When I Went to the Big Apple.

Although as a Boston resident and New Englander, I’m contractually obligated from birth to root for the downfall of the Yankees, I really love visiting New York City.

View of Empire State Building from my friend’s apartment approximately 2 minutes before the sky opened up.

Mostly, I stick to Manhattan and Coney Island (Mermaid Parade, anyone?), so when my friend got us tickets to see The Postal Service at Barclay’s Center in Brooklyn, I was pretty psyched.  I had a great time in NYC, but full disclosure:  A LOT went wrong (I’m a disaster magnet)- from me forgetting my phone on the way to the train station at 5:15 a.m. to breaking various things, including my ass (ok, tailbone, but let’s call a spade a spade).  At one point, I said, “Screw it.  I’m going to just enjoy the good stuff, because what the hell else am I going to do?”

I figured I’d give you a little peek at exactly how the weekend went.  I give you….(dramatic pause)….my travel  [b]log.

Thursday

Night:

Start packing to head to friend’s (Melissa’s) house, realize iPad is missing.  Have complete and total meltdown, head back to office at 10:30 p.m. in pouring rain, search in vain.  In midst of ensuing pity-fest when “Find my iPad” refuses to work, allow Melissa’s boyfriend to lure me to their place, with promise of wine.

Friday

5:15 a.m.: 

In taxi realize forgot cell phone.  Cab turns around, tacking four bucks on meter.  Taxi driver most certainly going for world record in slow taxi driving.

 6:15 a.m.:

6 a.m. bus finally starts boarding.  OUTLET WORKS- HOORAY! Seatmate questionable smelling- BOO!

6:20-12:00 p.m:

Read trashy books on Kindle entire bus ride- can feel brain cells dying.  Four hour ride turns into six. However, THIS bus doesn’t catch fire, like the last time I came to NYC in June.

Exhibit A. June 2012. During a lovely heat wave. 

12:20-1:30 p.m.

Camp out at friend’s in Manhattan and call nine different stores asking if they have iPad to no avail.  Want to go back to Boston to throttle idiot at Lucky Brand, who said, ”YES…unfortunately, we DON’T have an iPad.”

1:30 p.m.-3:30 pm

Walk mile and a half to MoMA.  Finally, things looking up.  Pay 25 bucks and let MoMA soothe me.

Take particular interest in this painting, as it seems an accurate summary:

Read/Reap (Bruce Nauman, 1983) had me rethinking my earlier choice of reading material…guiltily.

Enjoy some other faves:

From upper left: 1 of six prints: Art and Agriculture, Liam Gillick, 2011; Marilyn Monroe 1, James Rosenquist, 1962; Girl with Ball, Lichtenstein, 1961; Piet Mondrian, Composition with Red, Blue, Black, Yellow and Gray, 1921; Claude Monet, Waterlilies, 1914-26; Vincent Van Gogh, Starry Night, 1889…

(To browse check out this link to the ENTIRE  amazing collection.)  I’m a wimp and don’t want to get a license infringement notice, so you’ll have to settle for these and this link.

3:30 pm

Meet back up with Melissa and walk mile and a half back to friend’s apartment.  Get scathing looks/comments for suggesting it was just around the corner.  Apparently, “just around the corner and a mile and a half away” would have been more accurate.  (SORRY, M!)

4:00 pm

Stop at gluten-free bakery for Melissa to soften her up.

This got two big thumbs up from Melissa- lots of butter, apparently. If this means anything to you- it’s at the corner of 39th and Lex.

5:00 p.m.

Leave Manhattan for Brooklyn.  Caught in torrential downpour.  Have worst fall of life walking into subway (and I was a figure skater and I’m a crazy skier), humiliate self.  Take five minutes to stand up without throwing up or passing out.  Determine will live and can remember vital details about self. Gingerly make way to Brooklyn and Hotel Indigo.

5:30-6:30 p.m.

Settle in at Hotel- which is fabulous.

Who needs a real chandelier when you can have a trippy giant mural of a chandelier close-up on the ceiling? This was perfect for a girl with a head injury.

Attempt to do yoga to stretch back.  Catch view of ass in full length mirror in Downward dog.  Cringe.   Passive aggressively banter about what to do for dinner before show.  Finally decide to wing it.

 7:00 p.m.

Realize will miss opening act, decide to get good dinner instead.  End up at Turkish place with vegan/veg/gluten free options for everyone.  Eat best falafel of life.  Things DEFINITELY looking up.  Told by waiter, “I will never forget you.”  Melissa retorts: “She gets that a lot.”  Unsure if this is a compliment.

8:50 p.m. -10:30 p.m.

Barclay’s for The Postal Service Concert!  Take seats with view of Ben Gibbard’s backside.  No one complains.  General agreement that NY show was 98697687687 times better than Boston.

Home of the Brooklyn Nets- Barclay’s! By the time The Postal Service came on, this place was packed to the rafters.

Objects in picture were closer than they appear. The energy was electric and the sound quality was unparalleled! It’s times like this i am so thankful for the hearing that I have.

10:45 p.m.

Target trip for Aleve- starting to really feel that fall in an unpleasant way.  Luckily, store closing, only buy Aleve and not useless crap.  Walk back towards hotel and take in a few sights.  Melissa in instagram heaven.

