aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult?

Not too fun it turns out.

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.”

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said. “You decide.”

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

I chose poorly.

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing.

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes.

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

aging, fashion, humor, Taylor Swift, Uncategorized

The Eras Tour (Samantha’s Version)

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you are aware of the phenomenon that is the Taylor Swift Eras Tour. I was lucky enough to be able to attend her concert with my niece Natalie when the show came to Chicago.

First came the outfit planning. I can honestly say that I spent more time trying to figure out what I was going to wear to this concert than I did to my nephew’s wedding, which was occurring the following weekend. For that one person out there who isn’t aware, there was a whole thing about which Era/Album you were going to represent via your outfit. This concert was not just a concert, it was a collective event for Swifties.

I made the mistake of telling a young teacher at work that I was unprepared and stressed and might just have to channel the Evermore Era and wear a flannel shirt. Not as cool or sexy as the black biker shorts and bralette she was going to be wearing from the Reputation Era, but at least I would be comfortable. When she responded “That’s OK, that’s what my mom is wearing,” I realized I had reached an ultimate low. I mean, I know I am a mom, and I know I am old enough to be HER mom, but I still didn’t want to be reminded that I was going to be DRESSING like a mom.

Add that to the fact that this was early June and I get sweaty just by telling an exciting story, I decided to forgo the flannel shirt and wear pink and represent the Lover Era.

Natalie came into town the night before and we set to work on our friendship bracelets. Apparently, there is a line in one of Taylor’s songs about friendship bracelets. Not a whole song, or a song title, or an album title, just ONE LINE about making friendship bracelets, and the next thing you know we’re all furiously pulling out our bead-making kits from the 6th grade. I mean, Nena had some great lines in her songs, but you didn’t see me showing up to her concert in 1983 with 99 red balloons did you?

As soon as we arrived at Soldier Field Natalie insisted on getting in a line longer than Peter Pan’s Flight at Disney World so we could get “merch.” (this is what you call over-priced t-shirts, posters, tote bags, etc.) You can get the same stuff online but it is not the same as the experience of waiting in a long line with others who have the same obsession as you. One hour later when we were three spots closer, they closed down the booth because they had run out of all the merch. One thousand disappointed females in sequins and cowboy boots and fedoras (I did not see ANY flannel shirts) dispersed to their seats.

As we wandered through the stadium looking for our seats, every once in a while a concert-goer walked up to Natalie and asked her to trade bracelets. This was the part of the night I had been waiting for. The trading had begun! What style bracelet would I get? Which one of my own was I willing to part with? I waited eagerly for the tweens and teens to ask me to trade.

Reader, it is a mystery why no one wanted to trade with a sweaty mom wearing heart-shaped glasses and a sparkle headband. Needless to say, I went home with the same bracelets I arrived with.

Finally, the moment arrived. Taylor appeared and the concert began. Almost immediately, she started singing her hit song, “Cruel Summer.” I was happily singing my heart out with thousands of teenage girls and their moms, when suddenly Natalie started screaming “THE FIRST BRIDGE! THE FIRST BRIDGE!” When I tell you I was confused, I mean that I was confused. But I didn’t have time to ask her because suddenly the part I had been practicing for weeks was upon us. I quickly FaceTimed Franny so she could witness me nailing the line.

“He looks up grinning like the Devil,” the entire crowd screamed, except for me who was screeching out the wrong words two beats behind everyone else, all while FaceTiming Franny and looking around Soldier Field for that damn bridge.

(And if you’re wondering, yes, I did learn later that the part of the song I had been trying to learn is called (surprise!) a “bridge.” Taylor is known for her bridges and this was the first one she sang at her show. Hence: THE FIRST BRIDGE! I mean, it all makes sense now.)

Side Note: Natalie of course nailed it. This is because Natalie knows every word to every song. And I don’t mean this as in “Natalie knows all the words” in a casual way. I mean this as in a very literal “I seriously think that she might know the entire catalog of Taylor Swift songs and that with her kind of photographic memory maybe I should take her to Vegas.”

