I was privileged enough to have the opportunity of being raised by not only a classy mother, but a classy set of grandparents throughout my adolescence and young adult years. I’m sure there were moments that I wished things had been different – I’m sure the feelings were returned…but, I have come to understand what a blessing it was to be raised by two generations of thought which stressed the need for me to be proper, civilized, well-mannered and gracious.
These characteristics were of course expected, not only for my own good, but because those were the very attributes exercised by my family. From grandpa I learned that “waste not, want not” was the motto to live by each and every day…as well as the need to be self-reliant; no need to ask for help, when you can do it yourself…even if it means engaging in the activity much longer than necessary. From grandma I learned the appreciation of British television, not over-staying my welcome, sending thank you notes, literature, not over-sharing my life story with just anyone and everyone and a well-stocked kitchen for visitors. From my mom, a keen sense of pulling myself together, having a spotless home, and an overall appreciation for culture and fine things. This of course skims the surface of what I’ve learned from each of them…but, I think you understand…you’d think I was fit to be besties with Kate, Duchess of Cambridge.
However, as many know me today - while I certainly cherish and appreciate the upbringing that I was given - I unfortunately hardly do it the justice that it deserves…and flunk in quite a few areas. Like any diamond in the rough story, I had the all-star grooming team with all the makings of being a true lady…but unfortunately there is at least one characteristic (many actually) that to this day has proved to be a buffer to all the good invested in me…
Stubborn impulsiveness.
I’d like to think a certain amount of class has withstood the effects of this horrible, yet intrinsically-Val characteristic. I was reminded recently however, that my lady-in-waiting status is very much a lady-in-training status to this day.
[Enter Aircraft Interiors Expo – Seattle, WA]
Two very large airline exposition conferences were being held at the downtown conference center recently. My company was a part of the conference focused in airline onboard entertainment; think: Paramount Pictures, Disney, Sony, Boeing, Airbus, Panasonic, etc. Adjacent to our conference was the Aircraft Interiors Expo which focused on the luxuries of reclining lazy-boy seats, electric blankets, feather pillows and FOOD.
The purpose of having the expos at the same time was to be a convenience factor for all the airlines that were in attendance, both domestic and international; exhibitors at either expo were allowed to enter the other. Aside from larger-than-life booths – complete with a mini replica of the Paramount Picture arch - my conference was hardly a draw compared to what sounded like a feast happening over at the Aircraft Interiors expo. All day long friends in the industry, as well as booth neighbors dropped by telling me I HAD to head over to the other expo for all the amazing food samples being practically thrown at them. By the time 3pm came along, I decided to take a break and check out what everyone had been raving about.
Yes, it was true. There were literally mountains of packaged goodies piled high in each booth in a room that housed at least 100 booths. It was Costco meets Dean & Deluca times 100. People were walking around with bags stuffed full of foods that I had never seen on any of my flights – where have I been traveling and on what airline?! Wine was flowing, packaged gourmet desserts and fancy nuts were being tossed, and platters of quiche and fine cheeses were being sampled as though we were at some VIP party.
I felt a little embarrassed, I mean…I walked in and while everything seemed to be piled so high that food avalanches were inevitable…there was still a sense of each booth being unapproachable. The mere fact that I was there for FREE anything, let alone food, caused me to check any class I had at the door. I had no real purpose there other than to eat. Would Kate do that? …. Strike number one “Ms. Lady in Waiting...I mean...Training.”
I had been sent on a hunter and gatherer mission…but, I didn’t need a bag full of food, I just wanted a couple of samples and return a couple of goodies to my fellow exhibitor. It took me a good 5 minutes of just staring at booths and feeling awkward before I made my first move. I couldn’t get over the feeling as though I were some poor peasant looking to steal a loaf of bread…while so many around me, without hesitation, walked right up and practically bulldozed treats into their bags.
It was some German dessert vendor that I finally strolled up to. It appeared to be empty – no exhibitor in sight who I would need to awkwardly try to avoid eye-contact with while taking a food sample. Nope, I was free and clear… so I strolled up to a large display of tarts, cookies, brownies and miniature pies evaluating whether I wanted carrot cake or pecan pie and whether my co-worker would prefer chocolate mousse or an apple tart.
It hadn’t been but 30 seconds, when from the back right corner of where I was standing I hear snickering followed by a thick accent muttering, “ohhh, just another American here for free samples.” In that moment I immediately feel my temperature rise sparked by an initial jolt of embarrassment followed by spite towards this gentleman, who couldn’t have been 5 years my senior.
I sensed him getting up from a table I had not even noticed and coming toward me in an obligated manner when I immediately turn around and quip, “actually, I'm not here for free food…” [LIE] “…I was looking to learn more about your offerings.” [LIE] Would Kate do that? Strike number two.
Now, we were both uncomfortable. “Good” I thought…misery likes company. This guy was clearly taken aback by the fact that 1) I had heard him mutter under his breath to his colleagues and 2) I had put him on the spot to essentially give me the classic 30-second elevator pitch....which I actually prolonged for a good 10 minutes with a string of meaningless questions torturing both of us just to spite him.
I walked out of that expo with a measly pack of nuts, a packaged brownie and brochure that was forced upon me while pretending to care about European airline dessert offerings. The brochure went straight in the trash on my way out and the brownie went to my colleague…sparing him the details.
Dear Kate,
It appears our bestie status might be on hold.
Despite my family’s best efforts, my love of food and stubborn impulsive behavior has gotten in the way of me being a true, well-groomed lady.
