The Skinny on Dipping

There are two kinds of people in the world: pool people and beach people.

This past Memorial Day weekend here in Chicagoland, one could hear the call of marine mammals migrating to their native habitats: "Pool passes or beach passes?" they cried. It was a welcome sound, heralding the arrival of summer.

I grew up in Michigan, which is bordered by four of the five Great Lakes and boasts 11,000 inland lakes and more than 3,200 miles of shoreline. We spent every summer of my childhood playing in those lakes on those beaches. How, then, did I become a pool person?

First, you can trust a pool. You don't have to worry that the bottom will suddenly give way to muck or rocks. There's no sand to get stuck in uncomfortable places, like contact lenses or bathing suits. And you don't have to rub against slimy fish or seaweed. Plus, packing for the beach is like packing for vacation: coolers, chairs, umbrellas, blankets, toys — the list is endless. All you really need for the pool is a towel and some sunscreen.

Evanston, where we live, has six beaches, but no outdoor pool. Since moving here, I have bought beach passes exactly once. The first time we went, the beach was covered with dead alewives and live, biting flies. That was also the last time we went. Fortunately, the city has made a deal with a couple of landlocked suburbs, so we can go to their pools and they can come to our beaches.

The constant closing of area beaches due to "unacceptable" levels of E. coli is not a big draw for me, either. According to the EPA, Cook County's 55 beaches closed an average of seven times last summer, and that was a good year. To be fair, I can't even count how many times our pool closed due to some toddler's potty accident.

It's not just swimmers who are divided between the pool and beach; it's sunbathers, too. At first blush, you might think they would have a clear preference, but I know sun worshippers of both denominations. Beach buffs come with those funny little chopped-off chairs planted in the sand, while a pool-side tanner will head straight for the chaise lounge. They both worship from spots that offer maximum exposure, devoutly rotating every so often to promote even bronzing. And though neither type of tanner may ever touch one toe in the water, both are passionate about their choice of watering hole.

Through friendships and marriage, I have learned that émigrés from the East Coast are the true fanatics of this watery debate. One summer, we took a trip to my husband's beloved Jersey shore. Ah, the Ocean! (Capital "O".)

"Isn't the boardwalk great?" he asked. Sure, if you like splinters and the smell of tar. "The sand is completely different," he marveled, picking up a handful. Sand is sand. You still have to watch out for cigarette butts and pop tops. Excuse me, soda can tops. "Now those are waves," he exalted, watching as our children emerged choking from the salt water, only to be smacked down again. Like they say, it's a nice place to visit.

We Midwesterners take umbrage to this narrow-minded ocean view. After all, when they called them the Great Lakes, they weren't kidding. These are BIG lakes, true inland seas that form international boundaries. You can't even see across them! We have sand, we have white caps, but according to the sea snobs, Great just isn't good enough.

Long after I became an adult, my parents bought a lake house — not on a Great Lake, but on a pleasant lake in Michigan. Sandy bottomed, with no public access, the lake is big enough for ski boats, but small enough to keep out the riffraff. My kids practically live in the water, which is bathtub warm by mid-June. Even I have been known to swim out to the sandbar now and again. That was until ... the leech incident.

That day, my son had been playing peacefully at the water's edge. During one of many sunscreen pit stops, he looked down and said: "Mom, I've got blood." I followed his glance to an enormously engorged leech attached to his leg. Not wanting to disturb his calm, I swallowed my panic and hit the leech off with a stick. Turns out, that's not the best approach. It took wads of paper towels and four bandages to stanch the bleeding.

On our next visit, when my dad invited me into the lake for a swim, I was somewhat less than enthusiastic. "Come on!" he coaxed.

"I'll pass," I said. "The whole leech thing has me pretty grossed out."

"God invented leeches, too, you know," he said.

"Not my God," I retorted. "My God is the God of indoor plumbing; the God of cell phones and hot tubs. My God is the God of caffeine-free diet beverages."

"The lake is caffeine free," he replied.

Right. I'll stick to swimming pools.

