Friday, September 13, 2013
Wine, MacGyver and Triangles. Oh, My! (did I mention wine?)
By Kelly Sinon
With my upcoming …ahem…20-something class reunion slated for next month, I am brought back five years ago to our fist 20-something class reunion (I’m class of ’88, if any of you are inclined to do the math. That’s 1988, not 1888).
I spent months fretting about the perfect dress, not to mention shoes; oh, and the purse to match, of course. I even had the dress altered. Apparently, I’m short-waisted. Is that a somewhat polite way of saying short? This was not a news flash.
This time, our Reunion Guru, Shannon was kind enough to spare us all the agony and booked a nice local place, with a casual dresscode. I could almost hear all of GHS Class of ’88’s collective sigh of relief.
We are free now, in our more… advanced years to focus on the more important things. Seeing old friends, and reliving old times.
Ever wake up to one of those “Winky Blinky” traffic barriers on your front lawn? I have …and so did my Dad, as she shook his head, walking down the sidewalk towards his’86 Firebird on his way to work. That “Winky Blinky” made the rounds to all of our friends and their unsuspecting parents. One of them had the misfortune of finding it in the middle of their living room (Love you, Gil and Sandy!).
Stuntwoman-like driving skills that cost a muffler over the railroad tracks, but a call to a guy friend, had us up and running again with MacGyveresque skills and a wire hanger.
These stories always require wine, and that’s where my house comes in. Just like back in the day (Sorry, Dad). Did someone say more wine?
Having The Triangle over afterwards to dish the dirt and giggle. The Triangle consists of four… yes, that’s right, four girls (Okay, women, now). We were “The only triangle with four sides.” It made perfect sense to us at the time and was uproariously funny. Only this time, we are without one of our “sides” as she lives abroad. You might think that now it’s a perfect triangle. But it’s not. The Triangle has also grown to include spouses, significant others and kids. Not sure what shape that is.
When we all see each other again, we will still be 17. We will still have full heads of hair, all of our own teeth and not a wrinkle among us. Our cars are nicer, though, and we won’t be carded when we hit the bar. Rose colored glasses are nice.
Did someone say more wine?
_____________________________________________________________________ _
Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. She lives in Gilroy with her family of four, and sometimes, three, as The Girl is off to school. Yet, another Triangle.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
I Got This....Just Watch Out for Rolling Cans of Corn
By: KELLY SINON
I find that when I say, "I got this", I really don't..."got this."
Whether it's grocery bags filled with all of the cans of corn purchased on special (Seriously,10 for $7.99 is not a deal to be passed up) and bagged by the I'm Not Hauling This Anywhere, So Suck It Up...Ma'am, teenager, or something more mentally challenging, like say, Sudoku (numbers never have been, and never will be my friends).
The older I get, the more I'm realizing that it's okay to say, "I don't got this."
Wine helps. It makes it easier to say, especially at 11:30 P.M., just after everyone else has gone upstairs to bed, and I'm pleasantly nodding out on the couch while debating heading up myself. I'm just not sure it makes it easier for people near me earlier in the evening to understand, depending on how many glasses (okay, that's not entirely true. You'll see why in a minute) I've had in order to be okay with saying, "I don't got this." Therein lies the conundrum.
Sober Kelly + "I got this" = probable mess in some fashion.
Slightly Inebriated Kelly + "I got this" = certain mess in all fashions.
I'm also not a big drinker, so a glass and half of whatever box (yes, I am in fact, just that classy) is in the fridge is a major deal.
Luckily, I have two things going for me. 1. I do not actually like the taste of alcohol. At all. Unless it's chocolate flavored. Or frozen and made with fruit. ...And even more importantly, made by someone else. 2. I'm a lightweight. My friends from my ...ehem...younger days, will remember me as the designated driver in all situations, or the as The Girl Most Likely To Be Nursing The Same Drink All Night At The Party. Bet that'll make my Dad happy to read.
Had I known of "I got this," as a kid, it would have been so handy. If there is a way to complicate something that should be simple, with nine more unnecessary steps, I would (and will still) find it, or better yet, invent it.
The question most posed to me by my father: "What the Hell are you doing?" which was immediately followed by, "What the Hell are you talking about?" I'm also pretty sure that it's genetic, because my father's voice comes out of my 5 foot, 2 inch body when posing the same (now legitimate) questions to my kids.
'No, no...I don't want to be a bother," has also been replaced as Jewish Motherspeak with "I got this," for the younger Jewish Mother set. I like it. I feel cool when I use it in this context. The best part is that the kids still know I'm exercising my Right to Guilt.
In times of trouble though, "I got this," has served me well. It's not always...okay, rarely... been true, but has certainly summoned the needed jolt of (stupidity) confidence, deep from the depths... and I've only dropped a few cans of corn.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Kelly Sinon can be seen at a grocery store near you, balancing boxes of wine and several cans of corn, but don't worry....She's got this.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Being The Good One...at Any Age
By Kelly Sinon
There's a phrase in our family that goes back a ways. Back to Brooklyn in the 50's when my Dad and his brother, Richie were growing up.
From what my sister and I could tell, It all stemmed from one, or maybe even both of their parents declaring one of their sons the winner of The Good One award, for any good deed. It was the 50's. No one was perfect.