It’s true, if I were a lady, 1) I wouldn’t have sought out free food to begin with and 2) I would not have reiterated multiple times throughout my self-inflicted conversation that I was not there for free samples – even though I was – just to spite the vendor and to watch him stammer uncomfortably.
It’s all very disappointing really…I know Steve and William would get along smashingly. Give me a little more time though, I hope not to disappoint.
I’ll be giving Pippa a call for some pointers in being a true, lady-in-waiting -
Valerie
p.s. I know it’s terribly informal, but please, call me val
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
It's Not You, It's Me
I’ve been both the bearer and recipient of this phrase multiple times in my life. Most people know that, “it’s not you, it’s me” most of the time means “it’s actually you.”
[Enter Long-time Love - Washington]
For the last couple of years my restlessness of living in Washington has increased more and more. Washington is nice; I’ve traversed it from East to West, West to East, then East to West. Yes, I’d say I’m quite the expert on Washington and could list off all the random exits on I-90 from Spokane to Seattle, spout off the number of windmills on the plateau overlooking the Columbia River, tell you the best place to stop for gas in Ellensburg, as well as where the cops like to ticket best.
Like any long, well-established relationship…Washington has become comfortable for me. Most of our family resides here. History and memories have been created here. And arguably, Washington is one of the more beautiful states in the country. But.
But. This one-syllable word seems to disrupt complete satisfaction after a lineup of several amazing attributes.
[Enter New Love Interest – Charleston, SC]
In the effort to escape rain, high cost of living and the our status quo life in Seattle, Steve and I began a search to move elsewhere and start over with new jobs, people, places, etc. Such a romantic idea – it would be the solution to financial woes, sub-par weather, and an overall restlessness. So when we were offered the chance to move to Charleston, SC this summer it seemed it would be a no-brainer. Beach, sun, amazing history, charm, just hours from amazing locations...it was the perfect pair of shoes spotted in the department store. Even Travel & Leisure validated what a grand trade-in we’d be making from Seattle to Charleston. In 2010, Charleston was their number one city on The Favorite US Cities list…Seattle came in toward the bottom of the list. Charleston was the clear winner…the date to have at the prom above everyone else. I was so in love and ready to commit, I had a FB status prepared and ready to proclaim that commitment (that’s when you know things are for real, right?) It would have read: “Uh oh. Looks like the Payettes need to head to reform school – they’re moving to the “Most Mannerly City” in the US.”
But. There’s that word again. Like the perfect shoes spotted in the department store – in order for it to be the perfect purchase, the perfect fit, it needed to be a size 9…and unfortunately it was 8.5. So close, but not the right fit – miserable in fact if stubbornly bought and worn (I’ve done it).
So. We’re back to the drawing board, but it seems as though Washington may be the relationship of choice…for now. But, how does Washington feel about that? How do I feel about that? I guess we’ve got a Determine-The-Relationship (DTR) on the horizon...
Dear Washington,
It’s not you, it’s me. So many are in love with you and yet, I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. However, there’s something you must have in store for me, a nugget of self-exploration that has yet to reveal itself. I trust that, like in all established relationships, we’ll work through our differences and come out better for it.
The truth is you’re my black flats; the ones I wear day-in and day-out. Comfortable and stylish enough – they go with just about everything. I haven’t been able to part with them. But. Yep, but…they’re starting to show wear and tear and soon enough, polish won’t be enough to cover the clear indication that a replacement will be necessary…and probably not with the same pair…I just don’t know what those replacements will be yet.
So while many times that phrase has been uttered meaning the opposite...I’m beginning to believe that this time around, it really is me and not you.
Valerie
p.s. - you’re right…call me, Valerie? That’s just silly…please, call me val
[Enter Long-time Love - Washington]
For the last couple of years my restlessness of living in Washington has increased more and more. Washington is nice; I’ve traversed it from East to West, West to East, then East to West. Yes, I’d say I’m quite the expert on Washington and could list off all the random exits on I-90 from Spokane to Seattle, spout off the number of windmills on the plateau overlooking the Columbia River, tell you the best place to stop for gas in Ellensburg, as well as where the cops like to ticket best.
Like any long, well-established relationship…Washington has become comfortable for me. Most of our family resides here. History and memories have been created here. And arguably, Washington is one of the more beautiful states in the country. But.
But. This one-syllable word seems to disrupt complete satisfaction after a lineup of several amazing attributes.
[Enter New Love Interest – Charleston, SC]
In the effort to escape rain, high cost of living and the our status quo life in Seattle, Steve and I began a search to move elsewhere and start over with new jobs, people, places, etc. Such a romantic idea – it would be the solution to financial woes, sub-par weather, and an overall restlessness. So when we were offered the chance to move to Charleston, SC this summer it seemed it would be a no-brainer. Beach, sun, amazing history, charm, just hours from amazing locations...it was the perfect pair of shoes spotted in the department store. Even Travel & Leisure validated what a grand trade-in we’d be making from Seattle to Charleston. In 2010, Charleston was their number one city on The Favorite US Cities list…Seattle came in toward the bottom of the list. Charleston was the clear winner…the date to have at the prom above everyone else. I was so in love and ready to commit, I had a FB status prepared and ready to proclaim that commitment (that’s when you know things are for real, right?) It would have read: “Uh oh. Looks like the Payettes need to head to reform school – they’re moving to the “Most Mannerly City” in the US.”
