The Refrigerator Magnet

I don’t have any real current events to put in my blog, but for a day or so I felt like writing something. The question has been; what? Then this morning I went to my refrigerator and saw the magnet on the door. I knew immediately what I could blog.

When I was growing up my dad and I got into a lot of arguments. I don’t think I won any of them. We argued about how long I could play on the computer, if and when I could borrow a car, and how much money I could spend on clothing, and every once in a while, what the clothing could look like. Some of these arguments were recent enough that they can still irritate me a little. But my father really is a saint. This all came to mind this morning when I happened to glance at my one and only refrigerator magnet.

One summer day, when I was about 9 or 10 years old, my dad sacrificed an entire Saturday afternoon to take two of my girlfriends and me to Lake Hope State Park in southern Ohio. At that time, we lived in Columbus, Ohio and Lake Hope was an hour or so away. All the way there to the lake us kids constantly pushed and shoved at each other, we chattered and giggled endlessly. It must have been like pure torture for my father, but he never said a word. He just endured it.

When we got to the lake, us girls spent two hours splashing each other, giving each other piggyback rides, and performing various kinds of silly hydrogymnastics in the water. We had great fun. The whole time Dad watched us from the shade of a tree along the shore. When we got hungry, my father escorted us to the snack bar where he bought us hamburgers, Cokes, and potato chips. Several hours later, when we had tired of the water, we kids got dressed, and Dad took us on a hike on one of the trails through the woods.

The only time Dad actually stopped and talked to us the entire day was on that trail. We stopped at a little clearing and he told us about the time when he was our age, and he was trekking through the woods in the dark, one snowy winter evening on his way home from ice skating on a pond. According to Dad, he was just meandering along when all of the sudden his hat got knocked off his head and he immediately felt a stinging on the back of his head where he had been slightly cut. My dad turned around to see who or what had attacked him but nothing was there. It scared the heck out of him so badly that he ran all the way home. Once he got home, he franticly told his mother -my grandmother- what had happened. My father thought sure he had been belted by some sort of ghost that was haunting those woods, but my grandmother calmly told him that most likely he had been struck by a swooping owl that had seen the fur on my dad’s hat and took it for an animal traveling through the woods. I still remember that the story had us girls nervously looking up into the trees overhead.

Just before we left Lake Hope that day we stopped at a bait shop to get some snacks for the drive home. While we were there, Dad bought me a Lake Hope refrigerator magnet. I thought it an odd little gift, but my father told me I should put it in a drawer and someday I might see it and be reminded of my day at Lake Hope.

For about ten years the magnet was lost and forgotten, but not any longer. A few years ago I found it with some old pictures.The Lake Hope refrigerator magnet now sits in plain view on the door of my refrigerator. It is the only thing there. It reminds me not only of that long-ago trip to Lake Hope and all the fun we had, but also that my dad really is a saint. 

  

My Favorite Shirt Ever

About two and a half years ago I had one of my most romantic impulses. The memory of it came to mind this morning moments after I woke up, and it hasn’t completely left my thinking since. So, I guess it’s time to write about it in my blog.

Two and a half years ago I had been dating this nice guy for five or six weeks. Though he was significantly older than I was, I felt this real connection with him, and the connection spawned a wonderful affection. One Friday evening he drove us back to my apartment after an evening of playing bingo, among other activities, at a small festival. Who would have thought that I would be especially mesmerized by a man with whom I could play bingo? But believe it or not, that was exactly the case.

As I would usually do, I asked him to come in. I closed the door behind him and clicked the lock. I then told him straight-out that I wanted him to stay the night. I was a little nervous, but I said it hurriedly and in one breath so my voice would not falter, and the words would not sound too timid. It was going to be our first night together, our first encounter into full love-making. Of course it was not just the bingo that brought on my invitation, we had been seeing each other for well over a month, and I thought the appropriate time had arrived. The gentleman was very nice about it. He carefully placed his hands onto both of my arms and asked me if it was really what I wanted. I remember looking him in the eye and nodding.

