Posted on by jsmith

He was here. Vacation Derrick was here. And now he’s gone.

It all happened so fast.  Last weekend, we left the kids at grandma’s and snuck down to sunny San Diego for a company convention, meaning we tacked on several extra days to our stay, turning Derrick’s “work” into our play.  The morning of our departure, as I was bent over the airport kiosk scribbling out a tag for our luggage, I felt Derrick turn toward me.  Looking up, I met his eye to find a luminous–and vaguely familiar–light in it.  Pupils dialated, he grinned [sociallocker id=”9134″]widely but said nothing.  I peered into his face, sure I’d seen his expression somewhere before, perhaps long ago and far away.  He was all aglow, bursting with a palpable energy that I feared might catapult him onto the conveyor belt a la Tom Cruise on Oprah’s couch.

“Honey?”  I asked.  “What is it?”  His smile broke open and he threw his arms around me, hugging me so hard it was almost desperate.

“It’s Vacation Derrick!  Vacation Derrick!  He’s back, Jen–I can feel him coming back!”

“Oh, honey.  I’m so happy for you.”

“For us–happy for us!”

See, Vacation Derrick is a Derrick with no responsibilities, no commitments, and no guilt for the forty-seven things he should be doing right now and just doesn’t have time to do.  Vacation Derrick is a Derrick on the run.  And we both love him.  Much more, in fact, than we do Kennewick Derrick.

Kennewick Derrick is Vacation Derrick’s nemesis.  Kennewick Derrick is constant and reliable;  Vacation Derrick, illustrious and fleeting.  Vacation Derrick comes out to play only once or twice a year, but when he does, life is good.  Especially for me.  But, like Mary Poppins and my size 6 pants after a month of no carbs, Vacation Derrick can never stay long.  All it takes is one ill-received email, one accidentally answered phone call, and Vacation Derrick crumples and wilts like the Wicked Witch of the West under a bucket of water.  Kennewick Derrick takes his place, and only a plane ticket, some palm trees, and a dead cell phone can bring Vacation Derrick back again.  So I’ve learned to enjoy him while I can.  This time I only had him for three days, but those three days felt a lot like this:

kiss

 (And I know you all saw this photo on facebook already, but when you have the bishop in this compromising of a position, you have to capitalize on it.  Think of it as my Vacation Derrick souvenir.)

Though we still have a few days of our trip left, they will now be peppered with work responsibilities that, though not unpleasant, remind Derrick of who he is and what he has to do.  And so I bid Vacation Derrick farewell.  For as George Canstanza once instructed, if Kennewick Derrick walks through the door, Vacation Derrick ceases to exist.  A Derrick divided against himself will not stand.

(But I still have the credit card.  And the car.  And he’s in classes all day.)

Hmm

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Posted on by jsmith

All I know is that it’s different from a straw poll.

So here I am, a thirtysomething  mother of three who loves books, newsmagazines, political discourse and, of course, my country.  I like to think of myself as a fairly interested citizen who’s at least vaguely aware of what’s happening throughout this great nation in which I live.  I am not consumed with politics nor do I enjoy debating politics (you’ll never change anyone’s mind and usually end up sounding ignorant, imo), but I am certainly interested in the broad strokes of influence that political events brush over our social and cultural lives.  The big picture of politics–where we are and where we’re going–interests me far more than the neverending minutiae of who-said-what-when and how-the-other-side-is-out-to-get-us.  Following politics that closely can feel like watching a really bad soap opera.

Nevertheless, I have my beliefs and I have my opinions, simple-minded as they may be.  And I naturally get a bit more excited about politics every time a presidential election rolls around.  I pay more attention to the parties and platforms and develop the same heady optimism about democracy that most of us enjoy as we survey this “arena of ideas.”  I love these election cycles when the crowds are cheering, the flags are flying, and a lot of wonderful (if highly unlikely) changes seem palpably near.  I get a little caught up in it all and, along with most of you, feel joy to bursting for being an American.  If I’m not careful, I’ll even begin to fancy myself some kind of real thinker who takes political philosophy–and my own self–quite seriously.  Against the backdrop of a presidential election cycle, I find myself pondering and questioning  the proverbial status quo more ardently than ever, if only in my head.  (I draw many original and impressive conclusions in my head.)  I feel I am perched on the edge of a great cliff, parachute securely fastened, ready to soar into the clouds of great political and philosophical thought.  But just as I’m ready to take the leap and pull the string, a single, inevitable word always yanks the parachute right off my pack and sends me plummeting back down, where I belong, to the hard flat ground of ignorance.