But. There’s that word again. Like the perfect shoes spotted in the department store – in order for it to be the perfect purchase, the perfect fit, it needed to be a size 9…and unfortunately it was 8.5. So close, but not the right fit – miserable in fact if stubbornly bought and worn (I’ve done it).
So. We’re back to the drawing board, but it seems as though Washington may be the relationship of choice…for now. But, how does Washington feel about that? How do I feel about that? I guess we’ve got a Determine-The-Relationship (DTR) on the horizon...
Dear Washington,
It’s not you, it’s me. So many are in love with you and yet, I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. However, there’s something you must have in store for me, a nugget of self-exploration that has yet to reveal itself. I trust that, like in all established relationships, we’ll work through our differences and come out better for it.
The truth is you’re my black flats; the ones I wear day-in and day-out. Comfortable and stylish enough – they go with just about everything. I haven’t been able to part with them. But. Yep, but…they’re starting to show wear and tear and soon enough, polish won’t be enough to cover the clear indication that a replacement will be necessary…and probably not with the same pair…I just don’t know what those replacements will be yet.
So while many times that phrase has been uttered meaning the opposite...I’m beginning to believe that this time around, it really is me and not you.
Valerie
p.s. - you’re right…call me, Valerie? That’s just silly…please, call me val
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Improv
I realize anyone visiting my blog probably thinks I’m stuck in middle school. They’d sort of be right. The funny thing about middle school is that while it served up some of the worst years of my life…it has become a time that has yielded a host of stories and memories that have inevitably shaped who I am today (scary!).
So remember that music decision that most middle schoolers make (see my post below)? Yeah, I was in orchestra. I started playing violin for two reasons:
1)The Little Mermaid soundtrack : the jig song played on Eric’s boat featured a violin…yes, because of The Little Mermaid I wanted to play the violin.
2)My grandma Bernice is an extremely accomplished violinist…and since I lived with her she agreed to teach me.
Every Spring a number of music festivals occur where students play prepared pieces for judges. One festival, Solo and Ensemble, as I recall was a requirement for the students in orchestra at my school. The music director insisted that we be involved in at least one piece, whether it be a solo or ensemble piece.
That year, I was involved in a couple of entries at Solo and Ensemble; one was a solo piece and the other was a trio piece with two other violinists. Solo and Ensemble arrived and this was my first time performing in this kind of performing situation (being judged) – so it was no doubt a little nerve racking! I had my solo first thing that morning, and from what I can remember it went very well.
It was time for the trio – I was almost done with my first festival experience! The three of us girls walked into our assigned room with our violin cases ready to set up for our trio piece. The process of getting ready to play the violin can be a time-intensive one…especially when you are mostly dealing with beginners (7th graders!). First you take the violin out, get your neck rest situated correctly, get your bow out and tightened correctly…and of course the incessant rosining of the bow (kind of like someone who chalks their pool stick before each strike of a ball - unnecessary), and then tuning. Oh, and tuning at that level of play…that was a good 10 minutes right there; so this wasn’t some simple production for us 12 years olds.
Finally, the violins are out, situated, adjusted, rosined, and relatively in tune. The adjudicator for our piece walks in with his note pad and a copy of the master piece so that he can follow along. As I reach into the side of my violin case I feel what I believe to be my sheet music…only to realize it was merely the program for the festival that I had shoved in the side of my case earlier that day.
Unbeknownst to my fellow ensemble members and Mr. Adjucator, I begin to frantically look for my music…that is nowhere to be found. By this time my fellow trio members have walked up to their respective music stands and prepare to begin. In a moment of panic, I grab the program from my case and march up to my stand – which was situated in between the two – pretending as though I have my music.
I was the designated leader of the trio and as such had the responsibility to “lead off” and begin the piece. Standing there staring at my music stand that merely held one event program, I could see the top of the adjudicator’s head and realized right there and then as I lifted my violin scroll (for the upbeat), that once that scroll came down we’d all be playing this piece….and well, I’d be playing something. It began and yes, I played something. To this day, I have NO IDEA what I played…but for 2 – 3 minutes I played some variation of notes alongside my peers.
It is standard practice for the adjudicator to provide feedback on your performance – it’s part of the learning experience. I’m sure he knew something was awry – he had the master sheet music. But, for a good five or so minutes he acted as though we had done a wonderful job of “phrasing” and really melding our sounds together. I thought I was off the hook – that I had somehow made my way through unscathed - until I heard, “girls, I’d like to hear a certain portion of the piece again…why don’t you all start at measure 10 and play for about 5 bars.” Oh no. The panic was back and to be honest the only thing I remember next was Mr. Adjudicator getting up to come around to our stands only to see on my stand the single piece of paper that read, “1994 Solo and Ensemble Festival, Shadle Park High School.”
If I ran into that judge today, I’d have this to say:
Dear Mr. Adjudicator,
Were you not impressed? Or did you know the whole time? Yeah, I think you knew the whole time. You had the master sheet music the whole time – you knew. I can’t help but think this must have been one of the more amusing pieces of the day for you.
You know, I don’t even remember what my peers said or how they reacted, but I know they were thrilled that we even pulled out a 2+ score (I know, not that great of a score) - guess they didn’t have very high expectations. So, thanks for humoring us and protecting our fragile 7th grade egos.
While I don’t think I was caught empty-handed without sheet music ever again, this incident definitely marked the beginning of a lifetime of improvisation that, well, sometimes seems as confused and unharmonious as the piece you heard that day. I guess I should be thankful for the trusty “adujactors” in my life who seem to mirror what you did that day: call my bluff. Not everything sounds that great improvised...
