jsmith | Stray Junior Mint

Posted on May 1, 2014July 15, 2016 by jsmith

Grandpa Arnie

Derrick has shared a special bond with his Grandpa Arnie since he was a child. Some say it’s because they have similar personalities and interests, but I think it’s because Derrick was born with the mindset of a fifty-year old, so they’ve basically been the same age their entire lives. (The running joke is that Derrick was mentally forty when I married him, so he’s finally starting to act his age now that he is, in actuality, forty. When he was twenty, he was a massive geezer compared to the carefree boys he roomed with in college. He had a job at an architectural firm by the time he was a sophomore; like, a for real one that he had to get up early for every day. Who does that?) At any rate. Derrick loves his Grandpa Arnie, and had the rare chance to spend three days with him down in St. George, Utah last weekend. They had a grand time together, compadres that they are. Here are a few things that Derrick and Arnie have in common:

Same age (see above)
Engineering careers
Love of dogs
Meticulously well-groomed (see: engineer)
Inexplicably stylish silver hair (aka: “silver fox”)
Inexplicably long-winded story telling (don’t let Derrick’s reserve fool you; get him warmed up, and he can take awhile)
Self-proclaimed “wit” (it’s debatable)
Bubbling enthusiasm for life
Master of the windbreaker and sneakers look
A love for Grandpa’s fully restored, 1931 Ford Roadster

This car is Grandpa’s pride and joy, and it shows. It’s immaculate–pristine, in fact–and yet he’s generous with it. He belongs to the local Motor Club and is often called on to drive young brides and grooms through town on their wedding day—a common occurrence in the LDS community of St. George. Last year he was asked to drive in the local Days of ’47 parade, which celebrates the arrival of the Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley. Grandpa Arnie (who is not a Mormon himself) was asked to drive a man dressed in a nineteenth century suit and long beard at the head of the parade. They were met with loud cheers and roaring applause through the town, so Arnie naturally thought, “Wow–they really like my car!” He was driving pretty proud until a little later when he realized the sobering truth: the crowd was actually cheering for his passenger, one well-costumed Brigham Young. Arnie thought that was pretty funny.

Check out this bad boy. The car’s nice, too.

How many 87-year olds cruise around town in their souped up convertible and Ralph Lauren cap? And just look at that silver swath of hair sticking out the bottom, refusing to be contained. I have that to look forward to in my own husband (especially if the last few years are any indicator) and I can’t wait. That’s a classy man’s crop of hair.

And Grandpa Arnie is a classy guy. He is bright and energetic and warm and fun. Being around him is a shot of pure joy, and I wish we got to do it more often. Derrick was in heaven, spending three whole days with his childhood hero. He may have gotten a bit carried away, however, when he sent me a text with the above photos, asking me if he could buy the car:

I want to buy Grandpa’s car. I’m not kidding.

R u serious?

Yes.

I can’t tell if ur really serious. Seriously, r u kidding?

No.

U seriously want to buy his car?

Yes. Maybe.

How much is it?

[no reply]

How much is it?

[no reply]

Derrick? U there??

[no reply]

The text thread ended there, but I suspect this conversation has not. So if you see a silver fox in a windbreaker and sneakers cruising around Kennewick in a fully restored 1931 Ford Roadster, don’t be mistaken–it’s not Grandpa Arnie. Just his protege of a grandson who, evidently, finally wore his wife down.

Do you have a cool grandpa?

Posted on April 28, 2014July 15, 2016 by jsmith

Sovereign Saturdays

This weekend, I experienced my own version of an absolutely perfect Saturday. It did not include shopping, dining out, or suddenly and inexplicably losing ten pounds (although I wouldn’t have required an explanation, had that happened. I would have been content with the happening itself.) Rather, it consisted of:

1. Going for a long “run” (term used loosely) with a good friend down by the river. We become very smart when we run and manage to solve all the worlds problems as we go. If only people would listen.

2. Coming home and taking a long shower, followed by no hair styling and no makeup application. (And no bra, if you must know.)

3. Staying home and scrubbing my house all day. It’s almost clean, people. One day.

4. Going to Target with my twelve-year old daughter; buying body spray for her and (more) sunless tanner for me. Clean house, orange skin…ready for spring, baby.