How about you? Pool pass or beach pass? Or perhaps you are one of those sea snobs? Dive in by clicking here or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Photo credits: beach thanks to Maltaguy1 via morguefile.com; pool thanks to wipeoutpdr via flickr.com.

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Double Vision

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who have eyes in the back of their heads and those who don't.

All mothers, of course, develop these bonus oculi, giving them a kind of hypervision. I'm sure it's an evolutionary development, essential for the survival of the species. No doubt it has saved many many a child from running into the street, falling from a precarious perch or touching a hot stove.

My children are continually astounded when, without turning from the task at hand, I say "Put that down," or "Do not touch her" or "I said one cookie." My middle boy, the fact-finder, frequently tries to investigate: "I want to see those eyes in the back of your head. How could they see through all that hair?"

Call it a sixth sense. Call it a superpower. I prefer to call it by its scientific name (coined by me) — binocular fusion squared, or BF². Human eyes work using a process known as binocular fusion, by which we perceive a single, three dimensional image through the separate images captured by each eye. In mothers, this phenomenon is amplified by a kind of built-in rearview mirror.

How else would it be possible for me to look at my children and see them objectively in terms of relative beauty (the slightly crooked front teeth, the persistent patch of eczema, the pubescent near-unibrow), yet still know that each one wears the most pulchritudinous punim in the history of human faces?

Without maternal parallax, how could I watch my boy trip over his own two feet on the soccer field, yet still know that he's the greatest athlete of all time?

If it weren't for such disambiguation, how could my own mother watch me throw a temper tantrum over my child's temper tantrum, yet still be able to assure me that I have the patience of Job.

This Mother's Day, may you feel protected by the hawk eyes of a vigilant mother, and may you see the world through the generous eyes of a loving one.

Leave a comment here or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

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Chain of Fools

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who respond to chain letters and those who don't.

Until just recently, I had not participated in a chain letter since I was a kid. I can't remember the premise of that long-ago letter, but I do remember dutifully copying it in my best handwriting 10 times, getting my mom to stamp and mail the letters, and waiting. The anticipation of literally hundreds of responses was both delicious and excruciating. Back then, getting a letter in the mail was cause for celebration, and I couldn't wait. But I did wait. And wait. And the letters never came.

Disappointment doesn't begin to cover it. I felt devastated, abandoned and totally alone. Skip ahead about 35 years or so.

Email has reinvigorated the chain letter. I try to be judicious about what I pass along, but I'm sure I still forward too often. Imagine my surprise when I recently received an invitation via snail mail from my aunt to participate in a virtual book club. All I had to do was mail one book and 10 letters, and I would get hundreds of books in the mail. I took the bait. In sweet vindication of that childhood trauma, I have actually received two books. How cool is that?

Now it seems I have been snookered into a virtual version of this pyramid scheme. One of my favorite writers, Cindy Fey, tagged me to participate in something called "Six Random Things About Me."  Here goes:

Un: When I read a book, I read everything — the acknowledgements, the copyright, even the part that says "This book was typeset in in 11 point Goudy™ Old Style, originally created by famous type designer Frederic W. Goudy in 1915 …"

Deux: When I die, I want to be reincarnated as Van Morrison, specifically during the "Moondance" years, and more specifically singing "Caravan."  (Click here for a sound clip.

Trois: When I was a kid, we went camping a lot. In recent discussions with my family, I have realized that I have relatively few memories of those trips, as I am extremely allergic to mosquito bites and spent most of the time stoned on Benadryl.

Quatre: I frequently start deep, personal, often intimate conversations with complete strangers in elevators or in line at the grocery.

Cinq: I don't really speak French. In high school, we studied French cooking, listened to French rock and roll (a true oxymoron), and conjugated a few verbs. As a freshman in college, I was somehow scheduled into an intensive French class — two hours a day (starting at 8:00 a.m.), five days a week. The first words out of my Parisian-born teacher's mouth were: "Zees will be the last words you 'ear me speak en Anglais." I raised my hand and said: "I do not belong in zis class."