Hope you’re no longer subjected to judging 7th grade violinists,
Valerie
ps – Who am I fooling - Not you! So, please, call me val
Thursday, February 10, 2011
7th Grade Pipe Dream
There’s a lot to potentially write about; it’s been a wonderful year since I last posted. I had my “flour baby” and he’s still alive and doing pretty well, so I think I’m on track to pass my real-life home-education class (that is if I’m not graded on other “domestic duties”).
While there is a lot I could share on the first 9 months of Harry’s life and how that whirlwind of an experience has forever changed my life in the most positive of ways – I’m not going to. Instead, I was reminded recently of an experience I had in 7th grade that I’m looking to draw motivation/inspiration from.
In the world of middle school there are certain activities that everyone is involved in. Everyone seems to be good enough for sports and everyone seems to be somewhat trained to play 3-4 notes on an instrument (or sing relatively in tune) which was enough to get you enrolled in orchestra, band or choir. So, really about 90% of the 7th and 8th grade classes were enrolled in one of these three music choices.
My course was orchestra and I played the violin. I don’t know which is worse: kids trying to play string instruments or kids trying to play brass instruments? But I’ll tell you what band did have over orchestra…they marched. They marched and I was jealous.
Every spring that I can remember growing up in Spokane, I would hear the Ferris High School band marching through the streets of my neighborhood in preparation for the annual Lilac Festival Parade. It was exciting – all the neighbor kids would run out of their houses accompanied by their bikes, trikes and dogs - trailing behind the percussion section that was usually the last part of the band. It was exciting, and I always wanted to be a part of it.
Every year there was a Junior Lilac parade – it’s usually the week or two before the official big Lilac Festival Parade that features a number of floats and all the regional high school bands. This particular year during the Junior Lilac parade, I was downtown with my mom and happened to see a number of the middle school bands performing, including my school. My school seemed to keep coming and coming, almost wrapping around two – three blocks, since well, it had a majority of the school in it. I was mesmerized – I wanted to be in the band marching, but I couldn’t, because I was an orchestra member….besides, the opportunity was truly marching me by…right before my eyes.
Except! Every year, one lucky middle school was selected to march in the main parade and my school was picked. I remember seeing our name announced on the news – because Spokane news only reports the best – and thinking to myself, “This is it! This is my chance!” Now, how was I going to get myself into the band….
Well, the band seemed to have 5 parts to it and this is where the 7th grader logic came into play:
1. Very front: The school sign carriers. This is exactly what I needed to do – I could hold the sign of our school! However, this was an elite job – there were only 3 people for this job, and they were all upperclassmen…not going to happen.
2. Near front: The drill team. that wasn’t going to happen, considering I couldn’t even do a somersault
3. The middle: The band – I’m sure I could have pulled enough skill together to play three or so notes for one instrument…but considering the finagling I was already looking at, I figured that was not going to happen.
4. Toward the back: More drill team. Nope.
5. Last: The flag pole carriers. This…this, was my ticket – surely they could use another flag pole carrier?!
So that Monday, I rushed to the band room to introduce myself to the band teacher, Mrs. Bateman (?). She had no idea who I was. But, I made it clear that I would do AB-SOL-LUTELY ANYTHING she wanted if there was some way for me to march with the band that following weekend in the Lilac Parade. ANYTHING. After considering my plea for a few moments, she said something similar to, “well, maybe – but I could really use help wrapping some of these flag poles with lights after school – would you mind helping?” YES! I’d love to, I exclaimed and promptly came back after school to spend a few hours wrapping those poles. Upon completing that job Mrs. Bateman granted me my wish – I was to be a flag pole carrier the next weekend. And what a proud moment it was.
Dear Mrs. Bateman,
You have no idea the seed of determination you nurtured by allowing me to join “the band” that year. To me, I thought I was proving my worth by providing critical assistance in wrapping those marching poles with lights and thus earning an elite opportunity. When in reality – if the whole school was in the band already, what was adding one more individual - and to the most unnecessary position of all: the flag pole carrier? But, it didn’t matter to me and it has made all the difference in the world.
To this day, I can remember the thrill and excitement of knowing that I was going to march. And not only that, I reflect on my experience as a flag-pole carrier and tell myself, “I really can do anything.”
Dreams really do come true.
Thanks again,
Valerie Farnsworth (now Payette)
p.s. but please, please, call me val – I promise to wrap more flag poles if you do…
While there is a lot I could share on the first 9 months of Harry’s life and how that whirlwind of an experience has forever changed my life in the most positive of ways – I’m not going to. Instead, I was reminded recently of an experience I had in 7th grade that I’m looking to draw motivation/inspiration from.
In the world of middle school there are certain activities that everyone is involved in. Everyone seems to be good enough for sports and everyone seems to be somewhat trained to play 3-4 notes on an instrument (or sing relatively in tune) which was enough to get you enrolled in orchestra, band or choir. So, really about 90% of the 7th and 8th grade classes were enrolled in one of these three music choices.
My course was orchestra and I played the violin. I don’t know which is worse: kids trying to play string instruments or kids trying to play brass instruments? But I’ll tell you what band did have over orchestra…they marched. They marched and I was jealous.