For more information on Art in the Streets, click on image.

 11:30 p.m 

Hit neighborhood “hip” bar.  Highly suspicious when bartender has no idea what a whiskey smash is.  End up with decent drink and people watch.  Conclude that I could show up dressed like a cross between Katy Perry and Liberace and no one would bat an eye.  (P.S. If anyone knows an app that could create this image, do let me know.)

3:00 a.m. 

Bed!  Take several aleve in the hopes will be able to move in morning.  Not optimistic.

Saturday

10:30 a.m. 

Schlep creaking body into scalding shower, emerge somewhat more mobile.  Pop more Aleve.  Discover gold earring fell out of ear at some point.  Cannot locate.  Still beat Melissa in the getting ready to go game.

I am ALWAYS ready before she is, but this is because her hair isn’t hopeless and she can do more than throw it up, in her defense.

11:45 a.m.

Check out of hotel, leave name in case earring located.  Not optimistic.  Head to Union Square/14th Street for Farmer’s Market.  Have best apple juice of my life and strawberries so ripe could smell them before spotted them.

Eat this sandwich, made on a park bench with purchased ingredients from said Farmer’s Market.

With this view of Union Square Park.

2:30 p.m.

Revel in nerdiness and hit “The Strand.” Predictably, purchase tote bag designed by Kate Spade and book of short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald (“Flapper and Philosophers”).

3:00 p.m. 

Head to Central Park.  Miscalculate distance.  FINALLY get to Sheep’s Meadow.  Lots of picture taking ensues.

Bonus points if you can spot half naked people- there were A LOT of them.

To end photo shoot, do best impression of a Sears Portrait Studio Glamour shot:

Notice how the light reflects off of BRIGHT WHITE SKIN. Sheeesh! I look radioactive.

Resolve to get a little sun.

5:30 p.m. 

Head to Penn Station at mercy of kamikaze cab driver.  Emerge relatively unscathed after harrowing trip through Times Square.

Somehow, I made it through the weekend- I was still in one piece, I managed to have a great time, and that, as they say, was that.  A four hour train ride, plenty of pineapple (and dirty jokes), and we were home, sweet home.  I hope your weekend was as zany and fun as mine!

How I Deal With a No Good, Terribly Awful Bad Day

Growing up, my dad taught me several things:

•   ALWAYS make sure the ladder is secure before climbing onto the roof.  If you DO find yourself in a free fall, try “tuck and roll.”

•   Installing an ironing board that folds down to sit over the toilet in the laundry room is a bad idea, even if the room is super small (it took ONE pant leg in the toilet to make him take that thing down).

•   Stuff your face when in the orchard picking apples.

• There is nothing better than a dog.

• You get what you pay for.  Buy quality.

• There are a lot of schmucks out there (“You know.  Ronald Reagan. President. Actor. Schmuck.”  That’s a direct quote.  I do not feel strongly about Reagan one way or the other.).

•  Adding red wine to chicken will turn it purple (not an issue, since I don’t eat meat, but knowledge is power!).

• Driving a speedboat onto the beach like a maniac, will, indeed, get rid of SOME barnacles on its hull.

• Wooden roller coasters are the best kind.

• If you find yourself in the drugstore with odd implements in your hair because you let your kid play hairdresser and she didn’t take them all out before you left the house…just roll with it (it was a butterfly barrette, ok?  It was pretty.).

Dad and I- obviously, this was the 80′s. And interior decorators, my parents were not.  It is also possible I am drooling in this picture.

Above all, though, what I learned from my dad was the power of humor and the importance of hope.  Growing up, my dad was the consummate ladies man and bad boy.  He was an all-star baseball player, a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and a chronic flirt with a penchant for numbers.

Appearances can be deceiving, though.  He was deaf, he had juvenile onset (Type I) diabetes and later, he would find out that he had Friedrich’s ataxia, a disease that erodes the cerebellum.  Eventually, this would rob him of his ability to walk, and the dexterity that allowed him to take a car engine apart and put it back together (he could build ANYTHING). When my dad passed away, he was blind from diabetes complications, profoundly deaf and confined to a wheelchair.  He was on dialysis from kidney failure (another diabetes complication) and he was hospitalized again and again as infections and other complications wracked his body.

I write this not to make you pity him, but I tell his story so that people can understand how truly amazing it was that he had not lost hope.  Hope that his life would improve.  Hope that he would be able to rejoin society.  Hope for his children.

For the last few years of his life, communication was exceedingly difficult.  He was trapped in his body- he couldn’t hear, but he had plenty to say.  When we first realized he was going blind and would no longer be able to read lips or see sign language, I had to think fast.  When I was a child we played a game before bed time where he would trace letters and words on my back.   So, I told his girlfriend (he was in FL, I was in RI at the time) about our game and told her to give it a try.  She called me later that day and reported back that she started tracing out the letters of my name on his back, and he started to cry when he realized what she was doing.  He remembered.