Six: Though I have a brilliant sense of direction, I have only the barest knowledge of world geography. This is not my fault. When I was a kid, the Soviet Union was still intact and our social studies books printed maps of the USSR all in black (or sometimes red – Communist Red) and labeled it as "behind the Iron Curtain." Since then, borders have moved, whole countries and cities have been renamed (is it Bombay or Mumbai?) and I just can't keep up.

There you have my scintillating six. Here are the rules to this game, as plagiarized directly from Cindy's blog, followed by the six people I have tagged:

The Rules:

Link to the person who tagged you (i.e., me).

Post the rules on your blog.

Write six random things about yourself in a blog post.

Tag six people.

Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on one of their recent posts.

Let the tagger know when your entry is posted.

My taggees:

Becky (my Becky, not Cindy's Becky)

Critique group buddy Angela Allyn at Domestic Blitz

Ardis at Hilltop: The View from Here and Now (another wonderful writer)

Writer and friend Sue Roupp at rouppgroupink

Another writer acquaintance, Beverly Patt, who's first book is due out from Bloomingtree Press this year. 

Web goddess and OCWW member Helen Gallagher at Release Your Writing.

You all have my sincerest apologies. Feel free to comment by clicking here or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Photo credit: Click via MorgueFile.com.

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Ballet and Baseball

 

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who move through it with grace and those who don't.

I'm a natural born klutz. I believe I may be the only preschooler in history to have flunked out of tiny tot ballet. As a result of being, shall we say, somewhat coordination-challenged, I have had more than my fair share of weird injuries. If I can drop it, fall off of it or trip over it, I will.

For example, on a family camping trip when I was about eight, my dad took us fishing. We couldn't possibly fish close to our campsite, because clearly the good spot was through the woods on a narrow path that included crossing a creek on a log. When we arrived, my dad set up my pole with a lure. Before casting off, I leaned the pole against my shoulder while I slapped at the mosquitoes that also thought this was a good spot. During one slap, I managed to catch the lure between my palm and my arm, driving the barb of the hook deep into my hand.

Poor dad threw me over his shoulder and carried me all the way back to the campsite. A helpful ranger informed him that all he had to do was push the hook through so the barb would poke my skin a second time, cut the barb off and pull the hook back out the other way. My dad turned sheet white, mumbled something about how he couldn't mutilate his baby, and drove me some sixty miles to the nearest hospital. We waited through the results of a bad car crash before the ER staff could help me, at which point they numbed up my hand a little and did exactly what the ranger had suggested.

More recently, I was walking with my foot half on the sidewalk and half on the grass. In a complicated choreography, usually attempted only by the most accomplished prima ballerinas, I managed to fall off the sidewalk and into a cast. "Yep, yep, there it is," said the ortho guy, pointing to a small fracture on my x-ray. This time: six weeks in a boot, followed by months of physical therapy. (Hey, at least the therapist was cute, and the foot massages were fabulous.)

As you can tell, my body does not travel nimbly through space — at least not on land. I must have been a sea creature in a former life, for my body in water moves and reacts in ways that make me feel graceful and in control. The only thing that can be said about my land-based performance is that I have good posture.

I tell you these tales of woe by way of explanation for my blog's dry spell. A few weeks ago, I had a fight with a piece of Corning Ware and lost. The casserole slipped, and in my clumsy effort to save it, it broke into a few sharp pieces, slicing into the base of my left pinky. I knew it was bad; several hours in the ER and a consult with the ortho guys confirmed it: I had severed one of the pinky's two arteries and a branch of the ulnar nerve. While I could feel the pain of the cut, I could not feel the outside half of the finger.

So, they stitched me up and sent me to the hand surgeon, who did his thing a week later. Fortunately, I'm right handed, but now even more clumsy, between the pain and the nerve damage. Though my chances for a full recovery are excellent, it will take eight months to a year before I get all the feeling back in that finger. It seems nerves get very crabby when you slice and dice them. The worst part is an annoying pins and needles sensation, and vastly reduced typing speeds — a serious handicap for a writer.