Every spring that I can remember growing up in Spokane, I would hear the Ferris High School band marching through the streets of my neighborhood in preparation for the annual Lilac Festival Parade. It was exciting – all the neighbor kids would run out of their houses accompanied by their bikes, trikes and dogs - trailing behind the percussion section that was usually the last part of the band. It was exciting, and I always wanted to be a part of it.
Every year there was a Junior Lilac parade – it’s usually the week or two before the official big Lilac Festival Parade that features a number of floats and all the regional high school bands. This particular year during the Junior Lilac parade, I was downtown with my mom and happened to see a number of the middle school bands performing, including my school. My school seemed to keep coming and coming, almost wrapping around two – three blocks, since well, it had a majority of the school in it. I was mesmerized – I wanted to be in the band marching, but I couldn’t, because I was an orchestra member….besides, the opportunity was truly marching me by…right before my eyes.
Except! Every year, one lucky middle school was selected to march in the main parade and my school was picked. I remember seeing our name announced on the news – because Spokane news only reports the best – and thinking to myself, “This is it! This is my chance!” Now, how was I going to get myself into the band….
Well, the band seemed to have 5 parts to it and this is where the 7th grader logic came into play:
1. Very front: The school sign carriers. This is exactly what I needed to do – I could hold the sign of our school! However, this was an elite job – there were only 3 people for this job, and they were all upperclassmen…not going to happen.
2. Near front: The drill team. that wasn’t going to happen, considering I couldn’t even do a somersault
3. The middle: The band – I’m sure I could have pulled enough skill together to play three or so notes for one instrument…but considering the finagling I was already looking at, I figured that was not going to happen.
4. Toward the back: More drill team. Nope.
5. Last: The flag pole carriers. This…this, was my ticket – surely they could use another flag pole carrier?!
So that Monday, I rushed to the band room to introduce myself to the band teacher, Mrs. Bateman (?). She had no idea who I was. But, I made it clear that I would do AB-SOL-LUTELY ANYTHING she wanted if there was some way for me to march with the band that following weekend in the Lilac Parade. ANYTHING. After considering my plea for a few moments, she said something similar to, “well, maybe – but I could really use help wrapping some of these flag poles with lights after school – would you mind helping?” YES! I’d love to, I exclaimed and promptly came back after school to spend a few hours wrapping those poles. Upon completing that job Mrs. Bateman granted me my wish – I was to be a flag pole carrier the next weekend. And what a proud moment it was.
Dear Mrs. Bateman,
You have no idea the seed of determination you nurtured by allowing me to join “the band” that year. To me, I thought I was proving my worth by providing critical assistance in wrapping those marching poles with lights and thus earning an elite opportunity. When in reality – if the whole school was in the band already, what was adding one more individual - and to the most unnecessary position of all: the flag pole carrier? But, it didn’t matter to me and it has made all the difference in the world.
To this day, I can remember the thrill and excitement of knowing that I was going to march. And not only that, I reflect on my experience as a flag-pole carrier and tell myself, “I really can do anything.”
Dreams really do come true.
Thanks again,
Valerie Farnsworth (now Payette)
p.s. but please, please, call me val – I promise to wrap more flag poles if you do…
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Flour Baby
Home Economics: the quintessential 8th grade class requirement. What does “home economics” really mean? Apparently it meant a number of things for 12/13 year olds: cooking pizza, blending orange julius drinks, sewing pencil pouches (which I sewed my opening completely shut…oops) and most importantly flour babies. Yes, the Flour Baby project. The next level of “sex education” – a graduating step from 70s projector films. As eighth graders, we were to tote around a 10 lb sack of flour that represented your “child” for the week. Here were the stipulations of the project and my subsequent ability to abide by these rules:
Valerie Farnsworth’s Flour Baby evaluation:
1. Appearance: To this day, my mom laughs at what she looks back on as a unique dry sense of humor that no one else really understood…I think most people thought I was weird…but I thought it was hilarious. I decided that on one side of my baby would be George Burns and the other would be Prince Charles. Why? I obviously took this project seriously. Based on the pictures you are about to see, you could probably guess my teacher didn’t necessarily agree with my take on “distinctive yet appropriate” – whatever, I laughed every time I toted Charlie-George around…
The following are as close to the pictures I carried around for one week as I can recall:
3. Pretty sure Charlie-George was left in at least two classes in my daily 6-class schedule. Pretty sure my teachers did not have a hard time identifying whose “child” was constantly left behind. Pretty sure this racked up an extreme amount of deductions resulting in a not-so-fabulous grade.
4. Hmmm…well, Charlie-George developed a couple of leaks throughout the week…all of which were lovingly attended to with duct tape – he may not have weighed the full 10 lbs at the end of the week, which well, could’ve ended up in an additional amount of deductions towards my grade…
5. No comment.
6. And well, this pretty much was the nail in the coffin.
Let’s put it this way, if the Flour Baby project were any true indicator of things to come for me it was this: I would be an awful parent, with an extremely not-so-attractive baby, that leaks incessantly. Hmmm…mission accomplished for this 8th grader.
Fifteen years later I find myself expecting my first child, a boy, in the next couple of months. To my eighth grade teacher I have this to say:
Dear Ms. Home Ec (your name escapes me),
I don’t know why I got a B- on my flour baby project. Could your personal opinions regarding Prince Charles or George Burns have anything to do with it? Or could it have possibly had to do with my constant lack of attention to where my “baby” was half the time?
Well, here I am 15 years older. I still have a hard time holding on to critical things each day…my keys, my driver’s license, cell phone, mascara. Keeping this chronic absent-mindedness in mind, I find myself 3 months away from having my first real “flour baby” and I can’t help but reflect on my success (or lack thereof) of my flour baby project.