It was our game that became his lifeline.  Other than “two taps for yes and one for no,” every sentence was painstakingly spelled out on his back.  At the time of his death, he was learning morse code, hopeful that this would make communication easier, and that he would be able to travel with a companion (his own Annie Sullivan, if you will).  He had turned down my offer of a kidney if we were a match, but was hopeful that dialysis would continue to work.  He talked about the future.  He still laughed and joked.  Often, he’d poke fun of himself.  Sometimes he would tease me (mostly about my love life and shoe obsession).  Sometimes he’d tell stories of his youth (he was an incredible story teller and very very funny).  I would rest my head on his shoulder or if we were sitting on the floor, on his knee so that he could feel me laughing as he spoke.   Towards the end, it felt as though he was cataloging his life- getting the stories out while he still could and making sure his history would carry on.

It does carry on.  Even though it’s been six years since I’ve heard his voice, his laugh, or gotten one of his really really great hugs, it is always, always with me.  I watched my dad die.  I sat and held his hand with my brother holding the other.  I was with him when he went out of this world like he was with me when I came into it.  It changed me irrevocably. I lost 80 pounds and turned my life around.  I take better care of myself. I take chances.  Every single day, I am thankful I can see, I can walk, run, do a cartwheel, ice skate, ski, play volleyball, walk on the beach, and so many other countless things. When I complain about the small stuff, I try to remember my dad- quick-witted and sharp minded as ever, but trapped in a body that didn’t work, and how he refused to quit.  He refused to accept that this was the hand he had been dealt. He had his rough moments, but he handled it with humor and he even handled it with optimism, when optimism was hard to come by.

So, yeah.  Maybe I had a bad day. That’s ok.   It’s relative, really.  It’s ok to wallow for a bit, but sooner, rather than later, I know to pick myself up and dust myself off.  I have to believe that things will get better.  I have to try not to sweat the small stuff.  How can I not?  After all, I AM my father’s daughter.  Happy Father’s Day.

When Technology Turns on You.

I’m going to preface this by saying that I’m actually pretty proficient with technology… aside from television.  For the love of all that is holy- you do NOT need six remote controls (I’m looking at you, *almost* every male I know).  Maybe get this thing (or something similar):

(click for source/link)

I am also shamefully addicted to gadgets.  Generally, I do not leave the house without my iPhone and iPad.

Let’s talk about my iPhone, though.  Armed with an upgrade after having my iPhone 4 for two years, I fell victim to the iPhone 5.  Out of the box, I was enthralled with Siri and I confess: I asked the customary, “Siri, where can I bury a body?” question, along with several others not suitable for mention here until the novelty wore off.  Once I got Siri to stop calling me “Jennifer,” and subsequently, to stop calling me “Jenny with a y,” I was pretty thrilled with her.  Even months into our relationship, I still loved Siri.   There were lots of ways that she made things just a little easier/faster.

Lately, however, Siri and I just haven’t been getting along so well.  A few weeks ago, I had just emerged from a comedy show with my friend, still laughing at the best punchline of the night (“My weave, my business!”) and discussing how a mention of Mexican food left us wanting a plate of nachos for dinner.

Sadly, we weren’t even in the same state as my favorite place for them (shout out to the amazingly tasty vegan nachos at Garden Grille Cafe in RI!). Instead, we were in Cambridge, it was late at night, and as I’m not as familiar with the lay of the land in this little republic across the Charles River, I decided to consult the ever knowledgeable Siri.  It went a little like this:

Jenny: Siri, where can I get some nachos around here?

Siri: I have found the following recipes for nachos- ***cue list of nacho recipes from the internet***

Jenny (outraged):  Bitch, please!  I don’t wanna MAKE nachos, I wanna EAT them.

Siri:  There is no need for profanity.

Jenny:  Suck it.

Ever since this startling show of maturity on my part, I am convinced she’s turned on me as she refuses to work properly.  It’s like she’s playing deaf.  Or dead.  She’s worse than me playing that stupid “Telephone” game.

Sadly, I now have to schedule things on my calendar myself, google map locations myself, schedule reminders for myself, and horror of all horrors, actually open up the internet application and search for things myself.  Luckily, since an unfortunate voice recognition text to my stepfather in which the word “virtually” was interpreted as “vaginally” and I didn’t catch it before hitting send, I have always texted manually, so no loss there.  Although, I have to say that it’s not really all that lucky that the message went to my stepdad.

I’ve started to wonder: has technology made us [i.e. me] lazy? 

It’s possible.  And likely.  I can’t remember the last time I used a hard copy of ANYTHING when looking up/researching information.  I haven’t used an encyclopedia not starting with “wiki” in years.  I’ve talked several friends down from the ledge after excessive use of WebMD (Apparently, every affliction on this planet can be somehow tied to cancer).  I can buy size tall pants online and not have to go to 76878 different stores desperately searching for anything other than an unintentional highwater.  I don’t have to torture myself trying to think of where the HELL I saw the vaguely familiar actor on TV- hello, IMDB!  This is just the way of things.

Yesterday, I was telling my nine year old cousin that when I was her age, we didn’t have the internet in school.  When she expressed in both her atrocious facial expression and words that this was APPALLING and unimaginable, I joked that my parents had to chisel their essays on a stone tablet back in the day.  I think she might have actually believed me.

If technology continues to turn on me, I suppose you can expect a post on my trip to the quarry to mine my slate, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.  Siri and I are officially on a break.

Miss Communication

Here are a couple of  little public service announcements for you.   First, always be careful when signing “hungry.”

More than one swipe of your hand and it means hungry for something else entirely.  Second,  if you teach your friends how to sign “bitch,” it’s probably going to come back and bite you in the ass at some point.  Voila! Those are my announcements for today.