As the concert progressed I realized there were many songs where special chants, claps and dances were added that everyone in the audience seemed to collectively know but me and probably some other middle-aged moms who are not on TikTok. But I was still trying to figure out the actual lyrics, never mind made up ones that the secret Swiftie society created. I imagine this would never happen in the 80’s before social media (except for maybe during Billy Idol’s Mony Mony where added phrases created much excitement to high school dances).

Finally, we got to the surprise songs. Taylor introduced the acoustic guitar song by telling the crowd, “This one is pretty new.” In fact, it had been released 9 days earlier. She played about three chords of it and Natalie began to literally shriek, “IT HITS DIFFERENT!!” And by shrieking, I mean imagine it is 1964 and the Beatles have just arrived. (For those of you reading who don’t know who the Beatles are, think One Direction). Why I was surprised Natalie was able to identify a song just released the previous week after only three notes, I don’t know. In a shocking turn of events, she also knew all the words.

After three hours of music, dancing, and singing, the concert ended. Whether you like Taylor Swift or not, no one can deny she puts on a heck of a show. It was phenomenal.

***Stay tuned for parts two and three of my Taylor Swift blog trilogy: One: I attend the Taylor Swift movie by arriving 3 1/2 hours early and end up initiating hesitant movie theater-goers to get on their feet and dance. Two: I spend $20 (again) to watch the movie on TV while wearing my Taylor Swift 1989 cardigan sweater. That hasn’t occurred yet, but knowing me, something will happen to write about.***

aging, humor

A Massage a Day Keeps Relaxation Away

Various high-end products used during my massage. Not pictured: Unlabeled bottle of oil.

A while ago a couple of friends and I decided to get massages. We were treating a friend who needed a little pampering and thought a massage and dinner would do the trick.

“Don’t be scared by the outside, as it is in a strip mall that doesn’t have much,” said my friend who made the appointments for us.

What she should have said was “Don’t be scared by the outside as it is in an ABANDONED strip mall.” Or maybe even ‘If you choose to look at the website, don’t be scared by the cover image of two sexy lady massagers massaging one smiling man.”

We walk in and are met by a woman inside who quickly asks us to pay upfront and also include the tip. I push down the thought that this particular establishment must have experienced a lot of clients “Massage and Ditch out the Back Door” to make it a rule to pay first.

As she leads us toward the massage rooms, which are basically right off the entrance, she ushers both of my friends into the same room. It is all I can do to not burst out laughing as I would have paid double to hear about how their “couples” massage went, but they quickly clarify that they will be needing separate rooms. Thankfully I am led into a room by myself and asked to undress and lie down with the towel over me.

Now, if you ever have had a massage, it is your choice how many underthings you leave on. I prefer to leave on my underwear but take off my bra. I don’t care if someone is touching my bare back and I prefer not to have someone working around my bra straps and getting them all greased up with massage oil.

At this point I would like to ask my children (and quite frankly any of their friends who might be following me) to STOP READING NOW. I do not need them to have any of the following images of me in their mind at all, ever, at any time in their lives.

The massage starts out like any other massage. She works on my back for a long time. It is fine, typical, not much news here. Except here’s the thing: I am an over-thinker. Like, give me an hour in a quiet room and I’m going to start thinking about all the things I need to get done for the day. It’s not really an anxious train of thought, more like a “working massage,” if you will. It’s just who I am. It’s unfortunate. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the massages, I just often feel that I am still tensed up as I am trying hard to relax. My mind starts to wander…

I wonder who is playing this massage flute music? Do flutists get commissioned specifically for massage soundtracks? “Okay, Hans, this next piece is for the massage parlor on 14th Street, just make it soothing and generic, but it has to be about 50 minutes long.” If I Shazamed this song would it come up with something like “Flute and Harp Massage Remix/Mashup”?

Back to the massage. As she finishes my upper back area she pulls the towel down a bit. And down a bit more, and more, taking my undies along with it, until I realize I needn’t have contemplated whether or not to leave them on as they are basically as low as they can go.
“Okay?” She asks.

