.
All I know is this: there are 59 turns in the 1500m free. If I'm losing half a second each time, that's 30 seconds. Coach Ilkka was right all along!
It may be too late for my race this weekend, but I am hereby making a solemn vow to myself and my 10 Blog Followers to stop ignoring my deficiencies. They will be rooted out, one by one, and exterminated!
Well, I'm still not going to kick...
Fact: I used to be, in my lithe-yet-flat-chested years, a competent distance swimmer. I believe my 1650 time was 17:19. Yes, I was young and peppy, but my turns must have been at least good enough not to elicit jeers from my lanemates.
Now fast forward. (If I were a piece of toast, I'd be just getting crispy and slightly browned.) Sure, I swim slower in practice than I used to. That's natural. But the flip turn should be like the dive...ageless. It's like when you gain weight -- your feet stay the same size! And your ears and nose. But I digress.
I'm not sure if it's the turn or the the push-off which is technically my biggest problem. I was convinced it was my push-off, so last year I invested in a 20-lb. kettlebell so that I could secretly do rigorous squat-and-swing workouts at home and surprise my teammates with my super-girl push-offs. Sadly, it hurt my back and is now sitting in the corner getting in the way of my feeble attempts to vacuum.
Having discovered open water swimming recently, I am suddenly and deeply in love. I don't know whether it's the freedom of the wide open, the ease with which I can find a rhythmic pace, or the total and complete absence of walls to contend with that make it such a good fit for me. Perhaps my "head-up" body position, once again ridiculed by some lanemate (s), is tailor-made for sighting.
All I know is this: there are 59 turns in the 1500m free. If I'm losing half a second each time, that's 30 seconds. Coach Ilkka was right all along!
It may be too late for my race this weekend, but I am hereby making a solemn vow to myself and my 10 Blog Followers to stop ignoring my deficiencies. They will be rooted out, one by one, and exterminated!
Well, I'm still not going to kick...
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
A Word From the Wise
Ladies, if you happen to see something like this trolling the beaches of Chatham, Nantucket, or The Vineyard -- by no means should you be taken in by its fetching features. Tell-Tail signs that you should stay away: use of words like Yummy Mummy and Chicketosae.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Lipstick on a Pig
I don't know if people are actually reading this blog or just looking at the pictures, but there has been a great deal of feedback about this profile photograph of me.
An informal straw poll would place the YAYs and the NAYs in a dead heat.
I can live with that.
An informal straw poll would place the YAYs and the NAYs in a dead heat.
I can live with that.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Indelible
You know how some people can remember things from way, way back? I can't. No memories from age 3, and certainly none from age 2. When I was 3 our family moved to Zurich for my father's job. I have a photo in my album where my mom and I are wearing matching plaid outfits that she sewed herself. We look like the perfect family, with three kids and a cute gray poodle named Rima.
My mom says I used to announce cheerfully each day, "time for a nap!" She was grateful because these were dark days and slipping under the blankets probably made us both feel a little bit better.
When I was 4, I remember walking into my parents' room. He was standing in front of the mirror, fixing his tie. I asked, "where are you going?" "On a business trip," he replied curtly, and then added, "a long business trip."
He never returned.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Match.com is a Crap-Shoot
...and The House Always Has the Advantage.
Never mind that I'm 6' tall. Well, 6' 3/4". But who's really measuring... Never mind that I've been called a Powerful Vagina. (I cannot take credit for this term; my coach saw it in Rolling Stone and suggested that I read, digest, and report my findings back to her.) These two immutable traits can make or break me before this horse is even out of the gate.
Never mind that I have a fancy Ivy League education. (Upon reflection, that could work for or against me also. Think: Powerful Vagina.)
Never mind that I am a competitive athlete with bigger biceps than most men I know. (Oh dang, PV, right?!)
The main thing anyone who is on Match needs to know: If you don't have a GREAT PROFILE PHOTO, GIVE IT UP.
Now I'm not saying people don't read the profiles, although I have my doubts. But, in the end, it's all about the photo. Some men have already realized that. That is why, when you meet them, they look absolutely nothing like that old black & white best-photo-ever-taken-of-them-15-or-so-years-ago-photo.
So yesterday my newly single friend, NGirl, and I set out to achieve the PPP, or Perfect Profile Photo. This is tricky work, because a Girl must put aside any creative and fashionable ideas about what makes a good photo and think like a guy. Dangerous Territory. Men on Match use language like, "looks as good in jeans as she does in a little black dress" and "outdoorsy". Translation: thin and naturally pretty. But I know for a fact that both men and women worldwide vote Angelina Jolie as their Fantasy, so you can imagine my quandary here. Further Translation: thin and doesn't watch a ton of TV sprawled on the couch eating a bag of Doritos. For obvious reasons, let's move on.