5. Stopping for frozen yogurt on the way home, wherein I engaged my new practice of layering, thus enabling me to enjoy multiple candies atop multiple flavors. Example: Tonight I started with a layer of Chocolate Mint yogurt on the bottom, then topped that with a layer of crushed Oreos, then topped that with a layer of Dutch Chocolate yogurt, then topped that with a layer of Reeses Peanut Butter cups. See, we can’t be mixing Chocolate Mint yogurt with Reeses Peanut Butter Cups–that would be two great tastes that do not taste great together. But I wanted both the Chocolate Mint yogurt and the Reeses (and the Dutch Chocolate yogurt and the Oreos), so I had to improvise. I guess that’s what we low-fat-yogurt-eaters do. There’s a cost to living such a healthy lifestyle, you know. It’s all about choices.

And that was it. Saturday perfection realized. Now lest you are puzzled by how a woman of my sophistication could be satisfied with such a simple day, let’s consider what my Saturday, for once, did not consist of:

1. Driving my kids anywhere. This is the first day since 2009 that this has not been required of me. So noteworthy is a day without me shlepping the brood around in my “champagne” (old-lady gold) minivan, I decided to write a post about it.

2. Grocery shopping. When that chore falls on a Saturday, there is no greater weekend buzzkill. (Does everyone else detest grocery shopping as much as I do? Why haven’t we talked about this? And how can we make it go away?)

3. Attending my nine-year old son’s basketball game. I love my son, and I support him in his dreams. But he’s a nine-year old boy, playing basketball (term used loosely) with other nine-year old boys. And I pretend to like watching the games, okay? So stop dialing CPS and get on to number four.

4. Helping someone move. Admittedly, I haven’t spent a Saturday helping someone move in at least six years. But that’s not the point. The point is that today was yet another Saturday in which to be grateful that I didn’t have to. Since that fateful Saturday six years ago, I’ve woken up every Saturday since with praise on my lips and a song in my heart for the fact that I don’t have to help someone move, ugh, again. It was so much work the last time I did it. (Which, come to think of it, was also the first time I did it.)

5. Wearing a bra. (See above pp., #2.)

Now before you judge My Life and the possible lack thereof, let me ask you this: when was the last time your house was clean, your sweet-tooth satisfied, and your Girls (we’re not talking about your daughters here) relaxed and free, all in one day?

The best part was that when Monday dawned bright and sunny, I was able to spend my time writing about housework instead of doing housework. Come to think of it, when I do housework, I think about writing, and when I write, I think (and then write) about doing housework. Maybe it’s time for a new hobby.

Do any of you fish?

Posted on April 25, 2014July 15, 2016 by jsmith

I know what you mean

These last few weeks, I’ve made a concerted effort to take better care of myself. I’ve been going to bed early and getting up early. I’ve been starting my day with a good hard run. I’ve been trying to eat better and even eliminated my beloved diet soda from my life. (I know…such an annoyingly predictable habit to break in middle age. Welcome to your forties and the decade of moderation; sugar and gluten will be next to go.)

I’d like to think that this recent self-care has blossomed from a new and mature place inside of me, wherein I’ve finally decided to prioritize my health over my looks. (read: I can’t stay on a diet, so I’m putting all of my efforts into sleeping more.) And though I haven’t lost any weight or wrinkles, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that these last few weeks, I’ve been exuding a kind of ethereal glow. Maybe it’s from the sunless tanner I’ve been slathering on every night (it’s “smart,” not vain!) but I gotta say, when I walk around town after my good night’s sleep and my good morning’s run, I fairly float from one place to the next. Probably I look something like this.

Surely the luster of these new habits are shining from my persona. If passersby no longer whisper “there goes that hot girl,” they are at least whispering “there goes that glowing lady!” Glowing is the closest we not-so-young-moms get to hot. The years are passing quickly, and I’ll take what I can get.

And so you can imagine how shocked I was when I ran into an old friend yesterday and, instead of commenting on The Glow, he looked at me for a moment and said, “You look tired.”

Um, excuse me?

You look…tired? Really?

Every woman on the planet knows tired is code for old. I hadn’t seen this friend in several years and, if memory serves, upon our last meeting he said “You look great!” But that’s when I was in my thirties. Welcome to your forties and the decade of eating right, exercising, getting eight hours of sleep a night and still showing up looking “tired.” It brings to mind the day when a different friend saw me without makeup and asked, with genuine concern, “Are you sick?”

Every woman on the planet knows “tired” is code for “old.”

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No, my friends: I am not sick, and I am not tired. I am just old, and wrinkled, and deeply unattractive. Thank you for the reminder.

And have a nice weekend. If you are over forty, may you feel better than you (apparently) look.