Anyway, this morning, I made my usual pit stop at Starbucks for my usual overpriced (yet delicious) latte.  While I was waiting for said latte, I spotted a guy wearing this shirt for gay pride today in Boston:

For those of you who don’t know how to fingerspell: this says “equal” and it’s part of the human rights campaign for gay, lesbian and transgender equality.

Curious as to where he got it, I politely inquired, and wasn’t shocked when he didn’t respond, but looked up in a delayed reaction and signed, “sorry, deaf.”  I smiled and proceeded to sign, “No problem.  Where’d you buy your shirt? ”  He was pleasantly surprised and we struck up a quick conversation.  The entire time we were chatting, all of Starbucks stared.

Now, I’m accustomed to being stared at when I sign with my mom.  It’s blatant and I think that it goes with the territory.  It’s not all that commonplace for many people and so they’re curious.  It doesn’t bother me.  But certainly, in this case, the irony of this was not lost on me.  We were chatting in sign language about a shirt that advertises “equality.”  I was reminded of the fact that there are inequalities that befall people like my mom and others who are profoundly deaf- it’s everywhere.

Every movie theater that doesn’t offer accommodations, every insurance company that won’t cover hearing aids, every play or public event that doesn’t have interpreters, shitty captioning on Youtube, Netflix offerings without captioning, people who say nasty things, think deaf people are stupid, and don’t bother to repeat themselves- they are all perpetuators of inequality.  Shame on them.  And while we’re at it, shame on anyone who thinks it’s within their rights to tell ANYONE who they should or shouldn’t love.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we communicate lately, in my master’s program studies, as a designer, as a hard of hearing person, as a daughter of deaf parents, and it blows my mind to think about the thousands of different ways that we deliver messages- literally and figuratively-to the world around us.  But let’s be honest- there is nothing like a little deaf (mis?)communication for a good laugh, so here are some good ones as of late.

During an increasingly desperate search for a lamp for my new parsons desk:

Me: Let’s go to Cardi’s furniture.  I’m desperate- I’ve been looking for a lamp for my new desk for a MONTH.

Mom:  I HATE that place.  They stalk you and follow you around.  They told nana she had to have someone with her when she went in there!

Me:  Well, THAT’S creepy…

Mom: I KNOW!  Let’s just sign the whole time, pretend to be deaf mutes, and they’ll leave us alone!

Me: BRILLIANT!

It’s always super fun to pretend to be stone deaf and then shock the crap out of people when I speak.

Late one night on text:

Josh:  What do you think are the odds mom will get me Taco Bell on her way home from work?

Me:  Er…She’s not so good with the drive thru and that’s the only thing open now, yes?

Josh: I really want Taco Bell.

Me: First, ew.  But, sometimes she drives up to the speaker, waits until she hears SOMETHING (or not), yells, “I’m deaf, I have to come to the window!” and just drives on.  Sometimes I can still hear them yelling as she’s driving away.

Josh: Ok, so, maybe no.

A few days later….

I’m pleased (for my brother) to report that this one was a win, people!

Why I Stopped Food Blogging.

In 2007 I started a blog called “Colorhungry,” joining the legions of people starting food and cooking blogs.  I reasoned that #1 I knew how to cook thanks to my grandma, who insisted that I learn, “not to feed a husband,” but to feed myself; and #2 I passionately loved to write.  Obviously, I thought, this would make for a SMASHING success.  My overactive imagination (taking a break from pairing me up with Ryan Reynolds- don’t judge)  conjured up thoughts of appearances on Oprah and an invitation to join the Food Network.  I laugh hysterically thinking about this now, because let me just tell you- I got a pretty rude wakeup call and it happened much faster than I could have imagined.

I have nothing at all against cooking or food blogs.  So, why did I pretty quickly grow to loathe my blog?  I resented it.  Every meal became about “Can I put this on the blog?”  It stopped being about the love of food and cooking because it was about getting the perfect shot and writing down a delicious sounding, easy-to-follow recipe (I have so much respect for recipe developers).  The writing started to feel routine and contrived.  Photographing while cooking?  Terrible.  The steam fogs up the lens and you constantly have to wash your hands so you don’t get the camera dirty (and you better keep tons of hand lotion on hand to prevent a rhinoceros-like skin texture).  In the search for the perfect shot, the food often goes cold or loses its luster.  Often, by the time I took a halfway decent picture in crappy light, I was either starving or so frustrated that if I so much as looked at the food for another minute, I was liable to throw a very unflattering fit (don’t judge).

Blogging and writing became a chore because I had boxed myself into this little niche and once I established it, it was very difficult to get out of it.  When you’ve built up one small facet of yourself and that’s all you’ve shown because you THINK that’s what people want, you figure that’s what people expect. I felt trapped.  I never felt like I could write about what I wanted to write about- it was a food/cooking blog and that was that.  Towards the end of Colorhungry, I tried to infuse it with a little more of my actual personality, but by that point, I had lost any passion I might have once had and it felt like too big of a task to try to change it when I wasn’t motivated to do it.