Let’s hope I can keep track of my real “flour baby” this time around, that he’s a bit more attractive than Charlie-George and that nothing will come to duct tape repairs. In terms of a grade however, I have a feeling I’ll be lucky if I end up with a B- at the end of this “project.”
Valerie Farnsworth (now Payette)
p.s. this time around…please call me val.
1. You will create a flour-child (an artfully designed 10 lb. sack of flour or sugar.) Make your child distinctive yet appropriate (e.g.: no tattoos, piercing, hair coloring), with his/her own personality or style.
2. Name your child.
3. During the school day, you must carry your child at all times. In this class you must hold your child at all times. Lockers and trunks are not cribs or day-care centers.
4. You should be extremely protective of your child. If a tragic loss or injury occurs, you will be responsible for clean-up (NOT the custodians.), reporting to instructors, and negotiation of the penalty. Penalties range from additional research to a report on child abuse. If someone else attacks your child, or uses him/her in a recipe, find a teacher as a witness to spare you some penalty.
5. You are not allowed to put the baby in your backpack, go anywhere without your baby, leave your baby in the care of anyone else, or let anyone abuse or neglect your child.
6. You will lose 25 points every time you are seen without your baby! There will be no negotiation or discussion, just a 25 point deduction!
Valerie Farnsworth’s Flour Baby evaluation:
1. Appearance: To this day, my mom laughs at what she looks back on as a unique dry sense of humor that no one else really understood…I think most people thought I was weird…but I thought it was hilarious. I decided that on one side of my baby would be George Burns and the other would be Prince Charles. Why? I obviously took this project seriously. Based on the pictures you are about to see, you could probably guess my teacher didn’t necessarily agree with my take on “distinctive yet appropriate” – whatever, I laughed every time I toted Charlie-George around…
The following are as close to the pictures I carried around for one week as I can recall:
2. Name: Charlie-George.
3. Pretty sure Charlie-George was left in at least two classes in my daily 6-class schedule. Pretty sure my teachers did not have a hard time identifying whose “child” was constantly left behind. Pretty sure this racked up an extreme amount of deductions resulting in a not-so-fabulous grade.
4. Hmmm…well, Charlie-George developed a couple of leaks throughout the week…all of which were lovingly attended to with duct tape – he may not have weighed the full 10 lbs at the end of the week, which well, could’ve ended up in an additional amount of deductions towards my grade…
5. No comment.
6. And well, this pretty much was the nail in the coffin.
Let’s put it this way, if the Flour Baby project were any true indicator of things to come for me it was this: I would be an awful parent, with an extremely not-so-attractive baby, that leaks incessantly. Hmmm…mission accomplished for this 8th grader.
Fifteen years later I find myself expecting my first child, a boy, in the next couple of months. To my eighth grade teacher I have this to say:
Dear Ms. Home Ec (your name escapes me),
I don’t know why I got a B- on my flour baby project. Could your personal opinions regarding Prince Charles or George Burns have anything to do with it? Or could it have possibly had to do with my constant lack of attention to where my “baby” was half the time?
Well, here I am 15 years older. I still have a hard time holding on to critical things each day…my keys, my driver’s license, cell phone, mascara. Keeping this chronic absent-mindedness in mind, I find myself 3 months away from having my first real “flour baby” and I can’t help but reflect on my success (or lack thereof) of my flour baby project.
Let’s hope I can keep track of my real “flour baby” this time around, that he’s a bit more attractive than Charlie-George and that nothing will come to duct tape repairs. In terms of a grade however, I have a feeling I’ll be lucky if I end up with a B- at the end of this “project.”
Here’s to Charlie-George Jr. -
Valerie Farnsworth (now Payette)
p.s. this time around…please call me val.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Sour Patch Effect
I love Sour Patch Kids. They are a must for every movie theater visit. The red, the green, orange, and even yellow – I love them all. The kick that you get each time you pop one (okay maybe four) in your mouth is what brings you back for another handful – enough sweet to keep you grabbing, and sour to make it interesting. However, as the mouth-stuffing minutes go by the sweetness starts to be a bit much, and the sugar overload combined with the tongue-numbness caused by the sour sugar coating makes for an undesirable combination. Perhaps if I just paced myself it wouldn’t come to such a sugar-inducing coma…maybe. But, I doubt it; not with Sour Patch Kids.
Facebook: my social networking equivalent to Sour Patch Kids. It tasted good in the beginning, I paced myself. But the sweet, punchiness of Facebook kept me coming back day after day and eventually multiple times a day…until the Sour Patch Effect started to set in: the sugar overload of information, and the tongue-numbing sensation of mindlessly reaching for more made what was once appetizing , sickening. Many people don’t get to this point – they don’t stuff 3-4 Sour Patch Kids in at a time, they enjoy one at a time in moderate increments. Not me.
So, how to counteract the Sour Patch Effect? Cut back on the intake and drink lots and lots of water.
To follow the prescribed course of action, I recently deactivated my Facebook account. I have been without “liking” things, being a “fan” of things, “status updates” and commenting for over a week now. Withdrawals have been present…I have had the desire to “reach for more”…but, I haven’t. The sugar coma, while still there, is not as serious. The taste buds, while still numb from tartaric acid, are starting to recognize other flavors.
