Admittedly, I am late to the warehouse shopping game. After all, I am Tina Gordon, party of one, and I cannot imagine a time when I will need a jar of mayonnaise the size of an aquarium. But, on the advice of experienced Costco members and with the endorsement of my friends who are Sam’s Club members, I ventured into this whole new world of shopping. Granted, I was more interested in bargains on books and electronics than six pounds of salted nuts, but as I strolled down the aisles with a shopping cart larger than my first car, I experienced first-hand that bigger is – on occasion – better.
Start at the TV section, which is where you enter the store. Naturally, the TVs are BIG, and I mean BIG – even too big to fit in the unwieldy shopping cart. I passed packages of cordless phones – six to a pack – giant bath towels, cookware sets, appliances, faucets, snow shovels, tires, men’s suits (that’s right, men’s SUITS!), a set of 40 hand warmers (good if the entire team has cold hands) and exercise equipment. How does one get this stuff home, I first wondered. As I tried to lift a two-pack of Ocean Spray cranberry juice, I realized I couldn’t even get this stuff into the cart, no less into the back of the car. And let’s face it, I will probably be able to live the rest of my life without the need for a six-pack of SPAM.
As I passed a box of SPLENDA the size of Tide detergent, I noticed that size can be deceiving. The large box holds only 1.67 pounds of SPLENDA – more than I will ever need, but deceptively less than one would gather from the package. Ironically, in such a large place with so many big things, the most popular place in the store was where plastic-gloved women were passing out tiny samples of food. My advice – go there hungry. I sampled the samples of ravioli, manicotti and chicken nuggets and washed them down with a tasty sample of margarita mix (without the alcohol, or people would never leave the store).
For a neophyte shopper, the wonders of warehouse shopping are amazing. Giant packages of sundried tomatoes, 24-packs of canned fruit, boxes of 400-count aspirin. I brought home a package of 12 jumbo rolls of paper towels (the equivalent of 20 rolls, the package boasted), a two-pound loaf of apple streusel bread (that turned out to be really good; I’ll try not to eat both pounds at once), a large bottle of olive oil and six pounds of frozen fresh fruit (huh?) that cost less than a small bowl at the supermarket.
Now that I have ventured into the warehouse, I’ll know what to expect next time. I’ll go back for a standing rib roast next month. But I can survive a long time with my new olive oil, and my paper towels will last until this time next year, I’m sure. Maybe by then I’ll trade in my convertible for a truck to haul the stuff home.
Nah, size isn’t everything.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
And the Gold Medal Goes to...August, 2008
If there were a gold medal for watching the Olympics, I’d be right up there in contention.
After being captivated by the opening ceremonies (“How did they do that?” ran through my head throughout the night), I got sucked in to all kinds of sports, from the usual swimming and gymnastics to basketball (natch, Rutgers’ former standout Cappie Pondexter plays on the women’s team), beach volleyball, etc.
Given this enormous amount of coverage and my availability to enjoy it all, I can’t help but make a few observations:
So far, I have watched bits and pieces of men’s and women’s tennis (American James Blake upset Roger Federer!), gymnastics, soccer, beach and team volleyball, team handball, men’s water polo, men’s weightlifting, men’s and women’s swimming and basketball, men’s and women’s field hockey, various track and field events, men’s synchronized diving (that’s a sport, but the Olympics is dropping baseball and softball? I don’t get that at all), and hardball with Chris Matthews. Oops, I just left MSNBC on a little too long on the latter. Actually, over the entire Olympics, I watched everything except equestrian events and the so-called sports of rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. Unless Harry Shearer and Martin Short are in the latter, it’s just not worth watching. The powers that be are eliminating softball and baseball but keeping these “sports?” Please!
How on earth do those swimmers get into those bathing suits? I thought it was amazing that the women with long hair could tuck it under a bathing cap, but to see the bodies of the men and women shoehorned into those full-length Speedos is impressive indeed. But let’s face it – making Michael Phelps go faster is less impressive than, say, getting me to go faster in one of those suits. Or just getting me into one of those suits, for that matter.
How on earth do those beach volleyball players cover so much ground? I mean, they play on sand, don’t they? Maybe it’s easier to move on sand if you aren’t lugging a beach chair, an umbrella and a day’s worth of refreshments, but still…
Speaking of beach volleyball, could the “uniforms” worn by the women be any scantier? I’ve blown my nose in larger swatches of fabric.