Now, the purpose of this post is NOT to disparage food/cooking blogs.  On the contrary, there are several that I still read and one of my dearest friends in the world is a food/cooking blogger, with a fabulous blog, in which she often branches out of the food/cooking box.  My point with this post is simple.  Blogging only works well when you feel something about what it is you are writing about.  When your writing lacks soul (whether it be passion, interest, humor, etc), it all too often becomes a chore for you and formulaic for readers.  I see so many well-established blogs, of all different persuasions, floundering because the writers have not allowed their blogs to change WITH them.  Blogging burnout is NOT a mythical creature.

I started this blog because I was itching to write again, but this time I wanted to leave myself open to possibilities.  There are so many facets to me- who I am, what I do, what I love, how I perceive the world, that it would be a disservice to MYSELF to limit opportunities.  This time it’s not about how many readers/followers I can get.  It’s not about perks.  It’s not about anything other than the sheer love of writing.  Don’t misunderstand- I am SO THANKFUL to and humbled by everyone who reads and likes this little blog of mine.  This time around, though, when someone responds and connects with me or what I write, it’s just a little sweeter because I know its ME that they’re responding to.  There are A LOT of “theme” blogs out there right now- so many genres to choose from.  I think it’s ok not to fit yourself into a category.  I can honestly say that I have a lot more fun that way.

Pintesting: Or as my mother would say: Pin-nin-testing.

First, I can no longer pronounce Pinterest properly in my head, as I can only hear my mother saying”Pin-nin-terest.”  It’s quite the affliction.

Keep reading. I promise this graphic is relevant to this post.

Anyway, I’ve shared my frenemy relationship with this soul-sucking black hole of a website where twee goes to die.  Alas, I keep going back to it.  Pinterest and I never stay broken up.  I was terribly afraid I was alone in my love/hate relationship with this instrument of the devil, when I discovered Sonja Foust’s blog: Pintester.  What is this stroke of genius, you ask? Well, in the name of research, Sonja tests pins so we don’t have to.  She has wrapped her body in saran wrap after coating it with a questionable mixture of old body creams, made satanic deviled eggs, nearly set her hand on fire, created baked goods that would probably bounce, and much more.  As an added bonus, she has a delightfully dirty sense of humor while she does it (if you have a “delicate constitution” when it comes to profanity and filthy jokes, this isn’t the blog for you).  It’s a winning combination.

So, when Sonja put out the call to ask us “Pintestes” (there’s that dirty thing) to join her in the Pintester movement, I signed up and prepared to fail quite hilariously, vowing to pick the weirdest pin I could find. I then amended it to “the weirdest pin I could find that wouldn’t give me nightmares,” probably because of visual dalliances with things likes this :

Someone, somewhere, actually made this and presumably, brought it out into public.                                                                         Notice how it appears to have retained its ass imprinted shape.

Next up: “How to build a floating canoe for your dish soap with popsicle sticks and a glue gun!”

I would like to take this opportunity to go on record as saying that if I EVER start to dress, accessorize, or otherwise “jazz up” my cleaning supplies (this includes glitter in the windex), please send help.  Moving on.  Very nearly frightened out of doing this project, I decided to take a break and feasted my eyes on this little rock.

For a split second, my heart lifted, but then I remembered that my life is not a Hallmark movie. No way could I secure one of these things by the deadline of May 30. Phooey. It’s probably a blood diamond, anyway.

Bolstered by this showing of good taste, I forged on, turning my attention to fashion DIY.

Now, I will say that this was pinned for that scarf. I’m not sure what it says about me that I found myself thinking, “I suppose you could find a ball thingy like that from Pier 1, glue it to a headband and call it a day.” See what Pinterest does to you?

I quickly veered back to the Craft/DIY section, where I happened upon what appeared to be a pretty promising project.  Until I realized I would have to paint hundreds of plastic spoons by hand.

I made one more tentative fray outside of the Craft/DIY section, where a recipe for vegan deviled eggs caught my attention, but I was deterred by the thought that if they really were as “true to the real thing” as possible, that sulfur smell had to come from SOMEWHERE.  About to give up, I decided to give the Crafts/DIY section one more shot and  lo and behold!  Buried in a quite religious-leaning post, complete with fanciful prose was a project that I could do, would LIKE to do, and wouldn’t require a trip to a hardware store, the art store, or result in a trip to the emergency room.  I gathered my supplies, and prepared to complete my pintest.

You’ll see that I declined to use bible pages and hymnals (I really have no idea, but is cutting up the bible kind of like cutting up the flag?), choosing instead to use some colorful papers I had lying around.  My supplies:

Obviously, the occasion called for coffee frozen yogurt and strawberries. I also threw in the paper, wire cutters, tacky glue, metal rods and scissors.

 The first instruction I ignored?  Rather than use the template, I eyeballed the feather and metal rod cutting because I am a complete rebel. Basically, I cut some wonky looking surfboard shapes with the paper back-to-back and glued the rods in between so the patterned paper showed on both sides.

Then, it was time to move to cover the ends, a task that inspired a bit of profanity.  The finished product?  Absolutely terrible.

This wasn’t the last mistake I made, either.  There was an unfortunate slip of the scissors, which, thank the Pinterest gods, I was able to fix.

Despite these two earth shattering obstacles, I bravely forged on after peeling the layers of glue from my cuticles.  I made the cuts, and used my fingers to shape the feathers ever so slightly.  I suppose I ended up with a decent product. Here’s a side by side comparison:

Here they are in an appropriately twee setting.