The thought has come recently to take it one more step and cut out all “sweets” (aka social networking) as well …since eating Milk Duds, Junior Mints, or Skittles after feeling the Sour Patch Effect, doesn’t help recovery much. So, I’m committing myself to a “Sweets-Free” Challenge. No Facebook, Pandora, Twitter, LinkdIn, Lala or Blogging for the next 30 days. Why the drastic challenge? I don’t need it. And, social networking, like Sour Patch Kids, isn’t the staple food group that I’ve made it. I once lived without it all – without the knowledge of who ate what for lunch, who was listening to what at 9:34am, or what profile picture would define me that day – and did just fine. I’m interested in returning to the diet of being naive, oblivious, and out of the loop…at least for a while.
So to the “pseudo food group” that is social networking, I have this to say:
Dear Social Networking,
You are like Sour Patch Kids, and Sour Patch Kids, at least to me are a “must.” It’s true…despite the Sour Patch Effect and the less-than-desirable aftertaste that you sometimes leave, I do always come back for more. And so it will be for me and my social networking indulgence…I will inevitably be back.
But first, I need to get over the stomach ache, numbness and sugar-coated taste that have left me parched and thirsting for reality.
Officially “deactivating” my account(s),
"Valerie Payette"
"valeriepayette"
"Valerie P."
"ValSchmal"
p.s. oh, and I almost forgot…"please, call me val"
Facebook: my social networking equivalent to Sour Patch Kids. It tasted good in the beginning, I paced myself. But the sweet, punchiness of Facebook kept me coming back day after day and eventually multiple times a day…until the Sour Patch Effect started to set in: the sugar overload of information, and the tongue-numbing sensation of mindlessly reaching for more made what was once appetizing , sickening. Many people don’t get to this point – they don’t stuff 3-4 Sour Patch Kids in at a time, they enjoy one at a time in moderate increments. Not me.
So, how to counteract the Sour Patch Effect? Cut back on the intake and drink lots and lots of water.
To follow the prescribed course of action, I recently deactivated my Facebook account. I have been without “liking” things, being a “fan” of things, “status updates” and commenting for over a week now. Withdrawals have been present…I have had the desire to “reach for more”…but, I haven’t. The sugar coma, while still there, is not as serious. The taste buds, while still numb from tartaric acid, are starting to recognize other flavors.
The thought has come recently to take it one more step and cut out all “sweets” (aka social networking) as well …since eating Milk Duds, Junior Mints, or Skittles after feeling the Sour Patch Effect, doesn’t help recovery much. So, I’m committing myself to a “Sweets-Free” Challenge. No Facebook, Pandora, Twitter, LinkdIn, Lala or Blogging for the next 30 days. Why the drastic challenge? I don’t need it. And, social networking, like Sour Patch Kids, isn’t the staple food group that I’ve made it. I once lived without it all – without the knowledge of who ate what for lunch, who was listening to what at 9:34am, or what profile picture would define me that day – and did just fine. I’m interested in returning to the diet of being naive, oblivious, and out of the loop…at least for a while.
So to the “pseudo food group” that is social networking, I have this to say:
Dear Social Networking,
You are like Sour Patch Kids, and Sour Patch Kids, at least to me are a “must.” It’s true…despite the Sour Patch Effect and the less-than-desirable aftertaste that you sometimes leave, I do always come back for more. And so it will be for me and my social networking indulgence…I will inevitably be back.
But first, I need to get over the stomach ache, numbness and sugar-coated taste that have left me parched and thirsting for reality.
Officially “deactivating” my account(s),
"Valerie Payette"
"valeriepayette"
"Valerie P."
"ValSchmal"
p.s. oh, and I almost forgot…"please, call me val"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Man in the Moon - Or Kitchen Window
This past weekend I went “home” to Spokane to visit my mom and grandparents. Every time I visit, I’m filled with memories of growing up in that house and neighborhood. These memories are oftentimes pleasant, but sometimes embarrassing and awkward. This past weekend one vivid memory in particular seemed to come to mind – and let’s just say it could be classified under “embarrassingly awkward.”
Growing up I was obsessed with space, like most kids are. I was convinced that I’d go to Space Camp. Christmas after Christmas I would ask to be sent to Space Camp for the summer – this request along with the request to have a power wheels jeep to drive around in, never came to fruition. However, when I was eleven my dad gave me a telescope for Christmas. It wasn’t anything fabulous – but I thought it was the greatest thing ever (I really did Dad!). The first night, I went out ready to see into the far depths of the galaxy – only to see past the fence into the next door neighbor’s kitchen window. Night after night I would diligently go out looking to identify different constellations – when in reality, I could see them much better without the telescope.
Time passed and that telescope was no longer of interest to me.
As many might know who are reading this, there is a family who lives next door, named the Matthews – there were three boys, all of which I grew up with and were considered family. I am perfectly comfortable admitting however, that this view of them being “brothers” was not always the case. Throughout the years of middle school and into the beginning of high school, it could be said that I would go in and out of crushes on the two older Matthews boys. Now this may be a complete surprise to them both – but I highly doubt it. From the time I was four and well into middle school, I was over at the Matthews often, but that started to dissipate as we started make different friends at school. As a result, I didn’t see them as often, but continued to be intrigued with what their social lives entailed (we all know how intriguing twelve and fourteen-year-old boys’ social lives are…not very).
This brings me to my vivid memory: a red telescope, a kitchen window and dishwashing.
