Fireflies in Red Solo Cups

I pulled onto my street around midnight on Sunday, after a graduation barbeque at a friends house. The street was silent and empty--it was pretty late, even for it being Memorial Day weekend and all my neighbors seemed to be tucked away in their nice air conditioned houses. The day was a complete scorcher with temperatures topping in the 90's for the majority of the day-- it was actually too hot for a barbeque, if that's at all possible. I actually felt bad for my friend's mom. She could have easily passed out from heat exhaustion.

But the heat had finally broken as the sun set and it felt nice to drive home with my windows open.

I turned off my headlights, my music, then the ignition and opened my car door to jump out. As I turned to my side to grab my purse, I happened to look out the passenger side window and saw them. Tiny, little blips of light hovering over my lawn. Blinking on and off every few seconds, never in unison but singing their very own song. Ten or so, they moved with the wind but always stayed close to the trees. They only hovered in the same place for a few seconds, then on they went.

Wondering if it was only my lawn, I looked across the street to my neighbor's and waited a few seconds. And there they were again--little, blinking stars fallen from heaven.

I instantly smiled.

Fireflies had arrived. Or lightning bugs as we call them in my neighborhood.

They ushers of summer. The one true symbol that heat and freedom had finally arrived--dispelling the memories of bitter cold and winter. Their presence lit dusk like shimmering diamonds on the horizon, and beckoned all children to run and play.

Well, to me anyway.

When I was little, the streets of my neighborhood were always buzzing with kids. Every single house in my development had at least two kids under the age of 10. Most of which congregated on my street. Especially during the summer, where everyone was looking for something fun and new to do.

I won't lie, I was basically the ring-leader of fun--basically because I was one of the eldest on my block and had the biggest mouth. Everyday, I had a new game invented--whether it was Steal-the-Bacon on bikes, relay races up on big wheels,  or scavenger hunts. Summer was my specialty because games could last longer and we had free ride of the neighborhood.

But, I also had certain rules about the summer. And having the biggest mouth, all tended to follow suit.

One of these rules happened to be about lightening bugs.

"But school's almost over! It has to be summer," they'd say.
"Nope! It's not officially summer until the lightning bugs come out. You can't call it summer until we see them," I'd answer without a second thought.

Lightening bugs were important to me. I don't know why but they were. Their little black bodies, red heads, and translucent tails that gave them their name meant summer and endless possibilities.

And because I was the oldest, no one disagreed.

Or dared call it summer until we saw lightning bugs.

So every night, we'd sit on my lawn and wait. And wait. Wait until we saw any pops of light. But there was also a system to it. We'd  each pick a piece of the lawn, so everywhere was covered and we'd stare. Stare into nothing for hours on end, hoping to be the first one to see them and scream, "IT'S SUMMER!" There was never just one, they'd always appear in clumps. And the second we saw them, we'd go running like mad cats into the house, grabbing cups and anything we could find to hold them.

Then the game really began.

We'd have a certain amount of time to catch as many as we could--basically until our parents called us in, which was usually between 8 and 9 o'clock.--and then let them go in a big flurry of light. Well not so much light but it was definitely cool to watch them all take off.

Naturally it wasn't easy to catch them. You had to sneak up, palms open and still. At the exact moment that they blinked, you needed to snap your hand out and close your fingers around them. One swift motion, with no breath in between. And then slowly, you had to open your fingers and drop them into your waiting cup because even if you caught one, they could just as easily escape.

A tried and sure method--trust me, I was really good at it.

You also never wanted to keep them so long that they'd die. That was never the point of the game and if you killed any, they didn't count. It was also best to have a see-through cup so you could see all your captives flying around inside (usually, we ended up using red solo cups, which is pretty funny when I think about it now).

When the game ended, we declared the winner and we let all the lightening bugs go,. They'd go flying off to their beds as we did to ours.  And the next night, it would start all over again. We'd have two and half months to catch and release as many lightning bugs as we could. Two and a half months of freedom.

That was the first thing I thought of when I got home on Sunday. About how much I wanted to run inside, wake up my sisters and start up the game all over again. Then I remembered my sisters were in Wildwood and most likely drunk at a bar.

Summer is never the same after you turn 10.

Instead, I decided to sit on my lawn and just watch them fly around me, like little fairies dancing on the wind.

"It's Summer!"