I am sure that NBC, in its billion hours of TV coverage, at one point explained why one team volleyball player wears a different uniform than the rest of the team. Did someone forget his uniform? See what happens when the moms aren’t around to check up on their athletes?
In the first few days, was there anything better to see than Michael Phelps’ reaction to his 200 freestyle relay team’s record-breaking performance? I know he is on track to win eight gold medals, but he was so excited for the team that it looked like his first ever win. That’s what I call teamwork.
Looking at these athletes and their finely-honed physiques makes me realize that they look they way people are supposed to look, without their mid-sections covered in a protective layer of fat. An anatomy class could study Michael Phelps’ body and point out each distinct muscle group. (Sitting in the recliner watching all this isn’t helping my body a bit.)
How do those male divers keep those teeny tiny bathing suits on when they hit the water? Some things shouldn’t be shown live, if you get my drift.
It is day five and I have already lost count of Michael Phelps’ gold medal count. But good for him.
Announcers have commented several times about Michael Phelps’ 12,000 calorie a day diet. Big deal – so’s mine. Only my doctor isn’t quite so thrilled.
TV commentators also noted that the Chinese gymnasts are selected at age three and sent off to train, leaving their families (a few looked like that was only 10 years ago…). Thank goodness that doesn’t happen here, or I am sure I would have been chosen and whisked away from my family, thereby changing my entire personal history. Back then I knew how to do a somersault and hadn’t yet discover Hershey bars. Talk about life-changing…
Speaking of which – some of these athletes train for years and then get 10 seconds or less of competition to show what they can do. Miss out on a medal or falter even slightly and it’s either four more years or it’s done. Unless you are Dara Torres, that is. Ask pool Lolo Jones how she feels after leading her race until she hit the next to last hurdle, finishing seventh. Heartbreaking.
One more thing about the poster boy for this Olympics, Michael Phelps. I caught a video of former Rutgers running back and now Baltimore Ravens’ running back Ray Rice saluting Phelps. Kobe and LeBron were seen cheering in the stands as Michael took home his record-setting eighth gold medal. His achievements are stunning, and no less than his ability to interest professional athletes and the nation in a sport most of us pay attention to only once every four years. Way to go, Michael Phelps.
It is going to take more than 10 minutes worth of viewing fencing every four years for me to understand the sport and its scoring. So far, it looks like two bee keepers going at each other with really long kitchen knives.
I watched the women’s marathon, an event that always amazes me. After a grueling 26-mile race, the Romanian winner took a victory lap. And another, and another. Other runners kept entering the stadium to finish the race, and she could be seen in the background, joyfully running around the track with her flag in hand. Can someone please tell her it’s OK to stop now? I expect to see her still running in the background as they show the closing ceremonies.
Today’s schedule included the women’s triathlon. What I don’t get is how these women get out of the water, dripping wet, jump on a bike to race and then put on their cycling shoes. How do you start to ride, still wet, and then put on shoes? If there was a time trial just for putting on the shoes, I’m sure I’d come in last.
In the “that’s using your head” category, I nominate the ping pong players. My Favorite Sister and I watched the singles and doubles and could swear the players served with their heads, not their paddles. We even paused the action and watched frame by frame (a bit too much time on our hands, you say?) but couldn’t tell if a paddle was used. I’m not sure I could compete with these people. Unless the table is in the basement with the sump pump hole looming dangerously nearby, the setting just wouldn’t seen right to me.
For many reasons, I am glad I am not a diver. First, you have those tiny towels to dry your hair. Then, one can only hope that there is an elevator to get them up to the top of the platform. There must be one, or the divers would be exhausted after two dives. And finally, diving commentator Cynthia Potter, a former Olympian herself, is one tough critic. She watches these tiny bodies twisting and turning in the air, going God knows how fast, and finds fault with them (toes were flat, legs were apart, she went over, he went under…). If she were a movie critic, every movie would close after week one.
The women’s basketball team won its final game today, and I am thrilled to see Rutgers’ own Cappie Pondexter with the gold medal around her neck. Having seen almost all members of the USA team play in person vs. Rutgers or in tournaments, I know the talent level of the players, but you never know. This team was good as gold.
The US track team needs a lot of practice passing that stupid baton. Why is that even necessary? It seems like an antiquated exercise to me since the presence of cameras and technology could certainly assure that no one leaves prematurely. Drop the baton, I say! Oops, maybe they took that too literally.
