the procrastinating girl

The Late Show

I was just wondering if procrastinating is a weird form of being late to the party.  Given my psychotic compulsion with time, I am never physically late to anything, but, metaphorically, it's another story.  My birthday doesn't arrive for another three weeks (or rather, seventeen days, three hours and twenty-six minutes), so, as the November baby, I had the baked in pleasure of being the last to qualify for my driver's license.  And then I failed my road test.  Twice.  Other late-comings didn't leave quite the same mark.  I waited until I was a 20-something to allow peanut butter into my world and that took very nicely.  The hot dog I tried back then?  Not so much.  And there's a party to which I was already very late.  It's the tale of the Guess jeans, the ones I was sure my mom bought me for Chanukah circa 1983.  So sure I saved the unopened box until night eight, the grand finale, when I confidently ripped off the blue and silver paper to find, wait, a dictionary.  A dictionary, I should say, that I still own and use.  So I'm laughing as I type this post while stationed at my favorite post.  It's a place with one very small and unabiding lamp, but tonight I'm using this contraption called, um, a booklight?  Zoe has one in hot pink.  Late as always, but tomorrow for the doctor I will be right on time.

Don't Do It

There are some things I do that I know are strange and wrong, even as I'm doing them, but it's no use.  We already know I go way, way beyond the speed limit.  But I'm talking about behavior outside what could be discussed comfortably over passed chicken satay.  I cut my own hair.  Why?  Well, as previously mentioned, I often wait too long to call for a haircut appointment and, fed up with resembling some early homo erectus female, I will take matters into my own hands.  Surprisingly, the results aren't usually Hindenburg-esque.  Curly hair is great at hiding mistakes.  And I am learning when to put down the scissors and just.  walk.  away.  So after spending an hour and a nauseatingly high sum yesterday getting my girls cute sort-of bobs, this morning I locked myself in my bathroom and emerged with what the salon industry affectionately refers to as 'long layers'.  It's not that bad.  I don't think.  And besides, I have five whole days before my 20-year high school reunion for it to grow back. 

Summer Buzz

There is one area of my life where I am inarguably low maintenance.  I am a wash n' wear girl.  Open my bathroom cabinet and you will not find, as my seven-year-old now knows, 'product'.  I always care about how I look, I just don't need extra-deep conditioning hair gel mask glaze.  Or a comb.  But the truth is, I hadn't gotten a haircut in quite a long time.  Seeing as I spend most of my days running around town, or literally running, with it back in a pony tail, it hadn't bothered me until recently.  Then I hit a wall.  And I wanted to see Joseph.  Immediately.  But as a non-product person, I don't buy into the rules of the game.  Here's how it played out:

"Hello, this is Amy Oringel.  I'd like a haircut with Joseph."

"Ok Amy.  When would you like to come in?"

"Right now."

Crickets.

"Um, Joseph is booked through next week.  What is your schedule like?"

 "Thanks, I'll call you back."

After three such attempts, I realized that it was fine to be the girl without the blow dryer.  On my own time.   But to get in, I had to play along.  I tried again and booked over two weeks in advance.  My appointment was yesterday.  My ponytail is history.  I have a short summer cut that requires nothing more than a swish of my towel.  And I am off and running again.

Weigh In

I feel like I am overly self-referential lately.  It's as if I am walking through life talking in the third person, perpetually in Facebook status update mode.  Amy is going lose it if she has to go to Target!  Amy has no toilet paper, she must go to Target!  You know the drill.  Well, today I want to turn it over to you.  I want to present a very TPG-esque situation and you tell me what you think.  Here we go.  Just this past weekend, we spent a great Sunday afternoon with my cousins Matthew and Laura.  Even before they arrived, I made sure to bring down from my closet the coat that Laura had left here on Passover last April (yes, seven months ago).  I didn't want to risk her leaving the house without it, especially as the weather is now officially cold.  At the end of the day, the coat left in Laura's hands.  So, the question is, considering the source, was this an act of accomplishment that I remembered to return the coat or an act of shame that it took so long?

Audrey

You'll have to forgive me for abandoning my usual snarky attitude for just one post.  Just one.  Last night, my friend Allison and I, along with the other ladies of 'the committee', hosted a wine tasting event to raise money for our dear friend Audrey's foundation.  Audrey passed away almost five years ago after a quick and brutal battle with cancer.  It still doesn't seem real.  The fundraiser was a way for Audrey's closest family and friends to remember her, raise some cash for education reform, and, ok, drink some wine too.   We started planning for this night almost a year ago.  But, ironically, we needed Audrey.  By far the most organized soul I have ever known, I know I felt an extra weight to be on my best, non-procrastinating behavior.  When last night came off hitch-less, and quite beautifully I really believe, I am certain Audrey would have been so pleased with what we had done in her name.  Although, I know she could have done it better.