Poppies for Pop

My  Grandfather is definitely a baseball cap and jeans type of guy. He always has been and you couldn't pay him to wear a suit for more than an hour. And he has a pretty extensive collection of hats. Whether it be for Philadelphia sports teams--which he probably buys a new one for each season--or from his granddaughter's alma maters. Pop Pop is not Pop Pop without a hat, and his hats do not seem to be the same without a small red flower that he moves from hat to hat.

The red flower being a poppy.

It doesn't matter which hat he wears or if the colors clash, he moves the red flower from hat to hat. Adorning the brim or pinned on the top, it seems to mold into the hat and also his personality. And your eyes can't help but be drawn to the little red petals.

For as long as I can remember, I have seen the poppy as part of Pop's wardrobe, but never truly understood what the meaning behind the small little red flower was. Actually, that's a lie. When I was really little I thought my Pop wore the poppy to make us, his family happy because of how much we all enjoyed "The Wizard of Oz". If you are familiar with the movie, Dorothy and her friends can finally see the Emerald City on the horizon and only one small field separates them from the glittering green. A small field of poppies. Running through the field was the only way to reach it, which was exactly the plan of the Wicked Witch of the West. The minute the living (or Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, and Toto) stepped into the field and inhaled the poppy scent, they fell into a wakeless sleep.

It made perfect sense at the time, I swear! It was the only logical explanation  for him wearing the flower and the only other place I had seen the poppy flower.

Obviously, I was a bit misguided by my love of the musical. On top of the complete misrepresentation of the flower, I also believed that all poppies were in fact poisonous and put you into a magical sleep  from which no one would wake(which kind of is correct if you think about the opiate qualities of the flower).

It wasn't until years later that I realized what the poppy flower actually stood for and why, more importantly, my Pop decided to make it part of his everyday wardrobe.

Here's a little history lesson for those who don't know...

Poppies are native to Belgium, and during WWI the flower still found a way to bloom through all the bloodshed on the battlefields where many young men lost their lives. It was a major juxtaposition to see such a beautiful flower popping up around the bodies and blood of so many. Inspired by this, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae from Canada wrote a poem.

Capturing the sorrow and grief of his fallen brothers, the poem connected all soldiers in one common bond. The poem was soon after published in the Ladies Home Journal, where Moine Michael happened to find it. So inspired by the words that in 1918 Ms. Michael wrote a response poem.

"We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows of fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies,
That blood of heroes
never dies."

And instead of just writing about the poppy, Ms. Michael also started to make silk replicas of the flowers and sell them to benefit servicemen in need.

And I guess the rest is history. The poppy is now the symbol of fallen soldiers and still continues to be sold by VFW members across the country--especially around Memorial Day, which is the one day of the year we are meant to memorialize and recognize the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom (in case you have forgotten why we have off Monday).

Even after I figured all this out, I still had no clue why Pop decided to wear a poppy even when it wasn't Memorial Day. It made sense to wear it for the holiday, but every day just seemed a little odd. I even remember asking my Dad the reason for it. He answered me quite simply, "Because Pop was in the War and lost a lot of friends over there."

At the time, I didn't know my grandfather was in WWII. I knew he served somewhere (I actually remember telling my 5th grade teacher that Pop was in the marines and served in Korea. I wasn't even close) but I had no clue as to the extent of it. Because Pop never talked about his war days. To anyone--not even my grandmom or his own kids.

Not until about 9 years ago.

Pop  was in the Navy and served in the Pacific during the American Theater Campaign during WWII. He served on a salvage vessel and was sent bouncing around the multiple Pacific islands preventing ships from sinking after being hit by kamikazes and to deal with the dead. At the young age of 19, Pop saw more bloodshed and death than any person ever should. He has stories for days, stories that have changed my life and writing. He is the bravest man I have ever known, but even brave men have their weaknesses--Pop still has nightmares from his days at sea  and some stories still bring him to tears.
 
He will be 90 years old this year,  and there isn't a day that goes by that he isn't proud of having served our country. And wearing the poppy is one way he shows his pride and acknowledges the lives of his fallen brothers.

"Steiny" age 19

"Steiny" in 1989

I am proud to be the granddaughter of a soldier, and not just on Memorial Day but every day. And I will be sure to buy poppies from all veterans I see this weekend.

Will you do the same?

Bar Dancing to Walker Dragging?