Now for the grace and a little bit of baseball. In the '80s, a guy named Jim Abbott went to The University of Michigan (my alma mater) on a baseball scholarship. Jim was born without a right hand. I had the thrill of seeing him pitch once — he was a vision of fluidity and athleticism. Here's how his official Website describes his style:

"On the mound, Abbott wore a right-hander's fielder's glove at the end of his right arm. While completing his follow-through after delivering a pitch, he rapidly switched the glove to his left hand so he could handle any balls hit back to him." (Click here for a video clip of Jim in action.)

This entire operation happened in a matter of seconds. He knew where every part of his body was in space at all times. Abbott went on to play for the Yankees (but we won't hold that against him), where he had a winning rookie season. He also played for the US in the 1988 Summer Olympics, won myriad awards and even pitched a no-hitter for the Yanks in '93.

My question is, can he type more than 100 words per minute? Jim, if you can, I could use some help over the next 8-12 months.

Any other klutzes out there? Do you athletes and dancers want to weigh in? Click here to leave a comment or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Photo by: Pointe by binababy12 via Baseball photo by: paintlady 101 via webshots.com.

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Danger: Deadline Dead Ahead

There are two kinds of people in the world: project starters and project finishers. I am one of the world's greatest project starters. In the last year alone, I have started:

• writing two novels, two nonfiction books, a picture book, several essays and this blog (on top of work-related writing).
• organizing my office, bedroom, closets, kitchen, kids' rooms, photographs, and computer and paper filing systems.
• knitting three scarves, sewing four Halloween costumes, and embroidering two cross-stitch projects.
• spring cleaning, summer cleaning, fall cleaning and winter cleaning.
• assembling several jigsaw puzzles.
• reading countless books, magazines, articles and blogs.
• updating our store Website.
• researching dozens of other potential new projects.

I could go on, but I won't. The list is too long and depressing, and the list of finished projects is significantly shorter. My intentions are always good. Half the reason I started this blog was to give myself a deadline of completing two writing projects a week. (No fair looking at the dates of my posts. From the start, I said two-ish posts a week, although it may actually be closer to one post every two-ish weeks, but who's counting.)

Starting a project can generate a heart-pounding rush. There's the euphoria of a the idea itself, the thrill of a fresh beginning, and the shear joy of acquiring new supplies. Let's face it, laying in supplies is the best part — new spices for those cooking projects; new fabric or yarns for those needle-craft projects; and best of all, new office or art supplies for those creative writing projects. 

Once I've gathered the necessary provisions, I usually get a great jump off the starting block. The adrenaline rush alone can push me into the wee hours of the morning for days at a time.  But something always happens and, unless the project can be completed in a single session, chances are I won't finish it. Life gets in the way. Kids get in the way. New projects get in the way. After that, the new project becomes just another unfinished project — a guilt-inducing, energy-sapping stone around my neck.

My daughter, on the other hand, is a piston-firing project finisher. That girl gets more done than any human being I have ever met. Oh, sure, she's probably a little ADD and hyperactive, to boot, but she has harnessed that energy to fuel a well-oiled, multitasking machine. I'll give you just one example. 

On a recent school day, she got up, took out the dog, showered, dressed, blow-dried her hair, checked her email, printed her homework, ate breakfast, cleaned five inches of snow off the car, warmed up the car, shoveled the walk, came back in to make lunch, emptied the dishwasher, fed the dog and took her out again, then gathered her school stuff, her mother and brother and got them out the door — all before 7:30 a.m. 

On days like this, I stand clear of the dervish, watching in awe. Now granted, these are all short-term projects, but she offers finely honed planning and time-management skills, as well. When her whirling slows to less dangerous pace, I try to hug her often, in the hopes that some of that verve and tenacity will rub off on me. 

In my defense, despite chronic new-project-itis, I usually manage to get the important stuff done. And it's clear that I have chosen my career wisely. After all, what would a writer be without a deadline?

If you are a hopeless instigator, like me, you may want to check out Rita Emmett's Anticrastination Website (Rita belongs to my writing group.) Then click here to tell me your favorite kind of new project; or, if you are a dedicated project finisher, give me your best tip for getting things done. If you prefer, you may email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com. 

