I believe in the therapeutic power of the vacuum cleaner. Not in the power of kindness. Not in following one’s bliss. Not in love, or friendship, or faith. But vacuum cleaning.
Let me explain. Growing up, the living room in my parents’ house was covered in thick, dark blue carpet. It lived to lure lint from fresh from the dryer. Pet hair was its siren’s song. A person could vacuum the carpet in the morning, and by noon, it had morphed into an unholy mess.
My parents assigned the care of the blue carpet to me. Everyday when I came home from school, I would release the vacuum and suck up the carpet’s spoils from the previous day. “The carpet looks so nice!” my mother would comment as she walked in from work. “There’s nothing better than clean carpet,” my father would add. I would nod and admire my handwork. The next day, the scene would repeat itself.
Before long, drunk on parental praise and self-satisfaction, I transformed into a vacuuming aficionado. I lived to reclaim the cheerio debris the carpet captured from my kid brother and vanquish the dust bunny hiding in the corner behind my dad’s newspaper table. Being “the Vacuumer” was my role in our family, and I relished in my niche.
When I moved into my college dorm, I brought with me a small Bissell vacuum, made especially for a co-ed vacuuming enthusiast. My roommate’s father whispered “Jackpot!” (unironically) to his daughter as I unpacked it. Just like at my parent’s house, I vacuumed everyday. And though my roommate would commend my art just as my parents had done, another fringe benefit of vacuuming revealed itself. My mind went silent as I worked. I wasn’t worrying about memorizing the Latin names for various trees for Botany or wondering if Jamie, the Daniel Craig look alike in creative writing class, would ever notice me. Vacuuming didn’t just de-litter my carpet, but my mind.
As an adult, I still enjoy a freshly vacuumed carpet, and vacuuming still tidies up my mind. I’ve often wished that life could be as simple as the act. The mess you’ve made, the dirt you’ve tracked in, the cookie you’ve crumbled, can all be righted with a simple sweep of your hand. The satisfying click of the particles hitting the belt resounds in your ear, and POOF! the source of your heartache is gone.
I find comfort in the unorthodox and unsung strengths of the vacuum cleaner. This I believe.
Dear Besties, People I Tolerate, and Those Who Stalk Me on Facebook,
Happy New Year from the Feral Ferriell family. In case you have been wondering what we’ve been up to this year (and let’s be honest, who doesn’t want a list of noteworthy accomplishments from a person they speak to two times and a birthday post a year) here is the shake-down:
2012 came in like a lion and ended like a lamb.
In other words, after the bitch-slap that was 2011, 2012 wasn’t that bad.
The most talked about point in Megan’s year was her purchase of a television that has never heard of Y2K. As such, she spent much of her time studying the nuances of modern culture. If anyone can tell her how the Kartrashians get six seasons of air-time and multiple spin-off shows, but “Arrested Development” only has a measly three, that’d be swell. Thanks to television, Megan now understands 63% more of what her peers are talking about, but after discovering “Happy Days” on Apple TV, we are nearing square one, again. (FYI: The phrase “sit on it” will get you into some trouble in the not-1970s.)
In quadruped-related news, a week after moving into the new house1 that Megan bought, Ruby sacrificed a squirrel in protest of Freddie Mac’s robo-signing stipulations. Quickly, Ruby regretted her decision and disposed of the evidence by burying the body under the deck. In June. In the middle of the heat wave. Megan isn’t sure what is more distressing: realizing that you have a large, very dead rodent under your deck and your father isn’t answering his phone, or that it was killed by your something that sleeps on your bed. Either way, Ruby realized the time isn’t worth the crime, as she now finds herself on a shorter leash when outdoors (literally and metaphorically).
In the fall, Ruby and Megan welcomed a new bundle of joy into their lives, a terrier mix named Francie. They adopted her in front of a Batteries Plus! near the interstate. Francie certainly has been busy since her arrival. Not only can she jump on a counter to eat a chocolate Advent calendar and a loaf of cinnamon bread while one is in the shower, but she can do so without barfing up the remains later.