As a kid, I remember my Dad and Uncle Richie Uncle Richie on the phone together (No, that is not a typo. He is fact called Uncle Richie Uncle Richie, now and forever because two little girls would be so excited to see their uncle, that they would jump up and down, and say, "Uncle Richie, Uncle Richie!" It stuck.), laughing and declaring each held the title of The Good One. I wasn't sure either of them really wanted it.
Fast forward to those two little girls growing up. We had seemingly put our own spin on The Good One, in our own unwritten and unspoken way. When you did something you hoped was great for the folks or something that made them laugh, you were awarded with the knowledge that you were now in fact... The Good One.
Being The Good One meant that you had certain Good One privileges until your sibling showed you up next week. The privileges were not given by the folks. Heck, they didn't even know that they had only one Good kid.
The Good One title is bestowed upon oneself, to the dismay of the Less Good One. Being the Good One, meant you had carte blanche with sticking-out-your-tongue and haughty sneer privileges at the Less Good One, in any given situation, when the folks were admonishing The Less Good one for something, thereby cementing your Good One status and your sibling's demoralizing Less Good One fate. It got to be perplexing when you were sure only one parent liked what you did or said. There was no such thing as Half a Good One. It was all or nothing, Both parents had to approve. So you can see how hard it was to become The Good One.
In our later years, once in a while, in jest ...(or was it?) one of us would out loud, in front of the parents, declare Good One status. Daring, I know. And just for fun...(or is it?) at any given family get-together, there is the inevitable announcement that someone is The Good One.
Parents never want to say that they might, at any given moment in time, say that they related better to one of their children and the other just confuses them. But kids know. And so The Good One is born.
In some ways, it was an equalizer, because you never held the position for long. Each of us got our moment in the sun and then later, that shining moment when you could call your sister and share the glory and declare her the winnner, as she does for you.
So, at 40-something, we've learned that we are both The Good Ones, but I can't promise that I will renounce my sticking-out-my-tongue privileges.
Kelly Sinon can be reached thesinons@yahoo.com...and she has declared her Good One status, until....
There's a phrase in our family that goes back a ways. Back to Brooklyn in the 50's when my Dad and his brother, Richie were growing up.
From what my sister and I could tell, It all stemmed from one, or maybe even both of their parents declaring one of their sons the winner of The Good One award, for any good deed. It was the 50's. No one was perfect.
As a kid, I remember my Dad and Uncle Richie Uncle Richie on the phone together (No, that is not a typo. He is fact called Uncle Richie Uncle Richie, now and forever because two little girls would be so excited to see their uncle, that they would jump up and down, and say, "Uncle Richie, Uncle Richie!" It stuck.), laughing and declaring each held the title of The Good One. I wasn't sure either of them really wanted it.
Fast forward to those two little girls growing up. We had seemingly put our own spin on The Good One, in our own unwritten and unspoken way. When you did something you hoped was great for the folks or something that made them laugh, you were awarded with the knowledge that you were now in fact... The Good One.
Being The Good One meant that you had certain Good One privileges until your sibling showed you up next week. The privileges were not given by the folks. Heck, they didn't even know that they had only one Good kid.
The Good One title is bestowed upon oneself, to the dismay of the Less Good One. Being the Good One, meant you had carte blanche with sticking-out-your-tongue and haughty sneer privileges at the Less Good One, in any given situation, when the folks were admonishing The Less Good one for something, thereby cementing your Good One status and your sibling's demoralizing Less Good One fate. It got to be perplexing when you were sure only one parent liked what you did or said. There was no such thing as Half a Good One. It was all or nothing, Both parents had to approve. So you can see how hard it was to become The Good One.
In our later years, once in a while, in jest ...(or was it?) one of us would out loud, in front of the parents, declare Good One status. Daring, I know. And just for fun...(or is it?) at any given family get-together, there is the inevitable announcement that someone is The Good One.
Parents never want to say that they might, at any given moment in time, say that they related better to one of their children and the other just confuses them. But kids know. And so The Good One is born.
In some ways, it was an equalizer, because you never held the position for long. Each of us got our moment in the sun and then later, that shining moment when you could call your sister and share the glory and declare her the winnner, as she does for you.
So, at 40-something, we've learned that we are both The Good Ones, but I can't promise that I will renounce my sticking-out-my-tongue privileges.
Kelly Sinon can be reached thesinons@yahoo.com...and she has declared her Good One status, until....
Friday, May 24, 2013
Judge Jessee...Inadvertent Drivers Ed Teacher
From a column printed in The Pinnacle newspaper, July 2007. My Hayfork friends reminded me of it...they will, I know, excuse some very slight creative license.
Between Us
By KELLY SINON
Driving behind Judge Jessee was always an exercise in patience and tolerance. Not that there was really any great hurry, or there was anywhere important to go. Highway 3 through Hayfork, California is maybe four miles long. On the upside, there is no stop light. There is only one light in the entire town actually, and that’s right before the one-lane bridge. It was installed in the early ‘80s amid grumbling about “city slickers” and their big city ways.
Judge Jessee was an old, retired judge who drove around in this huge, early-model behemoth of Detroit-made metal. He would be safe in any collision, not that there was any danger of that, since he only drove 11 miles per hour all though town, anyway. He was a “blinders driver”, never seeing anything to the side or the line of cars in the rear. If there was a parade procession of cars on any given day, you could be assured that the Judge was leading the pack at his standard 11 miles per hour.