“Uh-huh,” I lie.

Now if you think at this point I am relaxed, think again. Instead, I am now worried about numerous things I won’t go into. After what seems like an eternity, the masseuse finishes my back and starts working on my legs. Phew, I think, the uncomfortable part is over.

Nope. Think again. Think again.

She moves the towel to the side, basically giving me a homemade thong, and goes to work. Now, maybe this does not come as a surprise to some of you, but for someone who generally goes to get massages NOT IN STRIP MALLS from establishments NOT NAMED JUST ONE LETTER, I was a bit surprised. Also, when someone is working in this area and you are tense, I don’t need to tell you what part of your body clenches up.

Finally, she finishes my backside and leans down and says something. Unfortunately, with my head far down in the oval opening and towels around my face, I can’t really hear her, but it does not sound like “roll over.” She says it again.

I lift my head to hear better and the circular cut-out face paper towel comes with it.

I catch a few words…”Hot…towel…clean”

I am now looking at her with a paper ring framing my face, stuck to me with sweat or condensation or who knows what. (I wish I had a picture of myself looking up at her. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to grab my phone and take a pic of myself, as by now I was mentally writing this blog and trying hard not to forget every funny thing that had happened).

“Okay,” I say.

She comes back in with of course a HOT TOWEL to CLEAN my back. She rubs my back hard as if I were getting a Turkish massage, and ends with a strange karate chop on my back and tells me to flip over.

I mentally prepare for what to say if she decides to pull the towel down to my waist again and leave me topless on the table. I quickly make a list of phrases in my head like “No, thank you,” “No please” and “NO TOUCH” among other things. I prepare to wrestle the towel with her if I have to.

Thankfully, she leaves the towel on me and begins with my arms and shoulders, kneading and rubbing for a short while until she finishes with a flourish by grabbing my fingers in a weird enlaced “Titanic in the backseat of the car” clasping kind of way. She then takes my wrist and shakes my whole arm hard, wiggling it like I have no bones. I worry she will break all my arm bones and I will be the first person who needs a cast after a massage.

On to my legs. Dear Lord, when will this be over. Let’s just say I was really hoping when I shaved my legs that morning I did a thorough job. Her finale is to move my legs into a frog-like position while massaging them as I panic and pray there are no hidden cameras in the room. She tries to do the same floppy wiggle with my legs, but as they are considerably heavier, it just ends up that she picks my leg up by the ankle and drops it with a loud THUD back to the table. She gives my legs a karate chop, which I now assume is the universal massage sign for “all done.”

I assume incorrectly. Still to come is a head massage. I agree to this, but then panic as she pours a bunch of oil into her hands. We are supposed to go out to dinner after this. I don’t need a hair full of oil.

“No oil,” I say.

When I decided to leave out verbs as I spoke, I have no idea. It’s like I’m Kevin from The Office. (Why waste time say lot word when few word do trick)? She either ignores me or doesn’t care, as she proceeds to rub my head. She focuses hard on my angry 11s over and over which I suppose is a lot cheaper than Botox but makes me feel bad about myself, as if she was trying her darndest to rub out those pesky wrinkles that simply won’t go away. It suddenly dawns on me all of the places she has touched with her bare hands before ending with my face.

Finally, it is over. She leaves the room, taking the unlabeled bottle of oil she has been using with her. All I can think is….

I can’t wait to get home so I can relax.

Being greek, exercise, Family, humor, Marriage, Motherhood, Uncategorized

Climb Every Mountain

The Pictured Rocks are spectacular but can be dangerous to the careless hiker. Fifteen miles of the North Country Trail are atop 50-200 foot high cliffs. Cliff tops are covered with loose sand and gravel–National Park Service website

Recently my family and I took a road trip around Lake Michigan. We love road trips and I had always wanted to visit Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and Tahquamenon Falls. The plan was to drive up through Wisconsin with an overnight in Marquette and spend the next day touring the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Now, we have a long-running joke in our family. Ted and my kids think it’s hilarious that I consider myself “outdoorsy.” This irritates me to no end, as I’d venture that I’m much more outdoorsy than they’d like to believe. I could spend a paragraph detailing the many activities that I like to do outdoors but that would be boring. I could also list all the ways Ted is indoorsy, which I could make very funny and not boring, but that isn’t the point of the story. The point I am trying to make is just because I like air conditioning and I prefer hotels to camping does not mean I don’t like nature.

