sammayer

"Who knows, you might just be one more at-bat away from a home run."

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 12:18:00 -0400

“Who knows, you might just be one more at-bat away from a home run.”

- Nick Hughes, So Entrepreneurial blog

Dad on Urban Meyer

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 14:15:23 -0500

(watching the Ohio State-Michigan game)
Dad: I wonder if Urban Meyer has a brother named Suburban.

Dad Without Electricity, post-Hurricane Sandy

Wed, 31 Oct 2012 09:28:42 -0400

Me: do you want me to take your iPad, iPod or phone to work to charge?
Dad: No. Because I need my music. Then I'd really have nothing left.

Dad on iTunes Ping

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 13:20:56 -0400

Dad: I noticed "Ping" is gone from my iTunes.
Me: oh really? I never used Ping anyway.
Dad: Yeah, the problem is I never wanted Ping... What I really wanted was Pong.

Dad's favorite sandwich as a kid

Fri, 08 Jun 2012 13:15:30 -0400

Dad: You know what sandwich I loved as a kid?
Me: Potato bread and cheese?
Dad: Potato bread? Are you kidding? We didn't have potato bread. No. White bread, mayo, and olives.
Me: Are YOU kidding? What about a meat, or even a cheese?
Dad: No. Okay maybe bologna, the next worst thing for you. Oh man, so good. (Throws his head back and sighs)

Dad on Fun.

Sun, 03 Jun 2012 21:08:58 -0400

(Fun. - We Are Young opening the MTV Movie Awards)
Em: Aw, it's the movie awards? I thought it was the music awards - this won't be as fun.
Dad: What do you mean? This is already Fun.

Emily on Lunch

Thu, 24 May 2012 13:52:31 -0400

Me: Where are you going?
Emily: For lunch. (keeps walking) I'm making an apple.
Me: What do you mean 'making' an apple?
Emily: I'm slicing an apple.
Me: That's not "making" an apple. You're having an apple.

Dad on Abercrombie

Thu, 24 May 2012 13:49:08 -0400

(walking through the mall)
Dad: (sigh) You know, I love a girl who wears Abercrombie and Fitch...

"Things work out best for those who make the best of the way things work out."

Mon, 07 May 2012 01:18:32 -0400

“Things work out best for those who make the best of the way things work out.”

- John Wooden

"Calm seas never made a good sailor."

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 18:54:15 -0400

“Calm seas never made a good sailor.”

Mom on picking up Dad and Em from the airport

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 14:13:54 -0400

Mom: I'm not leaving the house until I know their flight has landed.
Me: Well, Mom, what's the alternative?
Mom: I just want to make sure their flight actually lands before I drive down to the airport.
Me: Mom, again, what's the alternative? Their plane crashes?
Mom: I just want to know that it landed first.
Me: It's going to land... or crash. Either way, you'll have to drive to the airport.

Today was a good day. When it rains it pours, excuse my cliche...

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 22:32:06 -0400

Today was a good day.

When it rains it pours, excuse my cliche slip, and I’m handling my umbrella with tired hands. So I’ll take the slightest of good days.

Went to bed happy, and that always lends well to waking up on the right side of the bed. (or the left, depending on your sleeping arrangement. Just be sure to roll off on the sunny side.)

My best friend surprised me with flowers and my favorite vanilla soy chai latte at work. Good start!

I had a great, uplifting conversation with my manager regarding future opportunities. And it was a relaxing day at work.

My Kindle came in the mail!

After work, I ran for 60 minutes straight - and felt on fire, could have kept going but, alas, it was dark and the trail closes at dusk.

Mid-run, I remembered I had yesterday’s leftover heath bar crunch frozen yogurt at home - and a kindle waiting!

Came home to a quiet house and my old, furry best friend, who ate his dinner without puking it up for the first time in a week.

Today was manageable, so today was a good day. And I felt like sharing that with the world.

Cheers to tomorrow!