Usian “Lightning” Bolt. WOW! That man can run. He’s like Michael Phelps on the track – only faster. And how cool are those cameras that run on tracks along side to give us a close-up view of the races?
This is supposed to be the “green Olympics,” right? I sure hope someone is gathering up all those water bottles the marathon runners discard as they run.
I woke up at 4:00 this morning (not intentionally), TV still on, and happily, so was the gold medal men’s basketball game. Of course I couldn’t turn it off, so I got to see the happy millionaires who make up the USA team run around like little kids, celebrating their hard fought gold medal. There’s nothing like setting a goal and achieving it, all while playing a game you love and representing your country. Or at least that’s what Bob Costas would say.
I just finished watching the closing ceremonies. Those folks in China have proven that with billions of dollars and bodies, you can put on quite a show – people flying around the stadium, towers growing out of the ground, people depicting the Olympic flame. Very cool. You have to hand it to them. The country produced wonderful ceremonies, outstanding facilities (as seen from my recliner; I’ll miss the Water Cube and the Bird’s Nest) and equally outstanding performances by its athletes. With a state-supported system, expect to see many more Chinese athletes getting the gold in 2012. And maybe some of their female gymnasts will actually be old enough to compete then (sorry, couldn’t help it).
After all this TV watching in the past two weeks, I have just one question for next week: What’s on?
After being captivated by the opening ceremonies (“How did they do that?” ran through my head throughout the night), I got sucked in to all kinds of sports, from the usual swimming and gymnastics to basketball (natch, Rutgers’ former standout Cappie Pondexter plays on the women’s team), beach volleyball, etc.
Given this enormous amount of coverage and my availability to enjoy it all, I can’t help but make a few observations:
So far, I have watched bits and pieces of men’s and women’s tennis (American James Blake upset Roger Federer!), gymnastics, soccer, beach and team volleyball, team handball, men’s water polo, men’s weightlifting, men’s and women’s swimming and basketball, men’s and women’s field hockey, various track and field events, men’s synchronized diving (that’s a sport, but the Olympics is dropping baseball and softball? I don’t get that at all), and hardball with Chris Matthews. Oops, I just left MSNBC on a little too long on the latter. Actually, over the entire Olympics, I watched everything except equestrian events and the so-called sports of rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. Unless Harry Shearer and Martin Short are in the latter, it’s just not worth watching. The powers that be are eliminating softball and baseball but keeping these “sports?” Please!
How on earth do those swimmers get into those bathing suits? I thought it was amazing that the women with long hair could tuck it under a bathing cap, but to see the bodies of the men and women shoehorned into those full-length Speedos is impressive indeed. But let’s face it – making Michael Phelps go faster is less impressive than, say, getting me to go faster in one of those suits. Or just getting me into one of those suits, for that matter.
How on earth do those beach volleyball players cover so much ground? I mean, they play on sand, don’t they? Maybe it’s easier to move on sand if you aren’t lugging a beach chair, an umbrella and a day’s worth of refreshments, but still…
Speaking of beach volleyball, could the “uniforms” worn by the women be any scantier? I’ve blown my nose in larger swatches of fabric.
I am sure that NBC, in its billion hours of TV coverage, at one point explained why one team volleyball player wears a different uniform than the rest of the team. Did someone forget his uniform? See what happens when the moms aren’t around to check up on their athletes?
In the first few days, was there anything better to see than Michael Phelps’ reaction to his 200 freestyle relay team’s record-breaking performance? I know he is on track to win eight gold medals, but he was so excited for the team that it looked like his first ever win. That’s what I call teamwork.
Looking at these athletes and their finely-honed physiques makes me realize that they look they way people are supposed to look, without their mid-sections covered in a protective layer of fat. An anatomy class could study Michael Phelps’ body and point out each distinct muscle group. (Sitting in the recliner watching all this isn’t helping my body a bit.)
How do those male divers keep those teeny tiny bathing suits on when they hit the water? Some things shouldn’t be shown live, if you get my drift.
It is day five and I have already lost count of Michael Phelps’ gold medal count. But good for him.
Announcers have commented several times about Michael Phelps’ 12,000 calorie a day diet. Big deal – so’s mine. Only my doctor isn’t quite so thrilled.