This leads me to our very ambitious National Park Adventure. Yes, this suburban Greek family who usually works their vacation spots around the nearest Starbucks and Culver’s was going to spend a few days in the forests and hills of the Upper Peninsula. Without Wi-Fi.

I had done a lot of research and found some short hikes we could enjoy during our trip across the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Pictured Rocks is 42 miles long with 15 miles of cliffs. My plan was to make our way through the length of the park, stopping at a number of lookout points including waterfalls, cliff overlooks, sand dunes, and lighthouses. We only had a day to get through quite a few scenic spots while still assuring we could get to Sault Ste. Marie by nightfall. A big day was planned.

I noticed on the map that each stop had a short walk to the actual site. It seemed like a perfect day of exploring. We would “hike” to the photo spot, take our requisite pictures, and move on. This would certainly add up to several miles by the end of the day.

Except that wasn’t really the “hiking” trip I had sold to my family. By the time we got to the second stop, Teddy was asking when we were going to hike. Before I could answer, he noticed the signpost reading that the next scenic stop, Miners Castle, was only 4.9 miles away.

Now let me stop right here. Five miles is no easy trek. Most people who are not regular hikers who are in their 50s and possibly have a few extra pounds on them might balk at this. But also most people who have promised a hiking adventure and are a little bit scared of their kids and also have a little pride might NOT balk at this. So there we were.

I tried to warn them.

Teddy assured me he would be fine. After all, he reminded me, he could run about three miles in half an hour. Teddy, who is 17 and plays soccer and does CrossFit. I was not worried about Teddy. I was worried about Ted, who is 54 and does not play soccer or do CrossFit. I wasn’t sure he could make 4.9 miles on a moving walkway let alone on rugged terrain in the wilderness. Let me remind you of the description on the website: The Pictured Rocks are spectacular but can be dangerous to the careless hiker. Fifteen miles of the North Country Trail are atop 50-200 foot high cliffs. Cliff tops are covered with loose sand and gravel.

The idea of 4.9 miles didn’t scare me. The idea of 9.8 miles did. No one seemed to be considering that we had to get back as well. It was already 12:30 in the afternoon. Once we started hiking it would be at least three hours until we got back. Never mind the fact we wouldn’t be able to eat until we got back because we didn’t have a backpack big enough to carry four Jimmy Johns Number 4s and four bags of Salt and Vinegar chips and certainly nothing to keep the sandwiches cold and the chips unharmed.

Side note: This was actually my thought process as I was trying to decide if we should make the trek. Now that it’s over and I know the actual conditions and time it took, it’s all I can do to not laugh/cry with shock at our complete and utter naiveté in undertaking this excursion.

But even after discussing the complications that could arise, we were all game to try. I think I can say we had passed the point of “outdoorsy” by that point.

I cannot oversell the stupidity of this decision. Almost immediately, the path sloped upward and we began climbing the 200-foot high mountain in front of us. At certain parts there were steps made from wooden planks, however, even having stairs as a crutch, climbing 200 of them was no easy feat for out-of-shape suburbanites. The ground was covered in tree roots and underbrush and you had to keep your head down the entire time to make sure you wouldn’t fall or trip on anything. This quiet focus allowed for a lot of internal musings, the result being that soon into the journey I began to lose any rationale I had started with.

Is it possible there are bears in this forest? Of course there are. How could there not be? I don’t remember what to do when you encounter a bear. Do you back away from bears and avoid eye contact or are they the ones you run toward screaming and make yourself look bigger? Why have I been spending all this time watching TikTok videos of dogs doing adorable things when I could have been watching videos of how to repel bears? Wait. I actually think they make bear repellent. Is it a spray or a horn? How could I be so concerned about my Turkey Tom with cucumbers and not even think about bear repellant?