Blood Simple

If there's anything in life I put off whenever possible, it's going to the doctor.  Clearly, this isn't smart.  Nor is it high on anyone's list of preferred activities, but for me it ranks right under crashing the Palin family reunion.  I have a sordid history of passing out cold upon the threat of a medical procedure.  And needles?  Forget it.  Smelling salts.  The alternative was I had to have something sugary to bring me back to earth.  My Ob/Gyn in the city gave me juice boxes.  That worked well, although one time it was a Five Alive-y drink that contained banana (gross!), so while I was no longer catatonic, I was indeed nauseous.  I know, I am too much fun.  But things have improved with time.  I have learned the secrets of deep breathing and relaxation.  I can manage my anticipation anxiety.  I have given birth without incident.  Twice.  But this morning, for the first time in quite awhile, I had to have blood drawn.  And it had to be today, in time for an appointment tomorrow.  I was nervous, but I got it done.  And I didn't even need a lollipop.

Reflection

I think I'm a decent person at my core.  Better than some (if you consider the populations of the local prisons).  Nowhere near as good as others.  But I will smile at anyone I see.  Or say hello.  And then hold the door open.  If you don't think any of this is a big deal, you've clearly never been to my gym.   I also believe that people who are given much in this world have a responsibility to help those less fortunate.  And that every person, no matter who or what they are, deserves an equal chance to succeed.  But the list of what I don't do could fill scroll after scroll (can you tell it's Yom Kippur?).  I don't volunteer my time locally as often as I should.  I often don't look beyond my own little universe at the larger causes that really need all of our attention.  I definitely do not brake for animals.  Then just this morning, as I was getting dressed for temple, I noticed that I still have my cousin Laura's coat hanging in my closet, as it has been since last April.  Forget the world, I should probably start tackling the smaller issues first.  And before it gets really cold. 

Dale

It took me a really long time to accept my middle name.  I know.  Everyone hates their middle name for some silly reason.  In my case, it felt too boy-ish.  Well, let's see.  I was named for my great-grandfather David and our family friend who is like 6' 7" and has a very major mustache (yes, it's a guy).  But when I reached my 20's, Dale started to grow on me.  Now, I actively like it.  So I'm up in Vermont this week enjoying the scenery, which incidentally looks pretty much like the scenery in my own backyard, but always nice to get away.  My parents and I took the girls to the Vermont Institute of Natural Sciences, where they rehabilitate injured birds of prey.  They've got walking trails and demos of flying falcons.  Now that's entertainment.  My parents signed in at the front desk (they're frequent fliers themselves) and took the kids down to see the bald eagles, while I stayed and tried desperately to pay for a Snapple Nectarine White Tea.  I. can't. live. without. it.  I waited impatiently as a gray-haired man wearing a red and black buffalo-plaid flannel shirt (it was pushing 90 degrees), a high-sitting trucker hat and crisp dark jeans purchased a year-long membership.  As I finally approached to pay, I looked down at his application.  There in blue ballpoint ink was the truth.  Dale.  Exactly.

Spa Go

Today was very unusual in the best possible way.  For her birthday last week, my friend Natasha was given a spa day at the new Ritz-Carlton hotel nearby.  Clearly, she couldn't go alone.  I was supposed to just meet her there for lunch, but after a week of bad headaches and early mornings (thanks Zoe), I decided to call and see if I could make a full day of it too.  I called ahead (ahead?  an hour before) and booked a massage at 11am.  I hightailed it down to White Plains, only got slightly lost and valet parked behind a blue Maserati.  The hotel is lovely and so is the spa.  I felt immediately transported.  After Tash and I spent some downtime in the tranquility (meditation? relaxation?) room, she went on her way and I relaxed (meditated?  tranquilized?) a bit longer until I was met by David.  Yes, I had a male masseuse.  Yes, I was only barely mature enough to handle it.  The whole experience was invigorating, including the steam room and multi-head shower which shot water from the ceiling and three sides.  (Although the top jets that were clearly supposed to reach a normal-sized person's shoulder were just in line with my ear.  I may be permanently water-logged.)  We capped the day with lunch at the pool.  But there's always some last-minute insanity, right?  My final Ritz moments were spent hunkered down in the relaxation room churning out counselor thank-you notes as I was going straight from the spa to pick the girls up from the last day of camp.  They were surely illegible.  I feel no pain.

The Keys to Life

Yesterday, at probably 9:45am, I lost my keys.  Of course I didn't realize they were gone until about 11:15.  That's when I emptied the contents of my bag on the brick sidewalk that runs, briefly, on one side of our brief town.  I am often faced with the bag-emptying ritual.  But usually my keys present themselves in my bag's last remaining corner.  This time, notsomuch.  So, as Zoe sat with her little  three-year-old legs crossed on a bench in the sweltering heat, I made a choice.  I think we all know what it was.  I was going to deal with it later.  Z reached up for my hand, I took it and together we walked happily into the warmth of the library (oh, the AC was cranked, it's just the staff are like old friends).  Zoe was on fire during story time singing loudly and slapping her headshoulderskneesandtoes, and I temporarily forgot my conundrum.  Then it was time to face the inevitable.  Or move to town.  Permanently.  I suddenly realized the keys must have fallen out when we were playing earlier on the grassy village green.  We ran to look and there they were, and had been, for almost three hours.  I'm glad my kid knows she lives in a place where if you drop something, you may actually see it again.  We went home, gathered some fresh basil from the garden, then the girls picked buckets of wild raspberries with their Grammy for dessert.  I swear, the 'aw, shucks' index around here has never been higher.