My mother, the born and raised Brooklynite, would get upset, getting stuck behind poor old Judge Jessee. She was always in a hurry. Even when going down Highway 3 in Hayfork in the pick-up, on the way to Wiley’s Grocery store, which was the only “big” store in town.
Being a kid, whenever I saw Judge Jessee, I was in awe. He was really old. Maybe 105 (In actuality, he was probably 60). He couldn’t see very well, but he still had this presence of being a powerful man, still wearing his gray fedora wherever he went.
Hayfork has always been a safe place. The kind of place you want to raise your kids. Open fields and thick forests, too. Everyone knows each other and watches out for each other’s kids. That could also be bad, if Mrs.Hoglan from down the road bumps into your mom at the bank and tells her about the time you and your friends nearly plowed over her on the sidewalk (well, dirt sidewalk), while running down the street to the community pool. It was almost like Andy Griffith’s “Mayberry” since my sister Suzie and I were known as “The Mulry Girls” around town.
It was a safe place for kids to learn to drive too, since there were so many country roads, you only had to share them with the occasional piece of farm equipment or horseback rider.
I’m not so lucky to get to live in a place like that, anymore. The edge of Silicon Valley is a scary place for some experienced drivers, too. I’d love to be able to teach The Girl to drive in relative safety.
She’s on the Permit Path and eyeing a certain black VW Beetle in a car lot on Monterey Street . She’s done very well in her online courses that she’s supposed to take, before she hits the open road with an accredited, actual driving instructor. Driving Instructor?
Whatever happened to good old days of your best pal turning you lose in their car in the empty High School parking lot? Or your Dad screaming at you to “Look out for the trash cans!” as you back out of the driveway, narrowly missing an oncoming car, while trying not to drop his unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette.
In a way, it’s a good thing, having an instructor teach her, but I can’t help wondering, by default, how many Hayfork teenagers were taught how to drive at 11 miles per hour.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Kelly Sinon can be reached at thesinons@yahoo.com.
She lives in Gilroy with her family.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Compton's Mayoral Candidate Was Along for the Ride
By Kelly Sinon
I sat on the front porch with cherry popsicle dripping in red rivulets down my chin and onto my favorite shirt. I was five (and a half, if anyone asked me), and nothing was better on a hot East Bay day than the shade of our Spanish-style tract house's front porch while the smiling face of Jack in the Box spokeskid, Rodney Allen Rippy across my chest, caught errant drips of Safeway popsicle.
Life was good. I hadn't hadn't had my first pimple on picture day yet, all of my bad dye jobs lay in front of me, far into the future and I hadn't had my heart broken, yet. My hair was often a light brown mess, in a lopsided pony tail that hung down my back, and I had more scrapes and bruises on my legs than I could count from mishaps while learning how to ride a two-wheeler down my neighbors' driveway, or misjudging how far to jump after the jump rope had swung high over my head. I wasn't the most agile kid, but I was willing to try.
Rodney smiled, and declared,"It's Too Big A'Eat" as I pulled the last of the popsicle off he stick and crammed it into my mouth. Again misjudging. Too much popsicle, not enough room. That's okay. Rodney could have the rest, as the remainder slid out of my mouth, down my chest (I didn't have anything there to stop it from going any farther, yet), and landed with a wet slap in front of me on the entry walk way. Dad's going to be mad,I thought, as I kicked it with a sandaled toe into the planter box which held just dirt and remnants of dead daisies to my left, while wiping my red stained hands on Rodney.
My Dad was in the house watching football, and had promised like always, to come and get me and my sister when the half time show started. We liked the cheerleaders and the band (Ah, future Band Geek in the making).
I didn't know where my sister was. Dodging me, probably. At seven, she was much more sophisticated and did not want her younger sister tagging along when she went to Dorla's (what the heck was her last name?) house or to Marcy Van Horn's house a block over.
I could see my sister cringe when Mom would call down the stairs "Take Kelly with you!" when she would announce that she was going to one of their houses to play. She would heave a sigh, grab me by the wrist and haul me along. "Fine. Come on." Yay! I got to play with the big kids! I didn't care that I wasn't actually invited.
Once there, we would carefully pick our way through Marcy Van Horn's bedroom floor, as it was littered with toys, laundry, crayons, paper; all of the things that our rooms were not to be littered with. My sister and I gave each other the glance that only sisters can. It said,"You know, Mom would make us clean this room if she knew it looked like this." it was true. Our mother often had us clean the rooms of their friends' children when we would visit them. She had OCD by proxy.
I only wondered about my sister's whereabouts for so long. I was going to take my "Small Wheel" (a tiny version of every 70's kid's Big Wheel, which I was too small to reach the pedals on) for a spin down the block. I opened the front door to the house and walked down the hallway to the living room, so I could tell Dad where I was going. He never cared, as long as I was where I said I was going, and if I changed my plans, I had to let him know. He was a big believer in freedom, even for a five year-old. And nothing was safer than the suburban streets of the Danville Station subdivision in the spring of 1975.
Mounting my trusty steed, I felt empowered, cruising down the block, my legs stretching to meet the pedals. Even at five, I knew I could go anywhere with these legs. I could go down the block or even... to the creek! But, I was already at the end of the block. Did I want to turn around again, just to tell dad I was going to go to the creek? Nah, he's watching football. He won't even know.