There was one summer day in particular that I wanted to know where one of the Matthews boys was (to be honest I don’t remember which one). Being the sneaky twelve-year-old that I was, I wanted to “spy” on him and see if I could tell what was going on next door – since obviously he wasn’t around me! The layout of my backyard in relation to the Matthews’ didn’t lend itself to me looking through the fence unseen – they’d be able to see me coming the entire way from both their kitchen and dining room window. Plus, any movement made by anyone was immediately met with a bark from Molly – our dog, who made it a point to make as much noise as possible as she sat perched atop the deck in our backyard.
What was a girl to do? I could hear voices and activity – but couldn’t adequately see what was going on…I had to know what was going on! When the thought struck me…“the red telescope.” I rushed in and dusted off the telescope that had never seen the man in the moon but had clearly seen into the neighbor’s kitchen window...perfect. So there I was, cramped under the deck with the telescope situated just so, allowing me to finally peer over to the Matthews and see who this boy was with.
After several minutes of adjusting and clearing the lens, I was finally looking right into the Matthews’ house. “I knew this telescope was good for something” I thought to myself! There I was - ready to spy and get myself some juicy information on the boy next door. Just how juicy was it? Well, I could clearly see Mrs. Matthews washing the dishes - with Dove dishwashing soap to be exact – while scenes of Days of Our Lives flashed in the background. As juicy as that may have been…it certainly was not the “juicy” I was counting on.
And so, I come clean and admit my indulgence – one that has never been disclosed before. To the innocent bystander that ended up being spied on I have this to say:
Dear Mrs. Matthews,
You know how dearly I love you and your family; you have been so good to me all of these years. I must apologize for violating your sense of security by peering into your kitchen window with my red telescope. But, let’s be honest – I could have seen the same thing with my own eyes standing on our deck. The fact is, that telescope signified an interest in your boys – one that lives on today…but in a much, much, different way.
I no longer have a red telescope to stalk them…but not to worry, I have Facebook. Until I see you again – continue to peer into our backyard and we will continue to peer into yours.
Your “daughter,”
Valerie
p.s. scratch that, please always call me val.
Growing up I was obsessed with space, like most kids are. I was convinced that I’d go to Space Camp. Christmas after Christmas I would ask to be sent to Space Camp for the summer – this request along with the request to have a power wheels jeep to drive around in, never came to fruition. However, when I was eleven my dad gave me a telescope for Christmas. It wasn’t anything fabulous – but I thought it was the greatest thing ever (I really did Dad!). The first night, I went out ready to see into the far depths of the galaxy – only to see past the fence into the next door neighbor’s kitchen window. Night after night I would diligently go out looking to identify different constellations – when in reality, I could see them much better without the telescope.
Time passed and that telescope was no longer of interest to me.
As many might know who are reading this, there is a family who lives next door, named the Matthews – there were three boys, all of which I grew up with and were considered family. I am perfectly comfortable admitting however, that this view of them being “brothers” was not always the case. Throughout the years of middle school and into the beginning of high school, it could be said that I would go in and out of crushes on the two older Matthews boys. Now this may be a complete surprise to them both – but I highly doubt it. From the time I was four and well into middle school, I was over at the Matthews often, but that started to dissipate as we started make different friends at school. As a result, I didn’t see them as often, but continued to be intrigued with what their social lives entailed (we all know how intriguing twelve and fourteen-year-old boys’ social lives are…not very).
This brings me to my vivid memory: a red telescope, a kitchen window and dishwashing.
There was one summer day in particular that I wanted to know where one of the Matthews boys was (to be honest I don’t remember which one). Being the sneaky twelve-year-old that I was, I wanted to “spy” on him and see if I could tell what was going on next door – since obviously he wasn’t around me! The layout of my backyard in relation to the Matthews’ didn’t lend itself to me looking through the fence unseen – they’d be able to see me coming the entire way from both their kitchen and dining room window. Plus, any movement made by anyone was immediately met with a bark from Molly – our dog, who made it a point to make as much noise as possible as she sat perched atop the deck in our backyard.
What was a girl to do? I could hear voices and activity – but couldn’t adequately see what was going on…I had to know what was going on! When the thought struck me…“the red telescope.” I rushed in and dusted off the telescope that had never seen the man in the moon but had clearly seen into the neighbor’s kitchen window...perfect. So there I was, cramped under the deck with the telescope situated just so, allowing me to finally peer over to the Matthews and see who this boy was with.
After several minutes of adjusting and clearing the lens, I was finally looking right into the Matthews’ house. “I knew this telescope was good for something” I thought to myself! There I was - ready to spy and get myself some juicy information on the boy next door. Just how juicy was it? Well, I could clearly see Mrs. Matthews washing the dishes - with Dove dishwashing soap to be exact – while scenes of Days of Our Lives flashed in the background. As juicy as that may have been…it certainly was not the “juicy” I was counting on.
And so, I come clean and admit my indulgence – one that has never been disclosed before. To the innocent bystander that ended up being spied on I have this to say:
Dear Mrs. Matthews,
You know how dearly I love you and your family; you have been so good to me all of these years. I must apologize for violating your sense of security by peering into your kitchen window with my red telescope. But, let’s be honest – I could have seen the same thing with my own eyes standing on our deck. The fact is, that telescope signified an interest in your boys – one that lives on today…but in a much, much, different way.
I no longer have a red telescope to stalk them…but not to worry, I have Facebook. Until I see you again – continue to peer into our backyard and we will continue to peer into yours.
Your “daughter,”
Valerie
p.s. scratch that, please always call me val.
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