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 12:17:17 -0400

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

- L’enfer est plein de bonnes volontés et désirs

I’m guilty of still listening to this album. But...

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 22:27:12 -0400

I’m guilty of still listening to this album.

But that’s not the problem. The problem is the album cover. What the HECK is going on with the men?! And how did this not bother me in 1995… or catch my attention in the 17 years since I’ve been listening to this album? Look at their menacing pimp expressions!

Incase you were wondering, my favorite tracks are Lucky Love and Never Gonna Say I’m Sorry.

A history of Ace of Base: The Swedish quad includes a guy, his best friend and his best friend’s 2 sisters. The girls left the band in 2009 to pursue their solo careers. The remaining guys recruited new females and said they’d change the name of the band. They did: Ace.of.Base. Ace.of.Base, not be confused with Ace of Base, released an album in 2010. The name “Ace of Base” comes from being the masters of their studio (aces), which was the basement (base) of a car-repair shop.

Dedication and thanks when it's not November

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:56:00 -0400

In the beginning of yoga class, the teacher asks us to set an intention or dedicate the practice to someone or something.

I often think of my cat (yes, seriously. and no, I’m not a cat lady) as a warm reminder of kindness and patience. I don’t love cats, in fact most cats I’ve met scratch, scowl and hide under beds, I just really love my 17-year-old, gray tabby-Maine coon cat because he’s special. Even my anti-cat, no-pets-for-me friends agree.

Other times, I think of the people in my life who deserve some extra thought and send them some telepathic thanks. These people aren’t my quotidian folks, they’re usually characters from a previous chapter or person who left an impression when we crossed paths, however briefly.

I know it’s not November, so it’s not Thanksgiving and the holidays aren’t upon us, which makes thoughtfulness all the more sincere. Take a minute and think about someone unusual. Give thanks and appreciate their impact, influence or memory, be it small, silly or sensitive.

This takes me to -

My first grade teacher and her classroom she transformed into an elaborate, year-round, paper-machee rainforest, much to the dislike of the principal and janitors but to the delight of our little class of 6 year-olds. She spent her summer vacations living in hammocks in the Amazon and brought her passion to the classroom. We learned about lemurs and tree frogs, how trees grow and why flowers close at night. We were 6 and could barely write our names, but we knew the difference between the canopy and the emergent layers and what creatures could live on the forest floor, should anyone ask. She was the silver-hair hippie type, but she was tough, demanding and pissed off a lot of parents. But I think she knew what she was doing and she loved it.

My third grade teacher who, again to the disdain of janitors and the principal and presumably kids with allergies, kept an Angora rabbit, a cage of hamsters and a cat named Jake in her classroom. She didn’t like me very much because I ate Polly-O string cheese at my desk and left the wrappers on the floor, but I loved her barnyard classroom and how she incorporated the animals into lessons (and classroom chores).

My ancient piano teacher, her two-room apartment that was engulfed by the black grand piano (not a baby grand, a legit grand piano in an apartment) and the stickers I earned for every song. The time I spent sitting and coloring on her couch, adjacent to the piano, eating cookies she left on plates, waiting for the student before me to finish. When I was younger and didn’t understand why this may be offensive, I would bring spare cookies with me to the piano bench and snack on them in between songs, leaving crumbs on my lap and on the keys. She wore more makeup than Elizabeth Taylor even though she never left her apartment. She taught two dozen students, and I practiced with her twice a week for twelve years. I think about her, how she adored my sister and me, and what a true one of a kind, once in a lifetime person she is or was. She was old then, older now. Every time I drive by her building, I’m tempted to pop into the lobby and see if her name is still on the apartment listing to buzz in. She was the essence of patience and illegible handwriting.