I looked back toward the direction of the house one last time, and crossed El Capitan, and onto Zephyr Circle. I was in familiar, yet as of now, forbidden territory. Zephyr Circle was longer than Daylight Place. I wanted to get out of sight fast. Besides, the pollywogs were waiting. At the horseshoe of Zephyr, lies an expanse of lawn, with shade trees lining the far and, and just beyond that, The Creek. Parking my Small Wheel on the muddy bank, I kicked off my once white sandals. Cool clay mud squished stiffly between my toes, as a carefully made my way to the green/brown water alive with pollywogs and tiny water bugs.
The air was hot and still. The trees didn't move. But I could hear someone coming. I looked up to hear the soft swish that the plastic Big Wheel tires made on grass. Through the reeds that lined the creek, I could see a figure moving toward me. I wasn't scared. Big Wheels weren't driven by scary types. I was more curious. My sister pushed through tall grass.
"Hey, does Dad know you're here?" asked the authoritative seven year-old.
I thought about lying. But then she would invariably say at dinner or while I was trapped in the car with Dad, "Hey, remember that you were at the creek that time?" I gambled with what she might do with the information and told her the truth. She might spare me. Then again, she might use it against me as a bargaining tool for chores. Oh, well. This was better than the fear of the unknown.
We crouched on the bank of the muddy creek, scoping for semi-frog formed pollywogs, The ones with the back legs were the best. I leaned forward and stuck my hand unceremoniously and clumsily in the water. Pollywogs scattered. My sister, being older, was less Bull in a China Shop and managed to sneak up on some and scooped up three or four with a handful of water. We put our heads together and watched them swim in her hand. She lowered her hand and let them go, while I fell back on my butt and hands with a thud. Rodney then got a face full of mud, as my hands smeared across my chest. It was nice here, if not a little hot.
We played for a while and then didn't realize what time it was. I was five afterall, and don't even remember if I could tell time. Probably not, which was my (our?) undoing.
Voices. A deep one I recognized and a less deep one that instilled as much fear as the deeper one. My sister and I exchanged a quick fearful glance. Apparently, neither of us were supposed to be there. That's interesting.
Without saying a word, we grabbed our getaway vehicles and pedaled as fast as we could, but we knew there was no escape. They would see us. I risked turning around in my seat as I nearly stood up from pedaling so hard, that my heart nearly flew out of my chest; my ponytail smacking me in my face, in time to see my father's angry, yet somewhat surprised face. Were those stupid kids actually trying to...run away? My mother looked furious at having to come and look for us.
My sister, as usual was was way ahead of me, pedaling with all her might. she was too smart to turn around. Plus she had a Big Wheel, and I only had The Small Wheel. I was doomed.
This is where it gets hazy. Honestly, I do not remember ever making it to the house. Especially, making it before my parents who were on foot. Did we wait on the porch to be let in? Did we try to go around the back and go in through the sliding glass door, run and sit on the couch in the living room, pretending to watch TV like we'd been there the whole time? Never mind that they saw us, and my Dad being a cop, could very easily identify us. Yes, that's right. Two stupid kids on plastic tricycles. One inept, riding the tiny one and one less inept, riding a bigger one.
What sparked this random memory? The re-appearance of a name that I hadn't heard since form that spring, 38 years later. Jack in the Box was just a stepping stone into Rodney Allen Rippy's burgeoning political carer, as a candidate for the City of Compton Mayoral Seat, according to news accounts. He was always there for me. my portable napkin with the smiling face, my getaway companion.
Good luck to you, Rodney! I hope Compton's not "Too Big" for ya. _____________________________________________________________________________________________ Kelly Sinon can be reached at thesinons@yahoo.com
I sat on the front porch with cherry popsicle dripping in red rivulets down my chin and onto my favorite shirt. I was five (and a half, if anyone asked me), and nothing was better on a hot East Bay day than the shade of our Spanish-style tract house's front porch while the smiling face of Jack in the Box spokeskid, Rodney Allen Rippy across my chest, caught errant drips of Safeway popsicle.
Life was good. I hadn't hadn't had my first pimple on picture day yet, all of my bad dye jobs lay in front of me, far into the future and I hadn't had my heart broken, yet. My hair was often a light brown mess, in a lopsided pony tail that hung down my back, and I had more scrapes and bruises on my legs than I could count from mishaps while learning how to ride a two-wheeler down my neighbors' driveway, or misjudging how far to jump after the jump rope had swung high over my head. I wasn't the most agile kid, but I was willing to try.
Rodney smiled, and declared,"It's Too Big A'Eat" as I pulled the last of the popsicle off he stick and crammed it into my mouth. Again misjudging. Too much popsicle, not enough room. That's okay. Rodney could have the rest, as the remainder slid out of my mouth, down my chest (I didn't have anything there to stop it from going any farther, yet), and landed with a wet slap in front of me on the entry walk way. Dad's going to be mad,I thought, as I kicked it with a sandaled toe into the planter box which held just dirt and remnants of dead daisies to my left, while wiping my red stained hands on Rodney.
My Dad was in the house watching football, and had promised like always, to come and get me and my sister when the half time show started. We liked the cheerleaders and the band (Ah, future Band Geek in the making).
I didn't know where my sister was. Dodging me, probably. At seven, she was much more sophisticated and did not want her younger sister tagging along when she went to Dorla's (what the heck was her last name?) house or to Marcy Van Horn's house a block over.
I could see my sister cringe when Mom would call down the stairs "Take Kelly with you!" when she would announce that she was going to one of their houses to play. She would heave a sigh, grab me by the wrist and haul me along. "Fine. Come on." Yay! I got to play with the big kids! I didn't care that I wasn't actually invited.