TV commentators also noted that the Chinese gymnasts are selected at age three and sent off to train, leaving their families (a few looked like that was only 10 years ago…). Thank goodness that doesn’t happen here, or I am sure I would have been chosen and whisked away from my family, thereby changing my entire personal history. Back then I knew how to do a somersault and hadn’t yet discover Hershey bars. Talk about life-changing…
Speaking of which – some of these athletes train for years and then get 10 seconds or less of competition to show what they can do. Miss out on a medal or falter even slightly and it’s either four more years or it’s done. Unless you are Dara Torres, that is. Ask pool Lolo Jones how she feels after leading her race until she hit the next to last hurdle, finishing seventh. Heartbreaking.
One more thing about the poster boy for this Olympics, Michael Phelps. I caught a video of former Rutgers running back and now Baltimore Ravens’ running back Ray Rice saluting Phelps. Kobe and LeBron were seen cheering in the stands as Michael took home his record-setting eighth gold medal. His achievements are stunning, and no less than his ability to interest professional athletes and the nation in a sport most of us pay attention to only once every four years. Way to go, Michael Phelps.
It is going to take more than 10 minutes worth of viewing fencing every four years for me to understand the sport and its scoring. So far, it looks like two bee keepers going at each other with really long kitchen knives.
I watched the women’s marathon, an event that always amazes me. After a grueling 26-mile race, the Romanian winner took a victory lap. And another, and another. Other runners kept entering the stadium to finish the race, and she could be seen in the background, joyfully running around the track with her flag in hand. Can someone please tell her it’s OK to stop now? I expect to see her still running in the background as they show the closing ceremonies.
Today’s schedule included the women’s triathlon. What I don’t get is how these women get out of the water, dripping wet, jump on a bike to race and then put on their cycling shoes. How do you start to ride, still wet, and then put on shoes? If there was a time trial just for putting on the shoes, I’m sure I’d come in last.
In the “that’s using your head” category, I nominate the ping pong players. My Favorite Sister and I watched the singles and doubles and could swear the players served with their heads, not their paddles. We even paused the action and watched frame by frame (a bit too much time on our hands, you say?) but couldn’t tell if a paddle was used. I’m not sure I could compete with these people. Unless the table is in the basement with the sump pump hole looming dangerously nearby, the setting just wouldn’t seen right to me.
For many reasons, I am glad I am not a diver. First, you have those tiny towels to dry your hair. Then, one can only hope that there is an elevator to get them up to the top of the platform. There must be one, or the divers would be exhausted after two dives. And finally, diving commentator Cynthia Potter, a former Olympian herself, is one tough critic. She watches these tiny bodies twisting and turning in the air, going God knows how fast, and finds fault with them (toes were flat, legs were apart, she went over, he went under…). If she were a movie critic, every movie would close after week one.
The women’s basketball team won its final game today, and I am thrilled to see Rutgers’ own Cappie Pondexter with the gold medal around her neck. Having seen almost all members of the USA team play in person vs. Rutgers or in tournaments, I know the talent level of the players, but you never know. This team was good as gold.
The US track team needs a lot of practice passing that stupid baton. Why is that even necessary? It seems like an antiquated exercise to me since the presence of cameras and technology could certainly assure that no one leaves prematurely. Drop the baton, I say! Oops, maybe they took that too literally.
Usian “Lightning” Bolt. WOW! That man can run. He’s like Michael Phelps on the track – only faster. And how cool are those cameras that run on tracks along side to give us a close-up view of the races?
This is supposed to be the “green Olympics,” right? I sure hope someone is gathering up all those water bottles the marathon runners discard as they run.
I woke up at 4:00 this morning (not intentionally), TV still on, and happily, so was the gold medal men’s basketball game. Of course I couldn’t turn it off, so I got to see the happy millionaires who make up the USA team run around like little kids, celebrating their hard fought gold medal. There’s nothing like setting a goal and achieving it, all while playing a game you love and representing your country. Or at least that’s what Bob Costas would say.
I just finished watching the closing ceremonies. Those folks in China have proven that with billions of dollars and bodies, you can put on quite a show – people flying around the stadium, towers growing out of the ground, people depicting the Olympic flame. Very cool. You have to hand it to them. The country produced wonderful ceremonies, outstanding facilities (as seen from my recliner; I’ll miss the Water Cube and the Bird’s Nest) and equally outstanding performances by its athletes. With a state-supported system, expect to see many more Chinese athletes getting the gold in 2012. And maybe some of their female gymnasts will actually be old enough to compete then (sorry, couldn’t help it).