So I am two weeks into my new age. Yes, I have come to accept that I turned 26 at the beginning of the month. I accept it, I am embracing it, not loving it yet but eventually I will get there. I still stumble when people ask me how old I am, but I guess that's normal. I don't know what it is, but since turning a year older I have started questioning a lot of what I'm doing. The people I associate with, the repercussions of my actions, what I want for myself later down the road. But more importantly, I started questioning one thing when it comes to my age. A question that came out loud and clear this weekend.

What would this question be, you may ask? Well I'll tell you.

Am I too old for the bar scene? Or more importantly, when is it too old for the bar scene?

Yes, I realize this question is sort of obvious. If you have a family at home but you are clubbing it up every night at the local bar, you are too old for the bar scene. If you are spending more time at the bar then at your job, you are too old for the bar scene. If you collect social security and still knock back 3 Jack and Coke's before dinner, you are too old for the bar scene. If you have a walker, dentures, replaced knees, or wear orthopedic shoes you are too old for the bar scene.

These two were obviously born before orthodontia.

Now of course there are exceptions to these rules. Family parties, gatherings of old friends, old man bars like VFW posts that are specifically for the elderly, bars that happen to have good food. But if you are actively pursuing bars that are primarily suited for people under the age of 30 and House Music is playing, there might be an issue.

Yes, I know I don't fit any of the above descriptions, but I think there is also a fine line to be drawn for people of a certain age. Or more specifically, certain situations in the bar scene that are no longer desirable or wanted.

Let me explain.

This past weekend, my youngest sister became gainfully employed at a new bar that was opening on 3rd and Spring Garden downtown (next to McFadden's--the location used to be Buckheads or Tiki Bob's. For some reason no bar has seemed to fit in that location. A bad omen? I think so). The bar--hilariously named Johnny Utah's (if you don't get this reference, go watch Pointbreak with Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze, as pictured below)

The bar has absolutely nothing to do with the movie by the way, except it's namesake. It's country western themed, complete with a barrel of peanuts for pick and grab (peanut allergists are not warned of this by the way, so if you have 'em, stay far away!), drinks out of mason jars, a mechanical bull, only plays country music and cowhide decorations adorn ever inch of the wall. Definetely a random bar to not only put next to McFadden's but also in the city of Philadelphia. My sister, who basically got hired because she was a pretty 20-something year old who could fill out a pair of shorts, was hired as a shot girl. As a shot girl, my sister is to wear Daisy Duke shorts, cowboy boots, a belt buckle almost as large as her shorts, a very revealing and tight top, and learn 4 choreographed numbers that are to be performed on top of the bar at various times during her shifts.

Basically, she's the underpaid entertainment for the droves of drunken men this bar hoped to lore.

My parents didn't have much to say--they were honestly glad she even got the job and will have a decent income coming in.

Last weekend was opening night and my sister practically begged me to go down and support her--another part of hiring her was that she was required to get 10 people to come to opening night. Didn't want my sister getting fired after one shift, so I agreed. I, in turn, begged my cousin to come with me so I'd at least have someone to laugh with as we watched her shake her ass on the bar and attempt not to fall.

Now I have been to some seedy bars before with questionable attendees and staff. I went to college outside of Allentown, and Bethlehem had its fair share of skanky bars. But seriously, this one put all of those to shame.

It was Skanks-R-Us.

And the entire horny, Philadelphian male population seemed to be crowded inside.

We hadn't even gotten inside before we were hit on by a group of guys standing outside. "Where are your Daisy Duke's?" they cat-called. Me and my cousin didn't know there was a dress-code, nor would we have actually worn said shorts that night, so we decided to ignore them as we handed the bouncer our IDs. Unsatisfied, they kept yelling and asking until I turned around and said, "Where are yours?" I at least got a laugh out of the bouncer!

Finally inside, we could barely move or get close to the bar. It was that crowded. We had to wait 15 minutes to even get close to the bar and then an additional 20 before someone took our order. I'm sorry, but who has the patience for that shit. After we finally asked for our beers, the bar girls started clearing off the bar and wiping it down. It was DANCING TIME!

Considering my sister had to report to the bar three days a week for dance classes, I'll admit I was expecting a little more. It was basically a strip show, without the stripper poles or flying dollar bills.

Like this but with cowboy boots

Guys were snapping pictures, drooling all over themselves,trying to get good views to see right up the girls shorts, girls were grinding on top of each other, and all I wanted was another freaking beer which I wouldn't get until these dumb bitches (not including my sister of course) got off the damn bar.