Once there, we would carefully pick our way through Marcy Van Horn's bedroom floor, as it was littered with toys, laundry, crayons, paper; all of the things that our rooms were not to be littered with. My sister and I gave each other the glance that only sisters can. It said,"You know, Mom would make us clean this room if she knew it looked like this." it was true. Our mother often had us clean the rooms of their friends' children when we would visit them. She had OCD by proxy.
I only wondered about my sister's whereabouts for so long. I was going to take my "Small Wheel" (a tiny version of every 70's kid's Big Wheel, which I was too small to reach the pedals on) for a spin down the block. I opened the front door to the house and walked down the hallway to the living room, so I could tell Dad where I was going. He never cared, as long as I was where I said I was going, and if I changed my plans, I had to let him know. He was a big believer in freedom, even for a five year-old. And nothing was safer than the suburban streets of the Danville Station subdivision in the spring of 1975.
Mounting my trusty steed, I felt empowered, cruising down the block, my legs stretching to meet the pedals. Even at five, I knew I could go anywhere with these legs. I could go down the block or even... to the creek! But, I was already at the end of the block. Did I want to turn around again, just to tell dad I was going to go to the creek? Nah, he's watching football. He won't even know.
I looked back toward the direction of the house one last time, and crossed El Capitan, and onto Zephyr Circle. I was in familiar, yet as of now, forbidden territory. Zephyr Circle was longer than Daylight Place. I wanted to get out of sight fast. Besides, the pollywogs were waiting. At the horseshoe of Zephyr, lies an expanse of lawn, with shade trees lining the far and, and just beyond that, The Creek. Parking my Small Wheel on the muddy bank, I kicked off my once white sandals. Cool clay mud squished stiffly between my toes, as a carefully made my way to the green/brown water alive with pollywogs and tiny water bugs.
The air was hot and still. The trees didn't move. But I could hear someone coming. I looked up to hear the soft swish that the plastic Big Wheel tires made on grass. Through the reeds that lined the creek, I could see a figure moving toward me. I wasn't scared. Big Wheels weren't driven by scary types. I was more curious. My sister pushed through tall grass.
"Hey, does Dad know you're here?" asked the authoritative seven year-old.
I thought about lying. But then she would invariably say at dinner or while I was trapped in the car with Dad, "Hey, remember that you were at the creek that time?" I gambled with what she might do with the information and told her the truth. She might spare me. Then again, she might use it against me as a bargaining tool for chores. Oh, well. This was better than the fear of the unknown.
We crouched on the bank of the muddy creek, scoping for semi-frog formed pollywogs, The ones with the back legs were the best. I leaned forward and stuck my hand unceremoniously and clumsily in the water. Pollywogs scattered. My sister, being older, was less Bull in a China Shop and managed to sneak up on some and scooped up three or four with a handful of water. We put our heads together and watched them swim in her hand. She lowered her hand and let them go, while I fell back on my butt and hands with a thud. Rodney then got a face full of mud, as my hands smeared across my chest. It was nice here, if not a little hot.
We played for a while and then didn't realize what time it was. I was five afterall, and don't even remember if I could tell time. Probably not, which was my (our?) undoing.
Voices. A deep one I recognized and a less deep one that instilled as much fear as the deeper one. My sister and I exchanged a quick fearful glance. Apparently, neither of us were supposed to be there. That's interesting.
Without saying a word, we grabbed our getaway vehicles and pedaled as fast as we could, but we knew there was no escape. They would see us. I risked turning around in my seat as I nearly stood up from pedaling so hard, that my heart nearly flew out of my chest; my ponytail smacking me in my face, in time to see my father's angry, yet somewhat surprised face. Were those stupid kids actually trying to...run away? My mother looked furious at having to come and look for us.
My sister, as usual was was way ahead of me, pedaling with all her might. she was too smart to turn around. Plus she had a Big Wheel, and I only had The Small Wheel. I was doomed.
This is where it gets hazy. Honestly, I do not remember ever making it to the house. Especially, making it before my parents who were on foot. Did we wait on the porch to be let in? Did we try to go around the back and go in through the sliding glass door, run and sit on the couch in the living room, pretending to watch TV like we'd been there the whole time? Never mind that they saw us, and my Dad being a cop, could very easily identify us. Yes, that's right. Two stupid kids on plastic tricycles. One inept, riding the tiny one and one less inept, riding a bigger one.
What sparked this random memory? The re-appearance of a name that I hadn't heard since form that spring, 38 years later. Jack in the Box was just a stepping stone into Rodney Allen Rippy's burgeoning political carer, as a candidate for the City of Compton Mayoral Seat, according to news accounts. He was always there for me. my portable napkin with the smiling face, my getaway companion.
Good luck to you, Rodney! I hope Compton's not "Too Big" for ya. _____________________________________________________________________________________________ Kelly Sinon can be reached at thesinons@yahoo.com
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
De-Decorating...It's in the Bag
Christmas has been crammed (literally) into various artificial tree bags and Rubbermaid bins. I have made my declaration that this is my last year of being the sole decorator.