It went on and on.

Panic had set in. Honestly, I was not even sure that in this state I would save my children had we come across a bear right then. (There was that time I saw a mouse in the kitchen when my kids were toddlers and I ran screaming for my life into the next room and jumped on a desk leaving them to fend for themselves.) I could not guarantee any maternal instincts would kick in.

Once I started thinking about the bears there was no end to my imagination. What about snakes? Of course there would be snakes in a forest filled with trees and creeks. What about coyotes? Foxes? I was used to these back in Downers Grove, but usually in a neighborhood where I was close to other homes where I could scream for help. There was no one around here. And if I DID scream, wouldn’t that just help the bears locate me faster? This insanity elevated until I truly started thinking that I might run into a bobcat or mountain lion. Now I know I tend to exaggerate, but if you have ever been in a situation where fear takes hold of you and your imagination kicks in, you will understand where I was right then. At the time, all of these thoughts seemed very reasonable to me.

Suddenly a calm came over me as I realized that old joke, “You only have to run faster than the slowest person,” and I knew I would be safe. I would miss Ted, but we would manage on our own somehow.

Sometime around this point, Teddy announced we were about a third of the way there. We had been walking for about an hour and twenty minutes. ONE-THIRD OF THE WAY THERE. This hour and twenty minutes felt more like 3 hours in dog time or mountain lion time or 50-year-old-walking-over-tree-roots time.

Ted and I looked at each other with concern. Not only concern that we would not make it for two more hours, but concern that our kids would be mad at us if we made them turn around. This may sound ridiculous, but if you have teenagers you know they can be moody and change on a dime. As parents, there are times when you will play Rock/Paper/Scissors to avoid difficult conversations, or even non-difficult conversations, or let’s face it, sometimes even ANY conversations. Oh yeah, did I mention that Ted had already “twisted his knee,” “stubbed his toe,” and broken a shoe? So we were not in good shape.

This is when Ted suggested getting a Uber for the way back. Let me remind you that we were in the Upper Peninsula in the Hiawatha National Forest without Wi-Fi. But sure, calling an Uber was going to be our solution. The closest we were going to get to an Uber was hoping another tourist family had room in their car and would drive us back and not murder us on the way.

Suddenly, we came upon two women in their mid-30s coming from the opposite direction. Based on their hiking shoes and travel backpacks they were experienced hikers. (So far, you may have been imagining a bustling path filled with periodic mile-markers and tourists exchanging pleasantries. You would be wrong. For one and a half hours we did not see one sign or one person. They were the first.)

“People!” I shouted, as if I were Tom Hanks in Castaway and had been shipwrecked for years. “We haven’t seen anyone this whole time!” They said hello and stopped to get a drink of water from their earth-friendly water filtration bottles. (It is possible that this was when I slowly and inconspicuously shifted my plastic Venti Strawberry Refresher cup behind my back.)

“How far have you guys been walking?” I asked.

“Oh, for like 35 miles,” one said with a wave of her hand, graciously trying to downplay and not embarrass me.

“We are headed to Miners Castle, do you know how much farther that is?”

“Oh yeah, you’re about halfway there,” she answered. “But there isn’t water there. Or bathrooms. And I don’t know how hard the terrain has been so far, but it’s really bad the rest of the way. Lots of mud.”

I got the distinct impression these women did not think we could make it the rest of the way. I don’t know if it was my Starbucks cup, fashion backpack, or Burberry sunglasses that gave it away, but something screamed suburban mom to her. Dare I say, something screamed “indoorsy” about us.

Whatever. We could make this trip as easily as they could with their fancy camping gear and environmentally safe water bottles.

And then one of them mentioned they had seen a bear.

Yep, we were turning back. Those women were right about us after all.