Though it may not sound as such, this year was not all near-misses for Megan and Cast. This summer, Megan joined her family for a trip to Eastern Maine. Highlights included she and her brother joining forces to talk their father out of hurling rocks at the Bush compound in Kennebunkport, while their mother photographed every stone along the Eastern seaboard. Megan’s main goal in the trip, to casually run into Stephen King, did not occur, but the family ate in a restaurant the owner claimed was used in a Stevie movie. It is almost a story2.
From our family to yours, we wish you better luck than David Petraeus had in 2012. We hope that you never hear the “Attendant has been notified” alert while using self check-out scanners, that you always get carded when buying booze, and that Time Warner Cable forgets to come claim their promotional DVR box from your home.
Happy New Year,
Megan
PS: Resolution for 2013? As of now, purchasing this water bottle:
1. At the time this letter went to press, the home is still standing. However, Megan likes to play her own version of Homeowner’s Russian Roulette by leaving candles burning and then going to Target.
2. And Megan almost didn’t throw up while watching her family crack open lobsters during a meal and have to go sit out in the car.
We can't call you "Kate" yet, and this is precisely the point of our letter. We (Ms. Megan --- and Ms. Andrea --- both of Troy, Ohio, USA) have come to the conclusion that the three of us should become particular friends. In other words, you need to appoint us as your “besties”, to use the vernacular of the colonies.
Before we embark on this camaraderie, however, we need to make a small confession. Though we found your husband attractive in our younger years, we have since moved on1. When we saw you emerge with your sophisticated yet sparkly sense of style, we transferred our affections. This was long before you stunned the world with your blue Issa engagement dress (and 18 carat sapphire ring2).
Though you have yet to meet us, we are certain you would enjoy our witty and dry sense of humo(u)r and delightful mannerisms. Our modesty and humility always proceeds us, and we would brilliant wing-women (unlike Pippa, whose derrière commands the world’s attention. Though we do not have big butts, we cannot lie.) However, in case you aren't convinced by two Yankee strangers stating “We should be best mates!”, we have compiled a list detailing why the three of us should be friends.
Point One: As high school teachers, we appreciate that you've brought classy back. This is a battle we spear-head daily. Under your guidance and ability to never wear tights as pants, we feel less abandoned on the battlefield, and now have a positive example to turn young girls to. (Also, thank you for making nylons acceptable again to wear below the age of 80. We are warmer in the winter.)
Point Two: The fascinator. We've always pined after the idea of being able to wear feathers on our heads without being offensive to Native American culture.
Point Three: We've seen pictures of you going to roller skating parties in the recent past. We love roller skating.
Point Four: You rock Alexander McQueen and Jenny Packman like it’s everybody’s business. However, it is also common knowledge you embrace off the rack shopping, and we have an inkling that you'd love our favorite discount shopping spot: Marshall's. (Please don't go without us. See "How I Meet My BFF/The Nordstrom Situation"). The beauty of Marshall’s is that it offers all of your favorite high street names at close out prices. Plus, since your currency (the one sporting your granny-in-law’s mug) is stronger than our George Washingtons, everything in America is half off for you anyway.
Point Five:We know that you recharge your batteries by stepping out of the limelight, and believe you would enjoy the small town life provided by Troy, Ohio, USA. Don't fret, there is no paparazzi to worry about here. When the local news truck drives by, we stop and stare because it is such an anomaly. (However, if you do take your top off a la the unfortunate France incident, people will stare. Just FYI.)
Point Six: We like things that sparkle, too. (Again, 18 carats3)
Point Seven: We've seen you look decent while hitting the grocery. We support that decision. While your average American may be comfortable slumming around in a t-shirt and sweat pants, your ability to put together causal yet chic outfits has inspired the world over4. Long live the blazer...and the Queen.
Point Eight: You work tid-bits about your puppy, Lupo, into many interviews. 90% of our conversations involve stories about our dogs.
Point Nine: Andrea understands the pressures and expectations of producing an heir. The weight of the nation on you and the weight of her mother on her are clearly the same severity.
Point Ten: You are 5'10". Andrea is 6'2". Megan is 5'9". We all love to wear heels. Tall girls have to have each others back (since everyone is looking up at them).
PS: None of this has anything to do with your access to the crown jewels.
Write back soon. Call us, maybe? Whatever. Your choice.
xoxo,
Megan is willing to produce a herd of ginger children with Harry, no matter how many dumb decisions he keeps making.