Our neighbor who passed away at 98 without missing a day’s walk around our hilly neighborhood. She looked like what I imagine the old lady who lived in the shoe would look like if she baked cookies and pies all day. White haired, teeny tiny hunched frame, furry moles, gray-blue eyes and creased, freckled skin - yet enchanting and adorable. My dad and I would regularly offer a hand in the yard, a lightbulb in the house or company in her walk around the block. Occasionally, my sister and I would invite ourselves in during a bike ride around the neighborhood, randomly deciding now would be a good time to say hi. We’d usually find her listening to the radio in her kitchen or kneeling in her flowerbed; she was always delighted to have the neighborhood children stop by. When she passed away, my dad and I went to her funeral. Her children and grandchildren spoke and mentioned my dad by name. He cried, we cried, and I realized just how special we were to her. I thought we were small, insignificant neighbors just doing neighborly things, but, to a 98 year old lady who lived alone, it meant a lot.

My mass communications law professor in my senior year at Penn State. I sat in the same seat, front row to the left, and never missed a class, not a minute late. He was so revved on law and journalism. I had never set the curve on a test or considered a career in law until his obvious passion for the class inspired me to take the LSATs and meet during office hours. It was my favorite class at Penn State, which says a lot for a school of 40,000 students and thousands of class options. I maintained e-mail correspondence after graduation and learned that he moved to Colorado the next spring to pursue his passion for outdoor adventure and go back to school. It’s true, you only live once.

I’m also continuously inspired by the memory of my grandparents, friends I’ve lost touch with and family I don’t see enough.

The sun is out, there’s plenty of time to daydream. So think about those people you don’t usually think about and remember your supporting characters.

Do you get tan?

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 15:24:57 -0400

Spring is here and treating us to unusually warm temperatures unusually early. It’s 70 degrees in Philadelphia today, 15 degrees above average, and it hasn’t even hit St. Patricks Day yet (but, oh, it will hit - and it always hits Philly hard. See: Erica Palan’s spot on preview of the imminent St. Patty’s debauchery in Philly).

With warm weather comes more color and less layers (time to dry clean my winter coats - dare I jinx it…), fresh air and fresh skin. And with the fresh skin, seasoned by winter to an unsightly white, at the first sight of someone’s comes the question: “do you get tan?” And I ask, “why do you care? Why does it matter?”

I think it’s a very strange curiousity to ask someone if they get tan or if they just burn. You’re forced to uncomfortably divulge that no, you just freckle or yes, you just get red and burn. Maybe that red turns to a tan (but as we all know, that’s not really a good thing. Just an indication that your body’s natural sun defense has given up, waved the white flag, if you will, giving way to the red flags). Or perhaps you grin and gloat that yes, you tan, oh boy do you tan. Just wait and see how tan you get. (Again, we know that’s not really a good thing. Pick up any copy of Cosmo for at least 3 references to SPF, skin cancer and the importance of wide brimmed hats.)

We are all guilty of constant comparison, be it weight or wealth, clothes or cars, and perhaps our skin’s genetic ability to tan or not to tan is yet another trait up for discussion. The difference is, when we all start wearing swimsuits, showing more skin and spending more time outside, we don’t ask each other: “how do you gain weight?” or “how do you respond to tree pollen?” It’s personal and publicly-irrelevant knowledge, same as melanin levels and uncontrollable tanning capabilities. So, why do we ask our friends “do you get tan or do you burn?”

Next time you see your friend’s forearm in the sun, don’t ask her how she tans, instead, tell her her epidermis is showing.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

Wed, 07 Mar 2012 10:43:00 -0500

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother:

All the same, even when Western parents think they’re being strict, they usually don’t come close to being Chinese mothers. For example, my Western friends who consider themselves strict make their children practice their instruments for thirty minutes every day. An hour at most. For a Chinese mother, the first hour is the easy part. It’s hours two and three that get tough. […]