After all this TV watching in the past two weeks, I have just one question for next week: What’s on?
All Wet - October, 2008
I smell like chlorine. I admit it. So do my pool shoes, towels and bathing suit. It is inescapable, and it will continue, because, after a summer of enjoying my own pool and getting the pain out of my arthritic knee at last, I bit the chlorine bullet and joined the local racquetball/swim club.
I enrolled in the Aqua Aerobics class at the local club, a mere 2.5 miles from my house, close enough to get there without a legitimate excuse. Now, on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, you can find me in the pool, a youngster amid the gray-haired seniors. For once, I feel young and strong. The ladies are probably in better shape than I am, but all the more reason to haul my arthritic knees, plantar fasciitis-afflicted feet and the rest of my sorry state into the pool and bounce around for an hour, commiserating with people older and more afflicted than me.
So now I am rocking side to side, doing jumping jacks, playing with a noodle and special weights, all with the buoyancy of water to protect those deteriorating joints. Not that this experience is bereft of its own problems.
First, I just about need a bag with wheels to haul all my gear to the swim club. There’s the three pairs of shoes I need for each class – one pair of pool shoes (which never seem to dry; as the days get colder, I can no longer tell if they are wet or just cold), one pair of flip flops to help me avoid any possible foot contact with the locker room floor and the pair of shoes and socks I wear to and from the club. Second, I have to admit that just getting dressed is a challenge. You get out of the pool and travel through a cold corridor to the locker room. Naturally, everything there is wet, from you to the floor. The mere act of finding a way to keep my feet from touching the floor while drying them and putting on my socks without getting them wet requires a balancing act that could be part of the exercise program. Then I have to go home immediately after class to hang my wet gear out to dry. I can picture myself forgetting the damp mess in the bag in the trunk of the car as I go about my errands and finding the petrified, moldy remains months later.
For someone who has managed to avoid all forms of exercise for years, moving in the water is definitely preferable (and easier) than any more conventional exercise. I can’t imagine standing on one leg with the other leg pointed straight out to the front without picturing myself in a heap on the floor. Yet, even in the water, some things just don’t seem doable. Sure, the young instructor seems to have no trouble leaping straight up out of the water, all the way to her thighs. But for the rest of us, certain body parts have, shall we say, permanently migrated south. In this class you’ll see no space between the water and certain parts of our anatomy. Trust me, it’s not a pretty sight. Luckily, I remove my glasses during the class so I am not subjected to a perfect view of my companions. I hope for their sake that their sight is equally impaired.
I feel sorry for the swimmers doing laps who occupy the one or two remaining lanes while our class is in session. All that jumping up and down creates enough waves to surf on. Wait, is that a white cap? No, just a bathing cap.
A few of the women – a friendly and pleasant group – have recommended I take the “Silver Sneakers” class, an exercise class that somehow gets you to exercise but requires no jumping, thrusting, lunging or any other activity that would make me resemble someone of my own age or younger. Hey, I might be the only person there without a walker. At least I would be dry, not have to haul the linen and shoe closets with me to class and not worry about a wet bathing suit, right? To say nothing about the lingering aroma of au de chlorine.
One of the women recommended a local store which carries chlorine resistant bathing suits, a place called Swim and Sweat. Sounds like a place I’d never go, but chlorine resistant has a certain appeal these days.
Got to go now and put on some perfume. Anything that doesn’t smell like chlorine would be an improvement.
I enrolled in the Aqua Aerobics class at the local club, a mere 2.5 miles from my house, close enough to get there without a legitimate excuse. Now, on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, you can find me in the pool, a youngster amid the gray-haired seniors. For once, I feel young and strong. The ladies are probably in better shape than I am, but all the more reason to haul my arthritic knees, plantar fasciitis-afflicted feet and the rest of my sorry state into the pool and bounce around for an hour, commiserating with people older and more afflicted than me.
So now I am rocking side to side, doing jumping jacks, playing with a noodle and special weights, all with the buoyancy of water to protect those deteriorating joints. Not that this experience is bereft of its own problems.