So, my first Pintest was a success.  I’m sure this is because I didn’t smear weird things on my face, use an iron for a purpose other than to iron clothing or linens, combine brownies, cookies, pie and bourbon into a brookpiebon or something along those lines, or attempt to make a smart car out of lincoln logs.  Keeping it simple is sometimes the best way to go.

When your parents are deaf.

First, a couple of items of business.  Numero uno:  I am incredibly honored to have been freshly pressed (that sounds like I was run through a juicer), and I am touched and humbled by the responses I have gotten and those of you who have started following this little blog.  Thank you for reading and for all of your comments – some that made me tear up, some that made me laugh, and one that, admittedly, was pretty gross (to be fair, there was a fart reference in the post in question, so I’ll let it slide). Numero dos: I am recovering from a nasty flu-like virus as I write this.  So, any errors, let’s chalk it up to the Dayquil, shall we?

Now, let’s talk about the good stuff.  No, not the GOOD good stuff.  I’ve told you before- my grandma reads this.  I want to talk a bit about what it was like growing up with profoundly deaf parents.  I’ve never intended for this blog to be about the deaf/hoh experience, but I never thought people would be terribly interested.   Apparently, I was wrong, so, when the mood hits, I’ll continue to write about it.

A while back, I had the following conversation with my cousins.

Lily (Age 12):  So, I invented this thing called sledbagging.

Me (attempting to hide laughter at name of  said invention):  What the heck is that?

Maddie (Lily’s sister, age 9): Basically, you get in a sleeping bag and slide down the stairs.

Me:  What?! Doesn’t that hurt?

Maddie:  Not as much as the laundry basket! That was Lily’s first idea.

Me:  Lily, what the heck are you making Maddie do this stuff for?

Lily:  Do I LOOK dumb enough to try this stuff first?

I, too, forced my little brother to do a lot of questionable stuff, my favorite of which was tying tomato stakes to his snow boots and making him “ski” down the rocky hill in our backyard (no, it didn’t work).  I got away with A LOT because my mother couldn’t hear me plotting and planning.  Nor could she hear the screaming that ensued when my plans went awry, as they inevitably did.

My brother is completely hearing and as a child my hearing was not as poor as it is now, so I suppose you could say that we were hearing children raised by deaf parents.  I’ll preface this next sentence with a “sorry, mom!” but we cashed in on it in every way, shape and form possible.  That’s right- these two innocent looking kids=hellions.  I think I was acting out because I was resentful of my damned hair (I hadn’t heard of frizz ease yet).  Or maybe I was just a brat.

The hair! The sweater! But look how cute Josh was. You can clearly see how he got away with everything.

What, exactly, did we do? We talked back under our breath (I’d be an awesome ventriloquist- you can’t move your lips- deaf parents lip read), we snuck out of our rooms at night and hid behind the couch in back of them watching TV we had no business watching, we hid out in the attic that we were expressly forbidden from entering, snuck out of our rooms while grounded, we would talk to each other from our bedrooms at night, listen to music when we were supposed to be quietly doing our homework or “thinking about what we did,” etc.

I have a really bad microwave track record.  The first microwave (yes, I said the FIRST) I ever set a fire in, my mother was downstairs on the computer and Josh and I were upstairs trying to make popcorn.  The bag burst into flames and we started screaming like maniacs.  I unplugged it and we ran back and forth from the sink to the microwave, putting out the fire.  When my mom still didn’t appear, we cleaned it up and I sprayed her perfume ALL OVER THE KITCHEN.  It was like a Perfumania detonated their version of the atom(izer) bomb.  She came up shortly after we’d repaired the damage, sniffed the air and said, “Have you been playing with my perfume?”  That’s right.  I set a kitchen fire as a child with my mother in the house, she wasn’t asleep or in any other way unconscious, and I got away with it.

Our house was always super popular on Halloween.  It wasn’t because we gave out full-size candy bars or we had fabulously creepy decorations.  On the contrary- my mother loathes halloween.  It really wasn’t her fault we were inadvertently ready for it 24/7, 365 days a year.  Whenever the doorbell rang, the phone rang, or the alarm clock went off, the lights in the house would go on and off, the bed would vibrate (I know, I know- there isn’t a joke on the planet I haven’t heard about THAT one), and an extremely shrill noise went off in short, staccato blasts.  Depending on how many times/in what pattern this occurred, my parents could tell what was happening.  Essentially, we had several elements of a haunted house without even trying.

Sometimes, it would be a bit of a party trick to show off my parents.  It broke the ice.  Whenever I had a new friend over, I’d demonstrate the joys of having deaf parents.  I remember my dad in the kitchen chopping zucchini when my friend Melissa came over for our first playdate.  We ventured to the kitchen and facing his back I said, “I HATE zucchini- that’s all we ever eat!”  He kept on chopping, completely oblivious, and her eyes bugged out of her head.  I actually LOVE zucchini, but apparently, that was irrelevant.

I wasn’t all evil.  I helped a lot.  I interpreted endlessly, I made phone calls that no one would expect of a child who hadn’t hit double digits, and I learned tolerance from a very young age.  I had my heart broken, too.  When you learn about tolerance, you must also learn about intolerance.