Some might think that the American sports parent is an analog to the Chinese mother. This is so wrong. Unlike your typical Western overscheduling soccer mom, the Chinese mother believes that (1) schoolwork always comes first; (2) an A-minus is a bad grade; (3) your children must be two years ahead of their classmates in math; (4) you must never compliment your children in public; (5) if your child ever disagrees with a teacher or coach, you must always take the side of the teacher or coach; (6) the only activities your children should be permitted to do are those in which they can eventually win a medal; and (7) that medal must be gold. […]

As I watched American parents slathering praise on their kids for the lowest of tasks - drawing a squiggle or waving a stick - I came to see that Chinese parents have two things over their Western counterparts: (1) higher dreams for their children, and (2) higher regard for their children in the sense of knowing how much they can take.”

Just picked up Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua. This is how we’re getting started.

For a critical point of reference, Amy Chua, a professor at Yale Law and mother of two daughters, has also authored World on Fire: How Exporting Free Market Democracy Breeds Ethnic Hatred and Global Instability and Day of Empire: How Hyperpowers Rise to Global Dominance and Why They Fall.

If someone had to shed light on the stereotypical demands and achievements of Chinese mothers, their children and families, I think Chua would be the one.

Beer Runners!

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 12:09:48 -0500

Beer Runners! :

This is so, so, so excellent. I don’t know how I just found out about this - but I can’t wait to have a Thursday off from work this spring so I can run a quick three to five miles to a local pub in stride with strangers and share a craft beer (or two) at the end. What an awesome, awesome idea.

Paying (and why I hate paying) for parking

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 11:27:00 -0500

I have a really, really, really, really hard time paying for parking.

I do it. Sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think twice about not doing it.

Since the new year (roughly 9 weeks ago, including this very leap day), I’ve received three parking tickets. Meaning I’ve had to pay an additional $20 (per offense) because I didn’t put enough spare change in the pole or I didn’t move my car after 2 hours. The latter is the ultimate nuisance.

Two-hour parking, I get it. They (the parking “authority” - ah!) don’t want us (the tax paying public) to leave our cars on public streets for longer than two hours. It’s enough time to run errands, have dinner with a two hour timer ticking on an iPhone or go to yoga class, but not enough time to allow streets to become short-term parking lots. It keeps cars moving and people moving on. I get it. But I don’t agree with it. But is a $20 ticket really warranted after I’ve overstayed my two-hour welcome? One of those tickets came when I had been parked for precisely two hours and 6 minutes. Cha-ching! Someone’s watching!

And if the parking ~~ticket~~ violation (much more severe!) isn’t paid on time, it doubles! As if the offense somehow got worse.

What really ruffles my feathers is simply paying to park my car, especially in the following places:

at a hotel (am I not already paying for a room?)
in a parking garage (without valet service, what justifies $15 an hour to self park my car on the 9th floor of a concrete maze. thanks for … nothing?)
in the city (it’s hard enough to find a spot. then I have to parallel park. then a quarter gets me 10 minutes. it’s almost more cost efficient to pay nothing and get a ticket.)
at a concert or sporting event (much like the hotel scenario but worse. i’m paying to park in grass, gravel or an obese arena lot - and it’s cash only.)
July 4th fireworks or other community events (any other day of the year, parking here or there is free. this is the most obvious form of milking the man.)

Parking on ordinary commercial streets (not city blocks or suburban neighborhoods, I’m talking small business corridors) should also be free. I paid for my car, and the gas, and the deeds, and the insurance, and the taxes to pave and mend these very streets. Who am I paying to leave my car unattended? I call it a convenience tax.

The website for PPA (Philadelphia parking authority) reads “Park with us. With a little effort, you can find a lot.” I’m combing their 2009-2010 fiscal statement, trying to figure out just how many tickets were issued and how much revenue it brought PPA.

Until then, I’ll still carry a loose change purse for the sole purpose of paying parking meters.

Tuna cranberry honey salad and crispy garlic kale (Taken with...

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 20:21:10 -0500

Tuna cranberry honey salad and crispy garlic kale (Taken with instagram)