After what seemed like forever, the bar reopened and I was able to get another drink. But then our attention was drawn to the center of the bar where the mechanical bull was situated. I hope everyone reading is familiar with the mechanical bull concept. Simulating a real bull ride, the point is for the rider to stay on as long as possible. The operator had control to make the bull go as fast or slow as they wanted, and they could basically send you flying on a whim. At Johnny Utah's, the point was to get really drunk girls to ride the bull and simulate sex for the googling guys standing around the pit. The prettier the girl, the lower cut her shirt, the louder the guys would hoot and the more drinks they'd order.

So when our attention was turned back to the bull, the DJ had convinced two blondes to ride the bull together. Instead of riding the normal way, the girls were instructed to face and basically straddle each other. Yeah, it didn't leave much to the imagination but here is a visual if you need one.

Yup.

Naturally, how could the drunken, blonde idiots say no. They climbed on top and managed to stay on for a good five minutes. I guess the DJ started getting bored because then he announced to the crowd that if the bull riders made-out he would buy the entire bar a shot. Needless to say, they obliged.

Again, the complete degradation of the female sex. I couldn't help thinking about the feminist movement and all those women burning their bras in the 60's. What would they think watching this display?

My eyes wouldn't stop rolling and I was pretty sure I had seen enough for one night.

But, I guess I was wrong or I should've left then. Because then the "Daisy Duke Contest" started at the back bar. I was essentially pushed forward to the bar by the crush of drunken guys behind me who didn't want to miss a second of the continued sexapade. This contest would involve all contestants (obviously female and wearing Daisy Duke shorts) to dance on top of the bar for 2 minutes. The winner would be chosen based on the crowd's reaction. "Oh Jesus," I thought.

So 6 girls jumped on top of the bar and the contest began. It was pretty harmless. Most of the girls at least attempted to hold on to their dignity--besides the fact that they were dancing on top of a bar. I actually was pretty relieved, until a more zealous girl at the end of the bar decided to take off her top while dancing. Naturally, the crowd went wild, guys pushed towards her and started snapping pictures. Again, all she needed was a stripper pole. Obviously, that skank--I mean girl-- won. Who knows what that prize was, considering she had the Skank-award locked down, but she seemed happy enough to put her clothes back on.

After that, I turned to my cousin who had the same look of disgust on her face and we mutually decided to get the hell out of there and go to McFadden's.

But those few short hours pretty much ruined my night and I couldn't wait to get home and into pajamas. We stayed until last call, but left the city feeling disgusted and like complete feminists. I'm sorry to say for my sister's sake, I will never EVER go back to Johnny Utah's.

Now I put the question to you. Am I just too old for the bar scene? Is Johnny Utah's the state of bars in this country? Are women expected to act like prostitutes, shake their asses and act a fool for over-sexed men? Am I just a prude and should get over myself?

I honestly can't answer these questions  myself. It seems whenever I go to bars these days--even bars without gimmicks that get the crowd in and pray to have them coming back for more--I have similar experiences. I find myself disgusted at the lengths some will go to, to attract members of the opposite sex. Don't get me wrong, I still have fun when I go out, but I'm just not sure if it's still as fun as it used to be.

I think I'll have to do a little more investigating on this. But for now, I'll just blame it on being 26...and old.

Driving in Daddy's Car

In honor of Mother's Day, I thought I'd post a poem I wrote for my Mom a few years back. It's about a tradition her family--of 9 little kids--used to do every week, called the Pajama ride. Hope you enjoy :)

Sundays with Sinatra buzzed

and crackled over Daddy’s car radio

As we cruised down Bridge street.

The nine of us snuggled in the backseat

dressed in our pj’s, nodding away sleep.

Tiny heads rest in teeny laps,

Cradling the little ones like dolls.

Always last to “rest my eyes,” I am entranced

By my father.

Singing along with Frank,

Emitting complete ease and tranquility.

He caressed the wheel like an artist

Protecting his most precious piece.

And his hands,

Oh his hands, I will never forget!

Gentle but stern with piano- player fingers,

Callused, yet bursting with love.

The tender rapture of sleeping children

had filled the car when

Daddy turned and caught my eye.

Reaching back, he grazed

my cheek and winked.

Turning to the road,

he sang on, never letting the music

of his heart fade.

Letting my eyes droop,

I slept, knowing for the first time,

That I was loved.

On the Eve of My Birth

Tomorrow is my birthday.