I made some quick mental calculations: By the time we reached our destination, snapped a picture and returned, we would not get back to our car until close to 7 pm if we were lucky. (Providing we couldn’t find the line of Ubers Ted was counting on.) At least we would save time not being able to go to the bathroom or drink any water. Who knows what time it would get dark in these thick woods. Who knows how many creepy animals would come out then. Who knows how many twigs Ted would stumble over. We could NOT carry Ted through the woods if he became immobile. Our only other option would be to hitchhike and probably end up in the back of a local’s pick-up truck nestled among his deer carcasses.

After they moved on, Ted and I made the executive decision we needed to turn back. We broke the news to the kids. Not surprisingly, the kids were furious we were giving up on the promised hike. Teddy stomped off yelling, “I just once wanted to do something cool! We are not a hiking family! We are the LAZY FAMILY!!”.

Yes, yes we are. We are also the ALIVE family I’d like to mention.

It took us another hour and a half to get back, and by then we were all talking again. We ate our sandwiches and drove to Miners Castle. It was gorgeous and a great spot for pictures. We saw a waterfall, a sandy beach, and the beautiful rock formation jutting out into the lake.

You know what we didn’t see?

Ubers.

Friendship, humor, sorority, Uncategorized

TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!

An open letter to my college roommate:

My dear friend Carrie,

As you approach a half a century and I think of our friendship of almost 30 years, so many stories come to mind. We met during my sophomore/your junior year. We had rushed the same sorority and lucky for me, ended up being roommates and friends for life. Like all college co-eds, campus life afforded us many memorable shenanigans. This experience was only enhanced by our living in the same sorority house.

There were six of us that lived in that spacious top floor dormitory. We dubbed it “The Penthouse.” I suppose we thought that made us sound sexy. In reality, three of us wore black and thought we were groupies for the Smiths; the other three wore pink and green ribbons around our collars and knew what grosgrain was. (You’re googling it right now aren’t you? Unless you grew up in the 80’s and remember the Preppy Handbook you are probably not familiar with this word.) I came from a small town in the boonies of Michigan. You came from a tony suburb of Detroit populated by descendants of Dodges and Fords.

Somehow, we both ended up in Ann Arbor.

Freshman year I lived in the “Jock Dorm” (Yes, I see the humor. I have no idea why I was placed there. But honestly, where were they going to put me? In the Class Brain dorm? Umm, Michigan. EVERY DORM was the class brain dorm. And when I got to U of M I realized I had nowhere near the brainpower that the rest of the student body had. It kind of made sense I was with the kids that were there because of athletic ability.)

You came from the all-female dorm on campus nicknamed “The Virgin Vault.” That was what probably led to you being voted, “Most Likely to be a House Mother.” Well, that and the fact that while the rest of us were buying stretch pants at Express, you were browsing the racks at Talbots. My guess is by now you have progressed to Chico’s or J.Jill.

I, on the other hand, was voted “Most Likely to be Heard Round the World” and “House Headbanger,” proving that some things never change and some things COMPLETELY change. (Ok, Ok, ….So I DID go to a party once with a guy named “Beast” which MAY have been why I got that last moniker.)

You are the friend that gave me what Ted has labeled the “Worst Housewarming Gift Ever”: A giant bag of tulip bulbs. I loved them; Ted, being the one who planted them all, felt any “gift” that required manual labor was no gift at all. (For years before he had a handle on who was whom, Ted referred to my college friends as “the little one,” “the one who worked for the NBA,” “the one who lives on Lake Shore,” and the “one who gave us all those tulip bulbs.”)

It’s common knowledge that if you are my friend, being a good sport is a necessary requirement. But you go above and beyond. As evidenced by the following stories:

The Friars: The Friars were a campus a capella group consisting of cute boys (with talent!) We have revisited this story countless times and it is still as funny to me now as it was the day it happened. You had a late class. The Friars were coming to sing. I had your composite picture. What more needs to be said? The handsome and talented Friars arrived during dinner to promote their upcoming concert. Greeting them on the door, right above the doorbell, was your formal picture. There you were in a black, off the shoulder drape, smiling at them. I had added a speech bubble, “Welcome Friars! Love, Carrie.” You arrived shortly after. You walked into the dining hall with the photo in your hand red-faced and laughing. Another “sister” wouldn’t have been as gracious with me.