Wow
Double wow.
Tasha Rose Dunlop, we just heard you roll your eyes. Cool it.
1). I briefly convinced myself that I saw Matt Saracen and his grandmother eating at a W.g. Grinders in Piqua, Ohio.
2). I keep ending conversations with the phrase "Texas Forever" (drawl included).
3). I assume any guy wearing a blue hat and driving an SUV is Coach Taylor.
4). I've considered using the phrase "Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose!" on a classroom bulletin board.
5). Tim Riggins
6). I've asked myself “What would Tami Taylor do?” when faced with problematic situations requiring charm, poise, and tenacity.
7). I've started to take Texas seriously as a state.
8). I’m overly interested in the lifestyles of quadriplegics like Jason Street, and am terrified to have a son who plays football lest he be paralyzed like said character.
9). I've developed a special softness for washed-up has-beens like Buddy Garriety.
10). Tim Riggins
11). I’ve attempted to use football phrases like "Are you hitting your gaps?” or "How's the route running going?" with my friends who coach our school’s team.
12). I have the desire to eat more barbecue.
13). I'm really upset that you can't buy a Crucifixtorious CD.
14). I want to hang out at the Alamo Freeze.
15). Tim Riggins
16). I’ve become more willing to accept plot gaps in stories because what has been set up before is so freakin’ good. (This is a slippery slop to endorsing Fifty Shades of Grey as decent literature.)
17). I've started to think that drinking during all parts of the day is completely acceptable.
18). I've learned a) that after tying up a game in the final seconds of the 4th quarter you always “go for two!” and b) the innuendo factor of said phrase.
19). I've wanted to rock a pair of cowboy boots.
20). Did I mention Tim Riggins? (I swear, when he carried the little neighbor boy Beau to bed, my ovaries skipped a beat. And I’m not into the whole “guys who like kids are so hot” cult. Or the Bad Boy club. I’m a Jason Street style Soc all the way. But, Tim Riggins in a plaid shirt and half-drunk on a Wednesday morning? Hubba Hubba.)
Kids, when I met your Aunt Andrea during the summer of 2009, I had no idea she’d become one of the most important people in my life. Our mutual friend, Jessica, introduced us, and thanks to Andrea’s reliance on the mockery trifecta of one line zingers, well-placed eye rolls and biting sarcasm, the foundations for our friendship were laid. Two butt-dials later (one per side...of the phone (pervs)) we cemented it. Clearly, the universe was trying to tell us we were made for each other.
From the beginning, Andrea and I have given each other the full frontal truth whether or not the other wants to hear it. (I could insert an “cheek to cheek" joke here, but I’ll spare you all.)
For instance, when Aunt Andrea was set up on a blind date with a co-worker of mine, I told her (after only a few weeks of friendship) that he was “kind of a jerk.” She still asked me to be in her wedding when she married the guy, two and a half years and a change of opinion later.
When I was acting like the biggest pain toward my oldest BFF, Andrea called me on it. Though this wasn’t easy to stomach this at the time (pride, and all), she was right, and I’m grateful she gave me the swift kick I needed to get my act together. In short, the unstated rule in our friendship is “I care about you too much to let you go through life acting like a jackass."
Enter the “Nordstrom Situation”.
Back in November of 2011, the following picture circulated itself around the internet:
As a Christmas purist, Andrea posted this on her Facebook wall as a show of solidarity to the holiday. I unearthed said picture on her wall during one of my internet marathons of nothingness and immediately called her.
“WHEN did you go to Nordstrom without ME!?”
Andrea replied with “Whoa. Someone texted me the picture, and I posted it. I didn’t go to Nordstrom without you. Tone down the crazy.”
Kids, let me back up. Nordstrom and I began our love affair back in college, when my oldest BFF introduced me to the glories of that store: awesome shoes and accessories, superior customer service and...Nordstrom Cafe, the home of the best Tomato Bisque soup on the planet (only available on Saturdays in certain locations!) The closest Nordstrom to my house is over an hour away, so getting to one is a production. And I never pass up an opportunity to go (especially on a Saturday! Soup!)