First, I just about need a bag with wheels to haul all my gear to the swim club. There’s the three pairs of shoes I need for each class – one pair of pool shoes (which never seem to dry; as the days get colder, I can no longer tell if they are wet or just cold), one pair of flip flops to help me avoid any possible foot contact with the locker room floor and the pair of shoes and socks I wear to and from the club. Second, I have to admit that just getting dressed is a challenge. You get out of the pool and travel through a cold corridor to the locker room. Naturally, everything there is wet, from you to the floor. The mere act of finding a way to keep my feet from touching the floor while drying them and putting on my socks without getting them wet requires a balancing act that could be part of the exercise program. Then I have to go home immediately after class to hang my wet gear out to dry. I can picture myself forgetting the damp mess in the bag in the trunk of the car as I go about my errands and finding the petrified, moldy remains months later.
For someone who has managed to avoid all forms of exercise for years, moving in the water is definitely preferable (and easier) than any more conventional exercise. I can’t imagine standing on one leg with the other leg pointed straight out to the front without picturing myself in a heap on the floor. Yet, even in the water, some things just don’t seem doable. Sure, the young instructor seems to have no trouble leaping straight up out of the water, all the way to her thighs. But for the rest of us, certain body parts have, shall we say, permanently migrated south. In this class you’ll see no space between the water and certain parts of our anatomy. Trust me, it’s not a pretty sight. Luckily, I remove my glasses during the class so I am not subjected to a perfect view of my companions. I hope for their sake that their sight is equally impaired.
I feel sorry for the swimmers doing laps who occupy the one or two remaining lanes while our class is in session. All that jumping up and down creates enough waves to surf on. Wait, is that a white cap? No, just a bathing cap.
A few of the women – a friendly and pleasant group – have recommended I take the “Silver Sneakers” class, an exercise class that somehow gets you to exercise but requires no jumping, thrusting, lunging or any other activity that would make me resemble someone of my own age or younger. Hey, I might be the only person there without a walker. At least I would be dry, not have to haul the linen and shoe closets with me to class and not worry about a wet bathing suit, right? To say nothing about the lingering aroma of au de chlorine.
One of the women recommended a local store which carries chlorine resistant bathing suits, a place called Swim and Sweat. Sounds like a place I’d never go, but chlorine resistant has a certain appeal these days.
Got to go now and put on some perfume. Anything that doesn’t smell like chlorine would be an improvement.
A Moving Experience - Sept. 2007
A Moving Experience
Tina Gordon
September 2007
Two 200-foot rolls of bubble wrap. Six large spools of packaging tape, some duct tape, strapping tape and mailing tape. Two months worth of newspapers and two cartons of plain, unprinted newspaper, several pairs of scissors, box cutters, utility knives, old comforters, used towels and a raft of throw pillows. That was the packing end of things, as I prepared to move to my new home. Now, a week into the new house, I’m seeing all that paper and packing again as I work to set up the place.
“Downsizing?” you ask. No, just trading in the old homestead for a new place, all the better to enjoy in my retirement, with a pool, hot tub and sun room. After all the packing and unpacking, I think a month-long vacation on the Riviera would have been more rewarding, and, God knows, a lot cheaper.
You have no idea how much stuff you have until you move. Women in Union County are wearing my more recent suits while somewhere in Eastern Europe, a few women are grousing about suits with shoulder pads we haven’t seen since Joan Collins and Linda Evans duked it out on Dynasty. Residents of Somerset County are buying my old books at the county library. Al Gore would salute my contribution to recycling as I dumped my old paint, turpentine and assorted poisons at “hazardous waste day,” and my videotapes went to the first Saturday of the month consumer recyclables site, along with old phones, TVs and other electronics. I left so many bags of garbage for my trash collector that I finally left a case of beer as a thank you. The dry cleaner has my hangers and the dump in Branchburg has my old lamps, snack trays and shelf brackets.
So what the hell is in all of these boxes? There are so many cartons marked “Fragile, Artwork” that it looks like the Met is opening a new exhibit. There aren’t enough walls in Hillsborough, NJ, to display all of my framed art – store bought and my own photography. Never again shall I accept a gift of candles or buy one myself, not with about a half dozen boxes of candles and holders. Same deal with picture frames. I have a lifetime supply of mouse pads, scratch pads, pads from the desk of, note cards, pens and pencils – lifetime, that is, if I live to be 150. I’m drowning in extension cords and power strips, picture hangers (OK, those will come in handy) and, as we know from last month’s essay, paper clips (I found a stray in the bottom of the closet one day; go figure).