The sleepover: One of the rules of living in the sorority house is that boys were NOT allowed beyond the first floor. Most people adhered to this because who wants to sneak a guy past 65 women and a crotchety old house-mother named Kitsy? It’s also just common courtesy to your roommates to not have a man in your room overnight. Sometimes though, when you are liquored up, common courtesy goes out the window. One night, for reasons I can’t really remember, my boyfriend and I stumbled home from the bar and literally crashed into my twin bottom bunk bed. My five roommates were asleep. My boyfriend was passed out. He was a big guy, 6 ft tall and built like a football player. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The next morning you came in from the shower and started getting dressed. Your dresser was three feet from my bed. Well, I think you remember what happened next, even if I can’t. Let’s just say he got closer to your boobs than he did to mine that day. I MUST INTERRUPT THIS LETTER TO MENTION THAT THE GIRLS IN THIS ROOM WERE WHAT SOME WOULD CALL “CHESTY.” I think we can assume that if my boyfriend were awake at this point there is a good chance it would be HIM telling this story to HIS friends 30 years later instead of ME telling MINE.

That was the last time he stayed in our room.

Side Note:

Sometimes your husband reads a draft of your blog and comments that it is a little long and that perhaps one paragraph could be trimmed and suggests it be the one about your college boyfriend that you haven’t seen or talked to in 25 years and you are not married to and then insists he is not upset but then also says maybe you should cut the part about the guy named Beast you went to the party with because it’s not really funny so you briefly consider building an entire blog about past relationships but then decide you will maybe just add an unnecessary but satisfying sentence describing the boyfriend as “6 ft tall and built like a football player” and call it a day.

To let you know how long my trickery lasted the final story I will tell is one that happened several years after college when we found ourselves both living on the East Coast. I was in Boston and you were in Hartford and we tried to get together when we could. One weekend we decided to drive the entire Cape. We stopped at Plymouth Rock for the obligatory visit. Who knew there was an entire living history museum there on the tall ships complete with actors? Seeing a young handsome lad “playing” an adventurous seafarer was all I needed to try to make a love connection for you. If you think trying to play Cupid with two embarrassed people is funny, try doing it with a person trying to stay in character from the 1600s. He may have told you he was unable to go play mini-golf due to a severe case of scurvy.

I should tell you that my sorority was the best thing that happened to me in college. And not just because of the endless parties and pranks. In a university the size of Michigan, making friends and finding your place is hard. Sorority life WAS college for me. There was no U of M without the house and the girls in it.

Carrie, you are one of a small group of women I have consistently stayed in touch over the past 30 years. You and they have been there for me for the good times and bad. The ones who sent care packages to me and gifts for the kids when Ted was going through chemo. The ones who were game to get down on the floor in cocktail dresses and try to form a pyramid at my wedding. The ones who drove from miles away to be there when I have had family members die.

Here is what I know for sure: The longer you have friends the longer you have them. My closest friends are the ones I met when I was still a teenager, before I really became an adult. These are the people who formed me and made me who I am. The ones that no matter what accept me for who I am. They not only really know me, but also really SEE me. Through the ups and downs of life, and the friendships that come and go, these girls have been a constant for me. Thank you for saying “yes” on bid night.

Loyally in επ,

Samantha XO

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Text from Carrie when I told her my birthday letter to her was turning into a blog post:

“Dear God, this is exactly what I was afraid of. Lol. Isn’t that how I started the conversation the other night? Of course you have my ok.”

Left, above: Carrie and her pilgrim Right above: Carrie’s composite picture

Top picture from left to right: The little one, Carrie, the one who lived on Lakeshore, and the one that worked for the NBA

Never a Dulles Moment

Finding the absurd in the ordinary

Category Archives: humor