However, due to my affinity for the above (shoes, service and...soup) and our honesty policy, I knew a line had to be drawn.
“Andrea, if you ever go to Nordstrom without me, barring the fact that someone drags you there without your prior knowledge of it being a shopping stop, or you are dying and only the sweet melodies of the piano player in the lobby will save your soul, consider our friendship over.”
Andrea accepted this fate and pledged to never enter Nordstrom’s hallowed halls without me. If she ever did, we’d have a “Nordstrom Situation” on our hands.
Nord - strom Sit - u - a - tion: an act that effectively terminates a friendship. SeeSYN: a deal-breaker.
And thus, the Nordstrom Situation was born.
Kids, over time, your Aunt Andrea and I have defined other “Nordstrom Situations” in our relationship. We decided that if I ever go “Marshalling” (aka: shopping at Marshall’s) without her, it is a Nordstrom Situation. I said that if she ever feathered her hair or started rocking acid wash jeans, she should consider herself in a Nordstrom Situation. She said if I forgot to give her the tomato off of my side salad at our favorite Italian restaurant, or told them to “keep it”, we’ve got a Nordstrom Situation on our hands. I added that if she ever hung out with John Mayer without me, Nordstrom Situationed. (Okay, so maybe that last one isn’t realistic. But, I like to think that one of my friends might actually hang out with John Mayer enough for me to get mad about it.)
In my opinion, it is good that our friendship grounds itself in truth and openness. One has to have standards, after all.
PS: It is summer break and I’ve almost watched two complete seasons of “How I Met Your Mother” in a week. Everywhere I go now, I imagine my life being narrated by Bob Saget. Score?
PPS: The position of “Nordstrom Situation Commissioner” is available. It might come with slapping privileges.
Oh, and by the way, I know some of you are thinking that Nordy’s isn’t that great, but the closest Neiman Marcus is in Chicago. That’s a five hour car ride away, so it is pretty much all we have. And, need I remind you about the soup!
Since childhood, I have wondered about the old adage that dogs and their owners look and act alike. Disney introduced me to this idea with its 1961 cartoon 101 Dalmatians, and as a six year old I became mildly obsessed with scene where Pongo compares dogs to their owners. I never noticed any similarities, however, between myself and the dogs in my life while I was growing up.
And then, I got Ruby.
Ruby is a 10 pound Cairn Terrier that I adopted during September of 2010. Known for being spirited, intelligent and stubborn, Cairn Terriers are the epitome of “little dog syndrome" and make up for what they lack in size in toughness. Though I prefer small dogs, I am not an Elle Woods “Chihuahua pooping in my Louis Vuitton” type of gal, so when I found Ruby, she seemed like the right type of dog for me. You know, savvier than your average Yorkie.
And that’s when shit got weird.
Okay, let me digress. As my best friends will tell you, I, like all people, have a number of traits that stand out. I am an English teacher, and though I feel it is redundant to say that as such I am overly analytical, people still cannot grasp the idea that Barack Obama is an American born citizen, so I’ll state the obvious. I am also adept at focusing, and this, when combined with my prowess for analysis, results in one neurotic lady.
But the big stand out Megan quality is this: since my mind is normally elsewhere when engaging in another activity - walking, for instance - I have cultivated a reputation as quite the klutz. I’ve honed my skills in this area over the years, and when one adds my penchant for high heels and fearless enthusiasm for life to the mix ...well, you understand.
Anyway, back to the real story, the similarities between dogs and their humans. During my first few months of co-habitating with Ruby, I observed her fondness for tennis balls and playing fetch. Ruby didn’t just chase the tennis ball, she threw herself at it with gusto. When it became lodged in between furniture she would lay beside it - for hours - waiting for me to retrieve it for her. Nothing could distract her from that tennis ball. Not a dog treat, not the neighborhood squirrel, not my shrill cries of “Ruuuby!” There she sat. Staring. Trying to reclaim said tennis ball. Ergo...
Shared Dog and Owner Quality #1 - Extreme Abilities to Focus
Ruby’s focusing ability has evolved over the last year. Now a-days, if a ball gets lost under a night stand, we combine barking and panicking of the “rub your nose raw” order to the routine. Therefore...