The next morning when I woke up, I was instantly wide-awake, not a bit groggy as is usually the case. It was like when I was a little girl waking up on Christmas morning, full of adrenaline. I quickly looked over to my left, to my visitor. He was still sound asleep. I sat up in bed and glanced around the room. I saw his pants lying over the seat of my little bedroom’s only chair, draped over the back of the chair was his plaid flannel shirt.

A few days before, I had seen a photo advertisement for a man’s dress shirt, but in the picture the shirt was not being worn by a man, but rather by a slim, alluring, and otherwise nude lady. I thought the ad was very sexy. In fact, I knew immediately that I had to recreate it, best I could.

I tiptoed out of bed, slipped into the shirt, buttoned a lone button, and crept out of the room. I went into my kitchen and began making my gentleman caller a breakfast consisting of coffee, two eggs, wheat toast, and vegetarian bacon. It might sound odd, but the shirt was just perfectly too large for me. The sleeves were a few inches too long, the body of the shirt was sensuously unconfining. On a couple of occasions I had worn dresses and gowns costing hundreds of dollars, but I never felt so sexy as when I was preparing breakfast while wearing nothing but that $25 flannel shirt.

Fifteen minutes later I put the breakfast upon this old, ugly metal tray and delivered it to my guest in the bedroom. He was half awake when I arrived and so a mere fingertip touch was enough to open his eyes. As I had hoped, he was both flattered by the breakfast, and very pleased to see me in his shirt.

Subsequently, not every detail went entirely according to plan that morning. Although the gentleman did not complain, I could see that he was not particularly enamored with the veggie bacon; information I made sure to remember on my next visit to the grocery store. And before the breakfast was concluded, his work duties summoned him via cellphone, which we both found painfully disappointing. I had hoped we could spend at least a few romantic hours together, but it was not to be, at least not on that morning.

But being engulfed in that sublimely over-sized shirt met all my expectations. And now two and a half years later, this confirmed romantic is convinced that someday she will have the opportunity to once again slip into a gentleman’s shirt, some blissful weekend morning.  

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A Wussy's Viewpoint

I’m a sissy, a wuss. But that’s not not the only reason why I’ll rarely take a social stance. Truth is, I usually see, and comprehend, the various positions in some controversial issue. Yes, there are times when I will actually ponder social or political issues, and believe it or not, a lot of the time I will see both sides of the debate. Take global warming. I understand the argument from both sides. I believe that the earth’s climate is warming, but I’m not convinced that it is a result of human activity. 

Recently I saw an internet debate where someone was stating that as a business owner, he should have the right to turn away any would-be customer he chooses, regardless of the reason. It’s his business, he contends, and choosing his customers ought to be his right. The poster was making an argument for discrimination, basically. But believe it or not, I understood his point. I disagree with it, but I understood it.

I do not get the argument denying same sex marriage. Are gay people equal to straight people or aren’t they? If they are, then they deserve the right to marry each other. If they are not, then let’s make it official and move them to the back of the bus. Let’s have separate “gay” and “straight” drinking fountains.

Just about the only arguments against same sex marriage are religious arguments. But aren’t we a nation that separates church and state? So, in other words, religious arguments have no grounds. Here in America, the minute a person dismisses civil rights in favor of The Bible, the Koran, or any other religious doctrine, his point of view fails, or at least it should fail. 

Here’s how I see it; murder, rape, theft, these transgressions disobey Biblical teachings, but that’s not why they are illegal. These criminal actions are illegal because they violate the civil rights of the victim. Gay marriage does no such thing. Gay marriage is illegal for no other reason in that it offends people’s religious beliefs. In this small but real way, American culture is no different than Pakistani or Saudi culture where religious beliefs can trump human rights. As a proud American, the mere thought of that bothers me. It bothers me to the point where I’ve put my fingers onto this computer keyboard and written about it in my blog. And that’s saying something, because I’m a wuss.

I'm Really More Picky Than Snobby

When it comes to going out with unknown guys, I’m awfully picky. Sometimes I think I can come-off as a snob, but really, I’m just picky.