After hours alone, pushing pulling, stretching and packing, The Family Members suddenly make their appearances. One by one, of course... they wouldn't want to be too obvious. The Boy, as I am literally putting the last ornament into the last box, emerges, asking if I need help. The Girl, home from college for the holidays, wanders into the kitchen, well past noon for breakfast and deems me a "Grinch" because I made it plain that I am "so over" Christmas. The Husband, older and wiser, makes sure that his entrance is timed perfectly- as I come into the living room from putting (okay, fine... kicking and rolling) the tree into the garage. He makes the proper appreciative noises and appropriate Wonder Woman references on his way to the kitchen for coffee.
I don't move from my pouty pirch on the couch, where I've over-dramtically flung myself in the hopes that I've bought myself an entire day there. Plus, since they are all in the kitchen, I can only surmise that they have convened around the island are are soundlessly high-fiving each other.
This was my morning, as they planned their silent victory:
Last Saturday, 8: 30 A.M. - I begin to gather all of the decorations together from the living room, kitchen and dining room and put them on the island as some sort of a staging area. This should be easy, since I neatly stacked the organizer bins in the garage after I'd unpacked them, for ease of repacking. Okay, well... easy after I navigate the obstacle course that is our garage during the holidays.
Carrying two clear organizer bins over my head, the handle bars to Kirk's new bike, lying prone on the floor due the absence of a kick stand, still manages to injure me, as I snake past the recycling container, and the old mattress that is leaning against the piano that The Husband had hauled home because it was on the side of the road with a FREE sign on it. He called me and asked if I wanted a free piano. Duh! Who wouldn't? Never mind that it took my Dad and his engine cherry picked to dislodge it out of the back of The Husband's Suburban a few days later. I don't even want to know he managed to stuff it in there in the first place.
But I digress. Swearing, I unceremoniously dump the organizer bins on the floor next to the island where I begin the wrap things in (recycled, of course) newspaper, and pack them into the bin. Pick up item, wrap, bend, repeat. Wow, this took 45 minutes? It only took me 20 to put it all out, and that included swagging the plastic holly garland over the dining room window and hiding the bent paper clips used to hook it over the curtain rod.
9:45 A.M.- No coffee, and my bathrobe is getting really warm. A repeat visit to the garage to bring in the loaded bins and pick up more empties for the ornaments. Again, hitting my shin the seemingly innocent boy's bike on the floor of the garage.
Heaving a sigh, and contemplating my very sad life, I pull ornaments off the tree. First, one by one, because they each have a compartment in the bin. Five minutes later, I am grabbing them by the handfuls, leaving hooks dangling from wire branches and tossing them into the bin. A grinning picture of The Boy wishing us a "Mery Christmas" in the shape of a mitten from 2004 stops me long enough to ponder my growing children. Why is it that the older they get, the more I am doing for the holidays?
I have also now tipped the tree over completely onto the floor so that I can pull the ornaments from the top of the 9 foot tree. It stretches from the entrance to the living room, to the front of the couch.
10:20 A.M.- my robe is sticking to me. Ornaments down, its time to unwind the garland, festooned in a vain attempt at hiding the tree's bald spots like a glittery comb-over. The more I pull to unravel it, the more the tree turns in the direction I'm pulling. Seriously? Blowing my bangs out of my face, I give a final yank, and the strand of garland comes loose, slightly shaven from the bottle brush-like limbs.
10:40 A.M.- Wishing I could guarantee that no one would come down the stairs because this robe needs to go. Light removal. Yes, we have a pre-lit tree. Yes, all of the bulbs are dead. In a very military (and also cheap) fashion, we "over came, improvised and adapted" and strung a couple of single stranded lights around the tree. It looks sweetly understated when lit. Upon closer examination, you will see more dead lights than lit ones. And it just looks sad, halfway illuminating the ornament with all of our names on it, Kirk's misspelled.
I begin to unwind the lights. This shouldn't be so bad. There are only two strands. I grab an end and pull. The tree rotates like a chicken on a rotisserie. I wind the lights around my hand as more are released from the prickly clutches of the fake tree. One strand down. Diving into the scratchy tree to retrieve the end of the second, I pull again. A few lights come free, but then suddenly, I'm lifting the tree, itself. I know there are easier ways to do this. Say, with more than one person. But that's not an option. I manage to disentangle the lights, and resume pulling. It gets caught, again.
Okay, seriously. Where are the scissors? About to stalk off to the kitchen for them, I swear to God, one more pull and it comes loose. All of it. At once. The coffee table is my sudden sitting place, but I have the lights off the tree! I put them aside and go to the garage for the bag for the tree.
11:10 A.M.- Oblivious to anything else, but getting this *&^#% tree into the bag, and out of my sight. The tree is 9 feet tall. The bag is 6 feet, 1 inch tall. The tree is stretched out on the floor, looking naked, after someone plied it with too much eggnog, but it makes it easier for me dismantle. Right? I pull the stand off the bottom. No problem. That's the easy part. I try not to think that I just pulled it's panties off.
Obviously, I should move to the top of the tree and just pull that off. It's smaller, and then work back down. I pull...the tree follows. I yank... It follows faster. This isn't working. I try to locate the joint between the top and the next level, and counter pull. Wow, that's in there good. Why? It's not like it's going to come apart once it's standing. Or lying down, for that matter. I pull each apart, while simultaneously strangling the tree. That did it. It finally yields. I fold the branches down, umbrella-style, and move to the next level. I have to employ the same strangulation tactic on each of the three levels. Apparently, the tree is in fear of losing it's life. Me? Whatever works. All that's left to do is umbrella all the levels and put them in the bag. With the stand. And the garland. And the lights. And that one ornament that I missed.