In the course of the move I developed an obsession with boxes. Would I have enough, would they be the right size? My joy in life was finding just the right box for each category of items, and I actually kept the original boxes and packing materials for many things – from the crock pot(s) and toaster oven to the computer. I even had a box I used 13 years ago to transport the tray which holds the silverware, left over from my last move. The tray just slipped right in, happy to be getting out and about. The basement never looked so empty and the house never so chaotic.
Now, transfer the clutter five miles down the road and you’ll be in my new place, to which I moved during a power failure (picture large men carrying huge boxes down to a completely darkened basement). For that day and days afterwards, as my sister and family helped me unpack, all sentences began with “Where…?”
But I have the rest of my life to answer that question as I unpack, find things and get my life back in order because – I swear – I AM NEVER MOVING AGAIN!
Tina Gordon
September 2007
Two 200-foot rolls of bubble wrap. Six large spools of packaging tape, some duct tape, strapping tape and mailing tape. Two months worth of newspapers and two cartons of plain, unprinted newspaper, several pairs of scissors, box cutters, utility knives, old comforters, used towels and a raft of throw pillows. That was the packing end of things, as I prepared to move to my new home. Now, a week into the new house, I’m seeing all that paper and packing again as I work to set up the place.
“Downsizing?” you ask. No, just trading in the old homestead for a new place, all the better to enjoy in my retirement, with a pool, hot tub and sun room. After all the packing and unpacking, I think a month-long vacation on the Riviera would have been more rewarding, and, God knows, a lot cheaper.
You have no idea how much stuff you have until you move. Women in Union County are wearing my more recent suits while somewhere in Eastern Europe, a few women are grousing about suits with shoulder pads we haven’t seen since Joan Collins and Linda Evans duked it out on Dynasty. Residents of Somerset County are buying my old books at the county library. Al Gore would salute my contribution to recycling as I dumped my old paint, turpentine and assorted poisons at “hazardous waste day,” and my videotapes went to the first Saturday of the month consumer recyclables site, along with old phones, TVs and other electronics. I left so many bags of garbage for my trash collector that I finally left a case of beer as a thank you. The dry cleaner has my hangers and the dump in Branchburg has my old lamps, snack trays and shelf brackets.
So what the hell is in all of these boxes? There are so many cartons marked “Fragile, Artwork” that it looks like the Met is opening a new exhibit. There aren’t enough walls in Hillsborough, NJ, to display all of my framed art – store bought and my own photography. Never again shall I accept a gift of candles or buy one myself, not with about a half dozen boxes of candles and holders. Same deal with picture frames. I have a lifetime supply of mouse pads, scratch pads, pads from the desk of, note cards, pens and pencils – lifetime, that is, if I live to be 150. I’m drowning in extension cords and power strips, picture hangers (OK, those will come in handy) and, as we know from last month’s essay, paper clips (I found a stray in the bottom of the closet one day; go figure).
In the course of the move I developed an obsession with boxes. Would I have enough, would they be the right size? My joy in life was finding just the right box for each category of items, and I actually kept the original boxes and packing materials for many things – from the crock pot(s) and toaster oven to the computer. I even had a box I used 13 years ago to transport the tray which holds the silverware, left over from my last move. The tray just slipped right in, happy to be getting out and about. The basement never looked so empty and the house never so chaotic.
Now, transfer the clutter five miles down the road and you’ll be in my new place, to which I moved during a power failure (picture large men carrying huge boxes down to a completely darkened basement). For that day and days afterwards, as my sister and family helped me unpack, all sentences began with “Where…?”
But I have the rest of my life to answer that question as I unpack, find things and get my life back in order because – I swear – I AM NEVER MOVING AGAIN!
Random Thoughts - Tina's New Blog
It has been more than two years since my retirement from Johnson & Johnson led me to a life of leisure, a luxury that has allowed me to indulge in my passion for writing. In that time I have written and distributed more than two dozen essays to an e-mail distribution list and have received very positive feedback. Many people have suggested I start a blog, so here it is. I'll keep the distribution list just in case, but this way my random thoughts may find their way to a larger audience. My intention is merely to share some thoughts about whatever happens to be on my mind, generally on a monthly basis, though I may occasionally serve up another essay if the spirit moves me. I don't want either you or me to get bogged down with a blog. I hope you find these musings amusing.
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