So preparing for the shoot. One upside to roping a great steer would be that I could finally cut all my hair off, signaling The Death Knell to trying to attract the male species. A head of long, dead hair seems to be right up there on The List with the LBD with most men. But since I am still unofficially in the attraction phase, I heat up the hot rollers in an attempt to acquire some volume. Steer or not, when the nose hairs outnumber the head hairs, I'm out. Luckily there are battery-operated tools for this very problem. I have a few people on my Christmas list who may be receiving one in their stocking this year.
NGirl and I set out on our Optical Odyssey with the camera. As Tyra says, The Light is Your Friend. I learned this the hard way, as we clicked through the initial shots and I realized, with some degree of horror, that I am looking a hell of a lot like my grandmother these days. A professional photographer, makeup artist, and good lighting just aren't in the budget. While NGirl is off powdering her nose, I take matters into my own hands and pull a Madonna, circa Desperately Seeking Susan, capturing my visage auto-photographically.
Although we ultimately walked away from the afternoon with a few choice jpegs in our folders, we decided that the calcium is really paying off: the clavicle is really the last thing to go. But more than that, I realized a very important thing: it is a really good friend indeed that will tell you, in all honesty, that you are much prettier in person than your photos may suggest. She's a keeper.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Welcome to My World
One of the most wonderful things about aging, and there are so many, is the abundant amalgamation of wisdom and hindsight that one can pack up in the , if you're lucky, Louis Vuitton suitcase with which one schleps the world. A good piece of luggage doesn't fall apart, it acquires a lovely patina which says, "I've been Somewhere and I'm Fabulous!"
Welcome to One Girl's particular and sometimes peculiar, I hope, perspective on this world. Worse-for-Wear? I think not! A few salient points about me: old enough to be acquiring the aforementioned patina; the single mother of a usually-lovely daughter in middle school; the mother of two cats who, although they keep us very good company, are likely to vomit violently at any moment, but usually at 4 AM. (I'm convinced that the smart one puts his paw down his throat on purpose because he has noticed that this very action causes the purveyor of food to fling out of bed like her hair is on fire.)
So I just had a blind date arranged through a friend. We had a nice time, had many things in common, know many of the same people, and had a few laughs, but the next day I felt that I was waiting to get my SAT scores back. How would I score? I have a theory that, if someone really likes me, they will call the next day. No call. This icky feeling lasted one full day. One Full Day. And then I said to myself (with a little help from one of my fans, NGirl), why allow someone else's opinion of me to color my opinion of myself? This person doesn't even know me. And, upon reflection, perhaps he didn't have all the qualities that I may be looking for. Hmmmm. Right, I have an opinion too! Once that notion took hold, I rebounded with all the vim and vigor for which I'm known and am ready to conquer the world again!
One thing about being single: it's not a Death in the Family. When I see people whom I haven't seen in awhile, it doesn't matter what successes I have had in my life, whether with my daughter, my career, my athletic endeavors -- they will inevitably whisper in a cautious tone, not quite sure of what to say to someone in my dire position, "have you met anybody nice?" I always feel that the conversation has just taken an unfortunate U-turn.
If I Never Meet a Man, it is OK. I am Happy.
The KGirl
Welcome to One Girl's particular and sometimes peculiar, I hope, perspective on this world. Worse-for-Wear? I think not! A few salient points about me: old enough to be acquiring the aforementioned patina; the single mother of a usually-lovely daughter in middle school; the mother of two cats who, although they keep us very good company, are likely to vomit violently at any moment, but usually at 4 AM. (I'm convinced that the smart one puts his paw down his throat on purpose because he has noticed that this very action causes the purveyor of food to fling out of bed like her hair is on fire.)
So I just had a blind date arranged through a friend. We had a nice time, had many things in common, know many of the same people, and had a few laughs, but the next day I felt that I was waiting to get my SAT scores back. How would I score? I have a theory that, if someone really likes me, they will call the next day. No call. This icky feeling lasted one full day. One Full Day. And then I said to myself (with a little help from one of my fans, NGirl), why allow someone else's opinion of me to color my opinion of myself? This person doesn't even know me. And, upon reflection, perhaps he didn't have all the qualities that I may be looking for. Hmmmm. Right, I have an opinion too! Once that notion took hold, I rebounded with all the vim and vigor for which I'm known and am ready to conquer the world again!
One thing about being single: it's not a Death in the Family. When I see people whom I haven't seen in awhile, it doesn't matter what successes I have had in my life, whether with my daughter, my career, my athletic endeavors -- they will inevitably whisper in a cautious tone, not quite sure of what to say to someone in my dire position, "have you met anybody nice?" I always feel that the conversation has just taken an unfortunate U-turn.
If I Never Meet a Man, it is OK. I am Happy.
The KGirl
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