I grab the lowest and largest level, and put it into the opened bag. Next, the medium, level. The bag doesn't want it. The umbrella-ing didn't seem to take as well. I do manage with just brutal force of will to get it into the bag. The top level looks like a well-worn thermos brush, but I cram it in, not caring that the umbrella is half-open. I also realize that the velvet tree skirt is a mess from fake needles as well as the carpet. I stuff the skirt into the bag. Lights. Garland. Ornament.
The bag now weights 350 pounds. The zipper is also broken and there is a hole at one end from last year when I declared it my last year of Christmas decorating and rammed the first level of tree through the bag. I make a feeble attempt at dragging the bag backwards through the living room, and into the hallway before the garage. It doesn't even come close to moving. I move to the other end, and try to push.
I should have eaten breakfast. This is clearly sapping all of my strength. Next, I move to the middle and yank it up by it's open, zipperless bag, like I'm grabbing it by the collar. "Listen, buddy. One way, or another, you are coming with me." style. That seems to jar it loose enough, and I'm able to finally alternately pull, kick, and roll it into the garage. Just past the doorway. It is no longer in my jurisdiction. The Husband can put it up on the shelf. So, from my couch to yours... I hope you had a very "Mery" Christmas and may your tree bag still have it's zipper.
After hours alone, pushing pulling, stretching and packing, The Family Members suddenly make their appearances. One by one, of course... they wouldn't want to be too obvious. The Boy, as I am literally putting the last ornament into the last box, emerges, asking if I need help. The Girl, home from college for the holidays, wanders into the kitchen, well past noon for breakfast and deems me a "Grinch" because I made it plain that I am "so over" Christmas. The Husband, older and wiser, makes sure that his entrance is timed perfectly- as I come into the living room from putting (okay, fine... kicking and rolling) the tree into the garage. He makes the proper appreciative noises and appropriate Wonder Woman references on his way to the kitchen for coffee.
I don't move from my pouty pirch on the couch, where I've over-dramtically flung myself in the hopes that I've bought myself an entire day there. Plus, since they are all in the kitchen, I can only surmise that they have convened around the island are are soundlessly high-fiving each other.
This was my morning, as they planned their silent victory:
Last Saturday, 8: 30 A.M. - I begin to gather all of the decorations together from the living room, kitchen and dining room and put them on the island as some sort of a staging area. This should be easy, since I neatly stacked the organizer bins in the garage after I'd unpacked them, for ease of repacking. Okay, well... easy after I navigate the obstacle course that is our garage during the holidays.
Carrying two clear organizer bins over my head, the handle bars to Kirk's new bike, lying prone on the floor due the absence of a kick stand, still manages to injure me, as I snake past the recycling container, and the old mattress that is leaning against the piano that The Husband had hauled home because it was on the side of the road with a FREE sign on it. He called me and asked if I wanted a free piano. Duh! Who wouldn't? Never mind that it took my Dad and his engine cherry picked to dislodge it out of the back of The Husband's Suburban a few days later. I don't even want to know he managed to stuff it in there in the first place.
But I digress. Swearing, I unceremoniously dump the organizer bins on the floor next to the island where I begin the wrap things in (recycled, of course) newspaper, and pack them into the bin. Pick up item, wrap, bend, repeat. Wow, this took 45 minutes? It only took me 20 to put it all out, and that included swagging the plastic holly garland over the dining room window and hiding the bent paper clips used to hook it over the curtain rod.
9:45 A.M.- No coffee, and my bathrobe is getting really warm. A repeat visit to the garage to bring in the loaded bins and pick up more empties for the ornaments. Again, hitting my shin the seemingly innocent boy's bike on the floor of the garage.
Heaving a sigh, and contemplating my very sad life, I pull ornaments off the tree. First, one by one, because they each have a compartment in the bin. Five minutes later, I am grabbing them by the handfuls, leaving hooks dangling from wire branches and tossing them into the bin. A grinning picture of The Boy wishing us a "Mery Christmas" in the shape of a mitten from 2004 stops me long enough to ponder my growing children. Why is it that the older they get, the more I am doing for the holidays?
I have also now tipped the tree over completely onto the floor so that I can pull the ornaments from the top of the 9 foot tree. It stretches from the entrance to the living room, to the front of the couch.
10:20 A.M.- my robe is sticking to me. Ornaments down, its time to unwind the garland, festooned in a vain attempt at hiding the tree's bald spots like a glittery comb-over. The more I pull to unravel it, the more the tree turns in the direction I'm pulling. Seriously? Blowing my bangs out of my face, I give a final yank, and the strand of garland comes loose, slightly shaven from the bottle brush-like limbs.
10:40 A.M.- Wishing I could guarantee that no one would come down the stairs because this robe needs to go. Light removal. Yes, we have a pre-lit tree. Yes, all of the bulbs are dead. In a very military (and also cheap) fashion, we "over came, improvised and adapted" and strung a couple of single stranded lights around the tree. It looks sweetly understated when lit. Upon closer examination, you will see more dead lights than lit ones. And it just looks sad, halfway illuminating the ornament with all of our names on it, Kirk's misspelled.