Do you want to know what word it is?  ‘Cause I’ll tell you.

Caucus.  

Caucus.  Don’t get it.  Don’t understand it.  Never have.

You?

A caucus is occurring in my hometown this weekend, which is what brought this ever-puzzling word to the forefront of my mind.  I thought I’d been loosely following the presidential race, but upon learning that we had a caucus here this weekend I quickly remembered that I don’t really know what that word means.  I’ve googled it, wickepedia-ed it, even huffington post-ed it.  They all tried their best, but none of them could deliver.  I still don’t get it.  Trying to reconcile the electoral ramifications of a caucus is, for me, like watching The Social Network: ten minutes into it, I become painfully aware of just how dumb I really am.

Much as I’d like to blame the news media for failing me, my real stumbling block is that I lose interest in a Caucus Explanation about  forty seconds into hearing it.  Just when they get to the part about sending delegates to the county, my eyes glaze over and I start thinking about which Weight Watchers dessert tastes the least like fake chocolate and will thus mask my need for a real brownie after dinner.  (I generally choose the double-chocolate-mousse-candy over a two-points bar.  You?)  Such laziness is why I’ll never be a true blogging/facebooking/controversy-stirring politico.  I mean, I do care.  Really I do.  Just not quite that much.  Which is why I’ll probably never quite understand how a caucus works.

And, as with most things I don’t understand, at some subconscious level I’ve decided that the inattention is worth the ignorance.  My brain is just too jam-packed with other things; important things, like designing a Lego diorama for my son’s school project and keeping an eye out for the FedEx guy who will, one fine day, be delivering my Pampered Chef order.  What can I say?  I’m a busy woman.  Far too busy to develop an adult understanding of the democratic process.  But I maintain my position that if I really wanted to know how a caucus works, I think I could probably  figure it out.

I”m pretty sure I could.

Probably.  Maybe.

You?

 

Posted on by jsmith

This weekend I

cleaned all the blinds in my house.  My house has twenty-two windows, each with its own set of thirty-four blinds.  White, faux-wood blinds; the kind that get dirty.  Especially when you let months go by without cleaning them.  See, I decided to spend my spare time this last month spring cleaning the bajeebies out of my house, and cleaning the blinds was the last item to be checked off my list.  This is because, instead of starting a project with the most difficult job as I’ve so often been advised, I decided to save the most difficult job for last.  Some people might call it procrastination, but I find that such a harsh word.

What you really need to know here, my faithfuls, is how much I hate cleaning blinds.  And I mean hate.  No font size or style exists in cyberspace to effectively convey the disgust and contempt I feel about cleaning window blinds.  There are no caps LARGE enough, no bold bold enough, no italic slanted enough to make you, the reader, comprehend the depth of my emotion regarding this topic.  [sociallocker id=”9134″]And so you see why, upon completing this horrific and frightening endeavor, I simply had to write about it.  Writing about something makes it real, and I still don’t quite believe that I made myself wipe and wash every single blind in my house, one by one, this last weekend.  Putting the experience down on paper (screen) will, I hope, cement the reality of my triumph.  Had I just escaped from two days in a Turkish prison, you can bet I’d write about that too.  And let me tell you, mi vidas, the two days I spent cleaning seven hundred and forty-eight window blinds couldn’t have been much more fun.

However: the greater the suffering, the greater the reward.  And as such, I don’t think the view of the world through the eyes of a prison escapee could be much sweeter than the one I beheld as I finished scrubbing my last, single, solitary blind.

Wow! Can you tell how clean those blinds are?  (Yeah, me neither.)

But wait.  Before you’re too underwhelmed, look at the view through my (also freshly cleaned) windows when I raised said blinds:

Imagine clawing your way out of a dark prison cell–or a weekend inside cleaning your house–to take in this:  sunshine, blue sky, green leaves, and just a peek of the pool that will soon be open for business.  Imagine looking out this window, taking a big deep breath, and thinking that the spring cleaning is finally done and spring is finally here.

It was a great weekend.  [/sociallocker]