 I will be....26. Basically an old maid and 4 years away from being 30. GROSS! My friends have been busting my balls for weeks--I turn 26 a year before most of them and they never let me live it down. Usually they say I'm turning anywhere from 37 to 42. Yes, very nice of them. Due to this, I have asked my friends not to mention the number 26 in any form tomorrow or the rest of the week. I've decided I am turning 25 again this year.  Yep, I refuse to admit that I'm a year older. Because really, once you enter an age of no significance (basically any age over 21), everyone lies about their age. Birthdays become just another day. They become the one day a year that reminds you how much the last year sucked and how much you haven't accomplished.

To me anyway.

Personally, I've always gone into my birthdays recalling the last year and making lofty goals for the next year--kind of like my "Birthday Resolution". Sort of like New Years, without the weight goals (unless that's my plan for the next year). I make these mental lists in my head of what I want to happen in the next year--whether it be financial, personal, or travel plans.

Now, the one good thing about this new Facebook timeline thing we were all forced to accept, is that it keeps pretty good tract of where and what you were doing the year before. I thought it'd be interesting to see what I posted this time last year, in regards to my birthday. So here it is:

"really had a roller coaster of a week...realized that i will never let a guy deem my self worth again, that curbs on Susquehanna will literally take a bite out your tire if you let them, Abington Police are not all assholes, that i have the best friends and family a girl could ask for, hangovers are NOT like they were in college, and dreams can come true when you least expect them. 25 is feeling like my lucky number"

Oh how bright-eyed and bushy tailed I was. I actually remember what happened that week to inspire this status. I had just been dumped, I had blown a tire on the way to dinner with my girlfriends and was assisted by two very generous Abington Police Officers, I was getting over a hangover from my birthday celebration the weekend before, and I had heard from two publishers interested in reading my manuscript. Yeah, it was a hell of a weird week.

And the last bit kind of made me believe I had gotten through the worst of it and 25 was going to be a great year for me.

In reality, my birthday came in like a roller coaster and kept going up and down those hills for the next year.

I had some major highs:

 The Wedding of my sister.

The Wedding of my best friend Amanda up in Lake Placid, New York

The birth of my nephew Noah James

I finally got out of my awful old job and started on my new career as an editorial assistant.

My friendships were strengthened with most of my friends--I was able to hang out with them more and participate in activities. I also saw my Aunt Ann get through her third bout of cancer and my family is stronger than ever. Also, it was decided that my grandparents will be moving in with us this summer which I am anticipating more than anything.

Now for my lows. Sorry no pictures for these.

I've put up walls around myself for protection, which has stopped any form of a relationship.I had a major anxiety flare up and had to be put back on medication as a result (a total loss in my eyes). The book deal I was hoping for fell through, so it's back to the drawing board. I have been told numerous times that my story is too antiquated. So rejection, rejection, rejection. Kind of hopeless situation in the last year.

Womp. Womp.

I guess I try not to dwell on the bad, even if it is awful. When I look at the lows it really makes me think, "Wow my 25th year really sucked ass. How can 26 can any better?"

But then I have to remind myself that 25 really pushed me to become a different person. I've learned a lot of myself in this past year. I've learned that I have more strength than I know--I've been through a lot and I came out on the other end. That I need to turn to my family and friends more when I need help and I can't always do it on my own. For the first time in 10 years I have been single for an extended period of time, which has made me realize I don't need a guy. Of course, I'd like to be in a relationship but I'm also not gonna jump for just anyone anymore. Now, I am looking for my prince and next big guy in my life--I'm not willing to settle anymore. I know what I deserve and what I want. No more second-best.

My professional life has finally fallen into place but I don't want to stop there. I've been pushing my book for so long and I refuse to give up. I will always want more.

And honestly, the best little surprise I've received is this blog. Deciding to start writing on a consistent basis has made me appreciate and love it the more. I honestly could care less if no one ever reads this thing, it has just re-opened a form of creativity that I almost forgot. My blogging days are not over!

Now, as the final hours draw closer to my birthday, I am thinking again about my "Birthday Resolution." Although my past resolutions have usually made me feel worse about the last year, I kind of want to make another one just for posterity's sake.

I want to be happy.

In everything I do and everything I pursue. Even if I do not realize it right away, I want happiness and joy to make my life better. Being a happier and well-rounded person will make my life better.

So yeah, that's what I'll be thinking about tomorrow, as I'm blowing out my 26 candles on my vanilla birthday cake.

Or 25 (depending on who you ask ).