I begin to unwind the lights. This shouldn't be so bad. There are only two strands. I grab an end and pull. The tree rotates like a chicken on a rotisserie. I wind the lights around my hand as more are released from the prickly clutches of the fake tree. One strand down. Diving into the scratchy tree to retrieve the end of the second, I pull again. A few lights come free, but then suddenly, I'm lifting the tree, itself. I know there are easier ways to do this. Say, with more than one person. But that's not an option. I manage to disentangle the lights, and resume pulling. It gets caught, again.
Okay, seriously. Where are the scissors? About to stalk off to the kitchen for them, I swear to God, one more pull and it comes loose. All of it. At once. The coffee table is my sudden sitting place, but I have the lights off the tree! I put them aside and go to the garage for the bag for the tree.
11:10 A.M.- Oblivious to anything else, but getting this *&^#% tree into the bag, and out of my sight. The tree is 9 feet tall. The bag is 6 feet, 1 inch tall. The tree is stretched out on the floor, looking naked, after someone plied it with too much eggnog, but it makes it easier for me dismantle. Right? I pull the stand off the bottom. No problem. That's the easy part. I try not to think that I just pulled it's panties off.
Obviously, I should move to the top of the tree and just pull that off. It's smaller, and then work back down. I pull...the tree follows. I yank... It follows faster. This isn't working. I try to locate the joint between the top and the next level, and counter pull. Wow, that's in there good. Why? It's not like it's going to come apart once it's standing. Or lying down, for that matter. I pull each apart, while simultaneously strangling the tree. That did it. It finally yields. I fold the branches down, umbrella-style, and move to the next level. I have to employ the same strangulation tactic on each of the three levels. Apparently, the tree is in fear of losing it's life. Me? Whatever works. All that's left to do is umbrella all the levels and put them in the bag. With the stand. And the garland. And the lights. And that one ornament that I missed.
I grab the lowest and largest level, and put it into the opened bag. Next, the medium, level. The bag doesn't want it. The umbrella-ing didn't seem to take as well. I do manage with just brutal force of will to get it into the bag. The top level looks like a well-worn thermos brush, but I cram it in, not caring that the umbrella is half-open. I also realize that the velvet tree skirt is a mess from fake needles as well as the carpet. I stuff the skirt into the bag. Lights. Garland. Ornament.
The bag now weights 350 pounds. The zipper is also broken and there is a hole at one end from last year when I declared it my last year of Christmas decorating and rammed the first level of tree through the bag. I make a feeble attempt at dragging the bag backwards through the living room, and into the hallway before the garage. It doesn't even come close to moving. I move to the other end, and try to push.
I should have eaten breakfast. This is clearly sapping all of my strength. Next, I move to the middle and yank it up by it's open, zipperless bag, like I'm grabbing it by the collar. "Listen, buddy. One way, or another, you are coming with me." style. That seems to jar it loose enough, and I'm able to finally alternately pull, kick, and roll it into the garage. Just past the doorway. It is no longer in my jurisdiction. The Husband can put it up on the shelf. So, from my couch to yours... I hope you had a very "Mery" Christmas and may your tree bag still have it's zipper.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad…and Other Tales
By Kelly Sinon
I opened my eyes and felt a new feeling I wasn’t familiar with and I was…smiling. Smiling, first thing in the morning? I took tally of my “Things to Fret About” file in my head and realized that I must have dragged and dropped it into the recycle bin ( A. because ...well, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. And B. because I am me, I know it’s probably going to be short-lived. I was proven right, because ten minutes later, while reveling in this new feeling, it was somehow replaced by anxiety that I had nothing to be anxious about.).
The last couple of weeks, I have been Full of Fret (I know I could have said fretful here, but this sounds a lot more significant and dramatic… and really, since no one is editing me).
Dad had undergone shoulder replacement surgery and had had some pretty serious (although, if you ask him, “not that bad”) complications after, which put the near constant anxiety of the final word about our loan modification on hold.
Dad is 67, looks 57 and behaves likes he’s 27, still enjoying car racing and playing with cars. After he came home from surgery, a few days later, he was back in the hospital, thanks to his wife Carolyn not taking no for an answer, with a raging infection, and throat issues from an intubation gone wrong. Not able to eat, drink, or even speak well, he was still able to convey that he “didn’t need any help”, which on one hand was par for the course. He never needs help with anything (is that 8-year old me, bragging that her Dad is the biggest, strongest man in the world and could beat up your Dad? Probably.). On the other hand, my adult (?) self was very qualified to help him now, and it frustrated me that all I could do was walk their dog.
A week later, Dad was discharged almost none the worse for wear and recovering quickly. I teased him that I missed the sound of his voice, but it was really true. It was good to see him eating, drinking, and laughing , standing and looking tall to me again when they came over for dinner last night.
Sometime during all of this, we’d gotten the word that we were approved for our loan modification. It was a long ride, but at the end of it, all I could imagine was a new dishwasher (the bank was not getting my new dishwasher) , new floors (and dare I dream- new kitchen counters?), Katie, bringing home her future husband and Kirk walking down the stairs in a tux, on his way to the Prom. Did you notice that the dishwasher was number one on my list? Yeah, me too.
So, if it’s possible, I am going to embrace this Much Ado About Nothing anxiety. With a 27-year old father, two kids and a pretty self-contained husband, I am sure it will quickly be replaced with Much Ado About Everything in the Entire World anxiety. It’s okay…that feeling, I’m familiar with.
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Kelly Sinon will continue to live in Gilroy with her family. She can be reached at sksinon@aol.com
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