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Benchley's Law of Distinction

"There are two kinds of people in the world, those who believe there are two kinds of people and those who don't."

— Robert Benchley (1889 -1945)

US Actor, Author and Humorist

Believe it or not, I don't believe there are just two kinds of people in the world. I do, however, believe that it is human nature to take sides and that there is nothing inherently wrong in that. I believe there are many "two kinds of people" in the world, and that we each take sides a hundred times a day. The richness, complexity and texture of our lives derive not from the myriad black and white choices we make every day, but from the mosaic of colors that results from those choices.

The hitch with taking sides is what I call the "Bush Syndrome." In theory, I suppose there is something about which the current President Bush and I agree. (I will not waste our time trying to think of it now.) The problem I have with the man and the President is his "you're either fer me or agin' me" attitude.

If President Bush has one lasting legacy, I fear it will be that the "Bush Syndrome" (BS for short) will continue to dominate our lives and culture for decades to come. Since BS has become policy, it seems we may no longer agree about some things, yet disagree about others. In a world full of BS, it's all or nothing.

This election year, BS is most evident in the ubiquitous blue and red political map. Just imagine what we could create if this aesthetically-challenged graphic was enhanced with a little Green Party here, a smattering of Libertarian yellow there. I'm no artist, but I know enough about the color wheel to understand that by mixing these four colors alone, we could create a true rainbow of representation.

I believe in making choices. When presented with chocolate or strawberry, I'll take chocolate every time. If it's Michigan vs. Notre Dame, I say "Go Blue." But, I don't hate you if you prefer strawberry. I try not to take it personally if you are a Fighting Irish fan (although this takes some effort). It's true that some of our choices are vitally important — life or death, even — but most are not. Most of our choices are simply preferences with no intrinsic value. So go ahead, pick your side, root for it, defend it, but be sure to inoculate yourself against BS first.

"I am the decider, and I decide what is best." 

— George W. Bush

Stir up a little controversy by clicking here to leave your comment, or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Art by:  2KoP

We're Waiting …

There are two kinds of people in the world: cold weather people and warm weather people.

My best local friend lives for "sweater weather", as she calls it, and only survives the Chicago summer with beaucoup BTUs of air conditioning. My cousin and her family — skiers all — sink into a giant funk when the thermometer tops 35°F. Even my kids claim to love winter, but I know they are really just hoping for a snow day (which hasn't happened in our district since 1967).

In case you haven't gathered by my tone, I am a warm-weather person. I love everything about summer: flowers and flip-flops, popsicles and pool passes, sunscreen and sprinklers.

Why then, you may ask (as my San Francisco-based brother does frequently), do I live in the frozen wasteland that is the greater metropolitan Chicago area? It's a legitimate question.

This winter has seemed particularly brutal. Maybe it's my age. Although the temperature has only averaged about 1.5° below the norm of 24.5°F, it has seemed much colder. Perhaps it is the 52.4 inches of snow (so far) — 14 inches more than we usually get — that has made this winter seem eternal. Enough already!

So back to the original question: why would anyone choose to live in a place that endures weather-wrought potholes, excessive wind chill factors and frostbite warnings? For me, it's a matter of appreciation.

People who live in temperate climates do not fully appreciate freak record highs, like the 65° we reached on January 7. They do not luxuriate across a blue carpet of Chionodoxa (Glory-of-the-snow), those tiny, star-shaped flowers that chase away the snow. They do not come out of hibernation en masse to garden or bike ride or simply be outside on that first truly glorious day of the year. Oh, we know the temperature will drop below freezing again and that there is probably more snow on the way, but that just makes our first fair day all the sweeter.

You will notice that I haven't mentioned the word "spring" in this conversation. We don't actually have spring here in Chicago-land. We have winter, followed by a brief period of filthy, mucky grayness, and then it's straight to 90° and humid.

Today is March 4 and the five-day forecast does not call for anything above freezing. But, it's coming. It's in the air. We're ready, and when that day finally comes, we'll be here — joyful, grateful and a little wiser for the wait.

Click here to let me know whether you prefer warm weather or cold weather, or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.