Shared Dog and Owner Quality #2 - Being Neurotic
Okay. When I say I’m klutz, I don’t mean the occasional trip or slip. During my junior year of college, I sprained my meniscus falling down a flight of stairs. (However, I was wearing awesome shoes when it happened, so I’m stilling calling that one a win.) I've spilled a plate of lasagna all over my bridesmaid’s dress at one of my best friends’ weddings (FYI: yellow looks terrible paired marina sauce.) I’ve slipped while leaving a bar and fallen into the bouncer. (But recovered with a curtsey!) Really, I could write a book called Oh, the Places I’ve Made Myself Look Like an Ass.
So, when Ruby began misaiming her jumps onto the couch and slamming into the side of it, I chalked it up to her growing puppy equilibrium. (Don’t worry, that’s totally a thing.) When she spilled the entire contents of her water bowl over the floor, I convinced myself she was just really thirsty. However, when she tripped while running up a flight of stairs, multiple times last weekend, I couldn’t blame it on her short little legs. I had to accept the obvious...
Shared Dog and Owner Quality #3: Inability to Control One’s Own Muscles
But yesterday, it got weirder.
Other than being brainy and klutzy, I am also known for my love of accessories, particularly scarves. I wear them in all seasons and feel naked and less sparkly without one around my neck. Two days ago, Ruby visited the groomer and came home sporting a jaunty little scarf. Since she has never been a dog of the sweater wearing variety, I assumed she would wiggle out of it at one point that night. When she fell asleep with it on, I figured I would find it shredded in the morning. When I came home from work yesterday to still find it thrown “just so” over her neck, I figured I’d help a sister out and remove it for her.
And that’s when the panic set it.
First, we “sat and looked at the scarf until the human realizes what I want.” Then, we whined. Next, we barked and hopped. We ended with a panicked yelp and twisty combo, totally suitable for “Paws on Ice” (“Coming to an arena near you!”). I tied the scarf back on the Rubster, and she went back to staring out the squirrel outside the window.
Shared Dog and Owner Quality #4: Apparently, a Love of Scarves.
Once again, Disney was right. And, once again, I’m spending a morning reevaluating myself as a person. Having the same personality as a ten pound terrier just doesn’t seem right.
Most people approach blogging like they approach online dating. Phrases like “Oh, I don’t want to be here. All my friends are making me do it...” or “I’m looking for some way to spend my time...” pepper that first entry. I cannot say either excuse holds true for me. I’m blogging for the secret reason no one is willing to admit: pure narcissism. My only child syndrome has raged beyond its usual borders to make me believe that someone out there will care about what I have to say. (The realist in me knows that 99.9% of people - including my six classes of high school students - don’t.) So blog away I will. Maybe you’ll laugh with me. More than likely you’ll just cringe. But either way, here we are. So, what will this be about? Who knows. I don’t have runway worthy sense of fashion (see here) or an interesting life as an Upper East Sider in New York City married to a much older gentleman (see here). I am not a brutally funny New York Times best-selling author accompanied by a host of equally hilarious quadrupeds (see here) nor a host of STDS (see here). I’m not going to tell you how to cook or bake your way into your own manifest destiny (see here), and my posts will not be accompanied by cartoons (see here). Really, you should consider this blog a symbolic Kardashian: random, obscene and void of any skills. However, unlike the famous Dash Dolls, “Whimsy Goes with Everything” will have a purpose. I lead a charmed life...if by a “charmed life” you mean “fantastically ordinary.” It is, however, my ability to transform the mundane into the magnificent that makes me a bright spot in a world that is a mere news cast away from being put on suicide watch. Think of me as a real life Jess from “New Girl” without the bangs and hipster glasses. If you want to read a hilarious anecdote about chocolate chips falling out of one’s shirt as she walks into work, look no further. If you want to know which “all the rage” book to read next, or which cookie recipe has just the right combination of peanut butter and chocolate, I’m your girl. If you want to know just how to incorporate pearls, gold and glitter into every one of your outfits...well, you get the point. In other words, this blog will have everything to do with the fanciful, odd or quaint parts of life. In other words: anything whimsy. It goes with everything, after all. Until tomorrow. (And I warned you about the vanity.) xox0, Gossip Girl