In Helen Keller’s time and long before, deaf people were labeled “deaf and dumb.” What we don’t realize, perhaps because many people have not met a deaf or hard of hearing person, is that the attitude persists today.  I’m not talking about the people who have lost a little hearing as they age and go to the mall for a Miracle Ear.  I’m talking about people like my mother, who didn’t hear a thing until she was two years old and got her first hearing aid.  She’s amazing.  She underwent years and year of speech therapy and you can hardly tell she’s deaf when she speaks.  For a profoundly deaf person- holy crap.  I can only hope that if I have children, they will grow up to be tolerant, even if the world itself is full of ignorance.  And they better watch out.  I know all the damn tricks.  And mom, don’t even THINK about encouraging them.

What’s it like to be deaf?

First, you know how some people carry an emergency…contraceptive (my grandmother reads this) in their wallet?  Well, MY friend carries an emergency York Peppermint Patty.  Priorities, people, priorities.

That really has nothing to do with my post for today.  What I really want to talk about is the whole, “being deaf/hard-of-hearing” deal. Here’s today’s public service announcement: CONTRARY to popular belief, I do not have selective hearing, I’m NOT making it up, and NOT ALL DEAF PEOPLE have a “funny accent.”

Sure, my friends can still do it like animals (must.bleach.brain.) in their room with paper thin walls while I crash on their couch and no one is embarrassed in the morning.  Sure, if I tell the airline personnel handling boarding I’m deaf, I get to board with the babies and elderly.  Jealous, are you? Don’t be.  There’s a whole other side to this, people.  I bet you’ve never thought of half of these.

The REAL Reasons it’s tough to be deaf/hard of hearing:

1.  Unless it’s an SBD, you’re at a distinct disadvantage when someone lets one fly.  No advance warning (hi, grandma!).

2.  You can’t lead flashmobs.  If you miss the first strains of music, your count is thrown completely off and that’s just embarrassing.

3.  Your aesthetician may forget to speak up, so you might miss the warning that she’s going to pull the strip.

4.  Your TV is up so loud, your neighbors suspect that there is a ninety year old hostage living with you.

5.  On a similar vein, when you go through a rough patch, EVERYONE in the neighborhood can hear you listening to Air Supply and Celine Dion. On repeat.

6.   The Helen Keller jokes when you wear your glasses… Or when you don’t.

7.  You mix up weird words and think you heard the following sentence, “I burned the toast and went to the animal shelter for more booze.”  (I have no idea.)

8.  You sit through a drama at the movie theater and make up dialogue for entertainment, as you have no idea what the characters are saying.  While this is highly amusing for you,  a couple of days later, when at a party, someone knows you went to the movie and attempts to make conversation about said cinematic experience.  Your “I found it…highly ironic,” is met with odd stares.

9.You’re STILL mad you lost the fifth grade spelling bee finals because you thought you heard the girl before you spell “exaggeration” the way you thought it was spelled (CORRECTLY), and when they said, “incorrect,” you scrambled to come up with a different spelling, only to be informed that’s how SHE spelled it and that was “still wrong.”

10.  You have been hit with the following projectiles in a bid to get your attention: a remote control, a pool noodle, several pens, a coaster, a cherry tomato, a matchbox car, a potholder, a kitkat…  You KNOW there are more, and the lack of memory worries you there’s been some brain damage.

But what’s it really like?  You know, I’m not sure I can explain because it’s just the state of things. Technically, I’m not deaf, but moderately hard of hearing.  I miss a lot.  I don’t know what it’s like to be a hearing person, so I don’t know how to adequately compare.  What I can tell you is that mostly gleaned from observation and experience seeing what others can do that I can’t.

I can’t imagine being able to talk to someone in the next room, watching TV without captioning, listening to multiple conversations at a party, going to the movies without having to think about whether I’ll still understand it if I miss a lot of what is being said (action is always better than drama- rule of thumb)…  But for all of that, it’s my life.  It’s what I was born with.  You do the best you can with what you have, you use humor, you become resourceful. When all is said and done, I’m too grateful for what I do have to bother mourning what I don’t.

How to tell your love life needs work.

We’ve all been there.  You suspect your mother is thinking about raising goats for a dowry in the hopes she can get you married off; your “coupled up” friends are digging deep into the bowels of their Facebook pages in the hopes of setting you up with their mud pie making partner from nursery school that they haven’t seen in 25 years (who was reportedly also a nose picker, but don’t worry, they’re “sure he’s grown out of that by now!”).  Wait.  Is that just me?

So, this week’s “How To Tuesday” seeks to help answer a burning question: Besides the obvious, what sort of litmus test is appropriate to deduce the state of your love life?  Obviously, this has been scientifically tested for accuracy, unlike those ridiculous Cosmo quizzes.