I think I’m picky because I am “different”, not better, not worse, just different. I’m not into parties or clubs. When I stop and give it some thought, I almost never drink just to drink. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner, or even while watching TV, but I won’t drink just for the sake of consuming alcohol. It might sound contradictory, but I like to do stupid stuff with a guy. I’m talking about miniature golf, or going on a trip out to Matt’s Hometown Pizza for dinner in the tiny town of Stillman Valley. Someday I’d like to go to Maywood Park Racetrack with a guy, eat hotdogs, munch on popcorn, and watch the horseracing.

I have had an OKCupid account for a couple of months. OKCupid is a dating website. In my OKCupid profile I have the web address to my blog. I receive about six or eight messages a day, on average, at OKCupid. The first message I ever got the guy just said “Hi, wassup?” Two words, and one wasn't even a real word. I did not respond. I’m not sure what I could have said. But I figured if the guy really found my OKCupid profile interesting he would have put more thought into his message. Along those same lines, I receive a lot of OKCupid messages that tell me nothing more than I am hot, or I have a sexy smile. Again, I’m somewhat flattered, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, so I don’t respond. To be completely honest, I don’t want to respond to these messages. I feel kind of bad just admitting that, but it’s the truth. 

Some of the messages I get will ask me if I’m interested in casual sex. These messages do not offend me. I’m glad the guy is up-front with his intentions. Still, I generally do not respond to such messages. I’m sure the guys sending these offers will understand.

I have received a number of messages that feature a profile photo of a guy without his shirt. Thankfully, there are always pants, but sometimes no shirt. These photos are not of the guy as he is getting out of a pool. He is shirtless specifically because he wants to show his body. Usually the guy is well-built, which I can appreciate, but regardless of what the message might say, just being sent by a shirtless guy seems to give the overture a lack of depth and romance. Still, I can’t fault the strategy. I’m sure these guys will find success with other girls.

The messages that initially get my attention are the ones that contain a number of paragraphs. I will always read the messages that have three or more paragraphs (unless they are sent by a shirtless guy). I go to the edge of my seat when they first start talking about what they find interesting about me, and then go into some personal, relating characteristic of their own. I can become fascinated by the guy who reveals little things about himself, like a fear of dentists, or an appreciation of chocolate sprinkles atop vanilla ice cream. And I can safely say that it excites me when I read that someone has read my OKCupid profile and found it interesting enough to warrant a visit to my blog. I know the guy has put in some effort, at least more effort than a quickly written “wassup?”

I write this blog entry now, on Saturday morning, because tonight I am going to meet a guy I contacted through OKCupid. This is the second such foray into an OKCupid connection. Of course he knows I have a blog so unlike the first time, I will not mention this guy in my blog after this entry, nor will I relay my experiences, no matter what happens. I will not make that mistake again. I will simply say that he wore a shirt in his OKCupid profile photo, he wrote more than two paragraphs to me in his initial OKCupid message, and he has read my blog. Another words; he survived my pickiness.

Looking Down the Road With an Open Mind

A lot of people are surprised that I don’t have a female roommate. The only time I have had a permanent female roommate in my life was during my brief spell in college. Despite her being a nice person, I wasn’t thrilled with that arrangement. I remember when I was about 16 or 17 years old some older girl once saying, “Single girls have girls for roommates, but single women live on their own.”  I liked that. It sounded very mature and independent. It’s kind of stuck with me. So I opt to live by myself in a tiny little apartment that I can afford.   

My parents worry about me because at 23 I have yet to show any desire to get married, let alone have kids. I have two girlfriends who are already married and are mothers.  I don’t want to rush into those things. I'll give that stuff a lot of thought before I take the leap. I will ask myself; Do I really want to do it, or is it outside pressures driving me? Right now it would be outside pressures, that is, if I heeded them. I went to college because everyone else was. It turned out that I really didn’t want to go. Someday I might go, but I didn’t when I was 18, and I still don’t. Live and learn.

