Simple Pleasures

Technology and electronic gadgets are the bane of my existence. If I'm not fighting with Dell over my now officially dead laptop, or trying to figure out the case of the missing internet connection on the desktop, I'm bemoaning the countless dollars we've spent to have the latest "toys" for gaming, all of which are used by only one family member (though he does spend as much time on them as four people should). My irritation with high-tech toys recently got me thinking about simple pleasures, including:

• Crisp, clean bed sheets, ideally dried on the wash line outside
• A brand new box of 64 Crayola crayons
• Planting flowers
• Having new windshield wipers during a downpour
• A good book 
• Water draining from your ear after swimming
• An ice cold glass of milk with warm chocolate chip cookies

And then there's the incomparable pleasure of a nice hot shower and the comfort of your bed. Two memories from my childhood illustrate the powerful pull of the shower/sleep combination.

A DAY AT THE SHORE. When we were kids we would occasionally go to Long Beach Island just for the day. I don't remember that much from our time on the beach itself, but I will never forget the ride home. In a black 1972 Grand Prix Pontiac with vinyl seats. I'm pretty sure when you opened the doors of that monster, the internal temperature was about 210 degrees. And the seats were guaranteed to give you third degree burns. Best of all, you had three pounds of sand in the crotch of your bathing suit and a two hour drive home to look forward to. A shower and the comfort of your bed were all you dreamed about for those two very long hours.

The lasting impression of sand and heat are rivaled only by my memories of A NIGHT AT THE RACES. When we were kids, my dad worked for a guy whose son raced stock cars at Flemington Speedway in Flemington, New Jersey. On Saturday nights my parents would take my sister and me to the races where we would whine for concession foods and then eagerly wait for a crash to provide some element of excitement in which was an otherwise incredibly boring evening for two young girls.

The only other noteworthy element of our nights at the races was the dirt. Flemington Speedway had a dirt track from the day it opened in 1915 until being paved at the end of the 1990 season. By the time we left the track, well after our bedtime, we were coated in a fine layer of grit that also made its way into our eyes, ears, and nose. And then, because torture isn't complete without a long car ride, we would climb back into that '72 Pontiac for the 45 minute drive home, again craving nothing more than the comfort of our beds, but knowing a shower had to come first despite our complete exhaustion. To this day I use the expression "Night at the races tired," when trying to explain to Rob the degree of my sleepiness.

Showers, sleep, windshield wipers, milk, crayons, bed sheets, books, and flowers. These are a few of my favorite things (along with cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels). Simple pleasures. Your turn...