If you answer yes to MORE than one of the following, you may have a problem on your hands:

• Your friends want you to meet a “really smart, really tall, really cute” guy at their party.  He comes down with the flu that’s going around and you yell, “THANK GOD!” upon hearing the news.
• A teenaged boy states, “Maybe you’re just not the marrying kind.”
• A small child suggests that you get the funeral home directors son’s phone number at her grandfather’s wake.  After all, “he’ll run this place one day!”
• A small child screams from a chairlift (while clearly waving her arms in your direction) to any male skier passing by underneath, “This is (your name here)!  She’s single and ready to mingle!”
• Your bra fitting last week with a rather brusque older Russian woman was the most action you’ve gotten in a frightening amount of time.
• People start telling you that dating again is like, “riding a bike.”  You worry it’s like a motorcycle- you have no clue where to start with the damn thing.
• When asked about your love life in the vicinity of another, guffaws/snorting from said third party ensue.
• You embarked on a date in which, on the first (and only) date, he explained in great detail that his ex-girlfriend is holding his cats hostage.
• You were sandwiched between “that uncle” and a distant cousin of the groom with bad breath, dandruff and a self-proclaimed, “AWESOME” Chewbacca impression at the last wedding you attended.  You fear that BOTH of them were intended set-ups.

It’s scary to put yourself out there.  Maybe you have to have a whiskey smash before you do.  I’ll admit to being absolutely wretched at it.  Odds are, if I am remotely attracted to someone, I tend to shut up faster than a venus fly trap (no, biting is not part of some weird mating ritual of mine, you know what I mean).  This means that I end up getting asked out by men I am able to be myself around (read: I’m not attracted to).  So, short of alcoholism, what’s a gal to do? Time to put on my big girl panties.

But I think that what a lot of single woman forget is that being alone doesn’t make your life less meaningful.  Being with someone doesn’t mean you will automatically be happy.  There are merits to both, but if hunting down a partner becomes the sole reason for your existence, odds are probably reduced that you’ll a.) find someone; and b.) find someone who isn’t also desperately seeking someone, anyone, to partner up with for the sake of NOT being alone.  There’s a difference between being proactive/putting yourself out there and devoting yourself to the search like a monk to the monastery/becoming a stalker.  So, if it happens, great. If it doesn’t, that’s ok, too.

I’ll leave you with this gem from (almost) perpetual bachelorette, Fran Fine of “The Nanny.”

Fran Fine: When you fill out your taxes, what do you put in Marital Status: S or M?
Maxwell Sheffield: S.
Fran Fine: All right, so you told Uncle Sam you’re single. Maybe it’s time you told yourself.
Maxwell Sheffield: But I want to be an M again.
Fran Fine: Yeah, well, I want to be an M too. But first you got to get out there and make an S out of yourself.

On Boston. My home.

As I sit and write this post about what happened in my city yesterday, it continues to resonate in my mind that life is simply a series of consequences and the tiniest decisions can change your life in a heartbeat. I was supposed to be at the site of bomb #1 and bomb #2 yesterday. My plans changed when I took my eleven year old cousin along with me and I stopped for frozen yogurt. We were delayed getting to the finish line. I do not believe that this is a unique thing- I am sure that countless others have similar stories. But the fragility of life is profound and my heart breaks for those whose lives have been taken, unspeakably altered, and irrevocably changed.

Marathon Monday is sacred here and for many, like myself, attendance is a tradition. I had a friend volunteering at the finish line and the sheer terror of not being able to reach her for over half an hour is not something I will forget anytime soon. Friends and family members who knew where I was supposed to be were frantically calling, texting, emailing, facebook messaging, and I am feeling shaken how easily I could have been there. However, I am trying not to dwell on what COULD have been as I try to process what WAS and still is- on every news outlet, on the internet, and now, in giant waves of solidarity through social media, etc. Boston is the birthplace of the United States of America and the compassion, kindess, love and support I have witnessed both in the city and to those immediately around us, across the country and even the world gives me hope that good truly does outweigh the bad. In times of such darkness, the light must shine the brightest.

I woke up this morning with a sense of loss, but incredibly thankful. The images of yesterday are emblazoned on my mind. Boston has changed. After 9/11, I think many of us probably knew something like this could happen, but there is NOTHING that prepares you for something like this hitting your home. Nothing. I walk Boylston Street on nearly a daily basis and right now I am trying to cope. When the image of the bloody sidewalk comes into my head, I focus on reports of marathoners who had just run 26.2 miles continuing to run to Mass General Hospital to donate Blood. When I see pictures of the crowds fleeing, I think of the doctors, police, and volunteers that ran TOWARDS the scene, with no thought to their own safety. When I hear of the many many people with nowhere to go, I think of the spreadsheet on the Boston Globe website and eventually Google, with thousands of people offering up their homes to runners and their families. I have heard of restaurants giving out free food, hotels opening their doors for free, and other immeasurable acts of kindness. Everywhere I look, I see hope that the good in humanity prevails.

In the coming days it is important to focus not on the monsters who did this. That is the job of the FBI and other authorities who are working around the clock to bring us answers and justice. We must instead rally around each other and begin to process and heal as we offer support and kindness to those who need it. And we must do our best not to be afraid- bombs were not the only weapons deployed yesterday, for it is fear that reverberates long after the bombs explode. In this, we cannot let the perpetrators win. The many people pledging to run Boston next year know this and deep down, so do I.

My heart lies with the victims and their families, but also with those who witnessed firsthand these unspeakable atrocities- so many lives were irreversibly altered when those bombs went off. Right now we all want answers, but that does not change the reality of what has happened. Truly, is there any rational, sane answer for an act of madness and evil? I love you Boston. You’re my home, sweet home. And to those of you sending love, light and countless messages of hope and healing- thank you. It means more than you know.