I would love to be in a romantic relationship again, but I enjoy having “me time”. It scares me a little but I think I actually need “me time”. I think that my desire for “me time” keeps me from being too enthusiastic about marriage. And somewhere in the back of my head there is the notion that the Earth is crowded enough without me adding to it with offspring. I don’t think the human species will go extinct because Heather isn’t adding to it.  So, point is, maybe I’m not marriage material, not a traditional marriage anyhow. I’m certainly not traditional marriage material right now. But I try to be open-minded on such things, and one critical aspect of being healthily open-minded is to have the ability to change one’s mind. So, anything could happen.     

I think there are a number of ways to enjoy life. One way is to get married and have a family. I’m sure it’s a very satisfying experience. A person can end their day feeling contented and, for the most part, comforted by a stable relationship. Most people take that type of avenue through life. But another possibility is to seek a little more adventure in life. I’m not talking necessarily about trips to some South Sea island, or going up the Amazon in a canoe. I’m talking about something as simple as having the freedom to travel someplace out of town, just to get a clear view of the sunset, or as complex as trying to find a place in the world as an artist. Of course I can’t paint, but I do love a spectacular sunset.

Heather-Doody

A few days ago my Uncle Wayne came to Chicago to visit his younger brother who is also my father. Uncle Wayne has lived in Akron for the last thirty years or so. I have supposedly seen him on several occasions, but the last time was over 15 years ago, when I was 6 or 7 years old. I don’t remember any of those meetings. When I was little, I used to get some small present in the mail from him for Christmas, a tiny purse or something. Anyway, I was asked to drop by my parents’ house so I could visit with Uncle Wayne.

When I entered my Mom and Dad’s house I did not know exactly what to expect. What I found was that Uncle Wayne is a fairly big man of about 60 or so. As I walked in the front door, Uncle Wayne pried himself out of a chair and like a smiling bear, plodded slowly across the room in my direction. He hugged me as I tried to hug him in return. He then moved me away to arm’s length and said that when I was little I looked like Howdy-Doody, and now that I was grown, I still looked a little like Howdy-Doody, only bigger. Howdy-Doody is one of those television icons from the past that I am not completely familiar with. Others are the Lone Ranger and Captain Kangaroo. For some reason I’m a little more knowledgeable of Lassie.

Uncle Wayne intended his reference as a little bit of good-natured humor and that’s how I took it. Still, I could not get out of my head the notion that I resembled this Howdy-Doody character. So that evening I went online and did some research on Howdy. I found out that Howdy-Doody was both the name of the show, and the name of the marionette featured in the show. The program, which ran through the 1950s, had a cast of reoccurring characters including Uncle Bob, a clown named Clarabelle, and various other characters, some human, some wooden. Of course my biggest concern was what Howdy-Doody looked like.

When a close-up image of Howdy-Doody appeared on my monitor I was for a few seconds upset, but for no real reason the feeling quickly evaporated into a near calm, and then, a moment later, a giggle came out of me. I know it was a giggle because I heard it.

Howdy-Doody

Heather-Doody

If someone were to have said I looked like Howdy-Doody six years ago, when I was 17, I would have been mortified, even if it were an older person like Uncle Wayne saying it, and not some young guy. I’m sure I would have cried, and perhaps lost sleep over it. Even two years ago such a reference would have hurt me, at least for a short time. Now I can actually laugh about it.

My looks have always been fairly important to me. I’ve generally thought of myself as relatively attractive, but not exactly a Miss America. I’m not sure what precisely is going on that allows me to laugh. After all, I’m seeing the humor in the notion that I resemble a marionette that is supposed to be a boy, and not a particularly good-looking boy at that. Maybe I am more at ease with myself, more confident. Or it might be that I am putting less value into physical appearance than I used to, my physical appearance in particular. Perhaps it’s a little of both.

I’m a tiny bit afraid to say this but I think it’s a little bit more evidence of my growing maturity and dare I say; sophistication. But I don’t know, perhaps that’s not it at all. It could be that I’m just relieved that Uncle Wayne did not think I looked like Howdy-Doody’s long-ago costar, Clarabelle. Yes, on second thought, I’ll bet that’s it.      

Clarabelle