When I surrendered all of my morning duties to the husband, I didn’t delude myself with high expectations of what would happen when I was not home. During our temporary role reversal, I assumed that the dishes and laundry and floor cleaning would not cross the husband’s radar. I was hoping however, that the husband would ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece.
When I left my family for jury duty that morning I was armed with snacks and books and whole ton of patience. I had been told there might be some waiting. And despite inexplicably setting off the security alarm at the courthouse door, I managed to check in on time, fill out my forms and start to prematurely judge all of my new juror friends by their appearance and behavior.
A competent seeming judge soon provided an inspirational and instructional speech on my jury duty experience and the pride I should take in the long and slow process of waiting.
The judge asked if there were any questions. The first question came from a young woman and concerned the form we had all filled out. “It says on the form, ‘Have you ever been a party to a lawsuit?’ Well what if you went to a party and afterward there ended up being a big lawsuit over some stuff that happened that night?”
The next question came from a middle aged woman who cleared her throat and then spoke. “Where it says here on the form, ‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’…..well…what exactly do you mean by a….FELONY?”
A man raised his hand and asked the judge, “I already know I’m prejudiced but I didn’t see that on the form. Is there any way I can just leave now?”
Between the judge’s infectious enthusiasm for the importance of jury duty and my new doubts about the capabilities and qualifications of some of my fellow jurors, I found myself more than ready to take part in the judicial process. Within the first hour, a woman began to announce the names of 62 people that were to be questioned for a jury in courtroom number 4. I sent the woman telepathic messages with my brain, “Pick me! Pick me! I’d be good! I got an A in American Government in high school!” I don’t think the woman ever got my silent messages. She never called my name. I was convinced there had been some mistake.
Eventually, my jury duty enthusiasm began to wane as I sat and waited with those who were in the same jury limbo boat that I was. We read our books, ate our snacks and pounded on laptops. We spoke in Korean, very loudly, on our cell phone for 2 hours straight. We complained about President Obama and Sarah Palin and those troublesome Australian tax rates. We bought shoes for $39.95 from our cell phone, confessed our marital troubles to strangers and announced to the room that the pitcher for the local baseball team was a big wussy. But mostly we shifted in our seats and stared at the walls. I never was called to be a juror. After hours and hours of waiting I was sent home. I had earned $20 in jury pay, read two great books and was now able to speak some rudimentary Korean.
I drove in the driveway and my thoughts shifted back to my family. I wondered how the morning had gone for the husband and the teenager and the boy. When I walked into the house it was not the expected dirty dishes or the inevitable basket of dirty laundry or the pesky crumbs that were still left on the floor that caused me to pause. It was the sight of the first aid kit, strewn all over the counter, left in a frantic mess that caused my breath to momentarily suspend.
When I left for jury duty that morning I had hoped that the husband would somehow ensure that the teenager and the boy, clean or not, nutritious breakfast eaten or not, homework finished or not, would somehow get to school on time and in one piece. And I could see from the evidence of the dismantled first aid kit before me that the teenager and the boy, although apparently bandaged, were still, thankfully, in one piece.
Check This Out!
One of the books I read while waiting for my jury duty moment to come was Exile by Richard North Patterson. This legal thriller focuses on the defense of a Palestinian woman on trial for organizing the suicide bombing of the Prime Minister of Israel as he visited San Francisco. I found it to be a nice combination of the expected drama and suspense a novel like this is known for as well as a good dose of information about the Middle East and the often confusing Arab-Israeli conflict. This one was a hard one to put down.
For a completely different kind of book, you might try I'm Off Then: Losing and Finding Myself on the Camino de Santiago. The author, Hape Kerkeling, is a hugely popular comedian and entertainer in Germany and the rest of Europe. His pilgrimage across the Pyrenees to the Spanish shrine of St. James, is the same spiritual journey that over 100,000 people make every year. I expected a book by a "funny guy" to be intentionally funny. This book wasn't. It was most definitely amusing. But somehow, quietly and slowly, meaning and inspiration also snuck their way into the words he wrote. This book started off slowly for me. And by the time I had finished it I knew it would be a blog recommendation.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Basketball Yelling
For effect, I’m sure, the old man deliberately stood up and shook his fist as he began to yell.
“COME ON YOU IGNORANT ZEBRAS! Why don’t you put away your whistles and finally let a basketball game break out! We didn’t come here to see YOU IDIOTS blow those whistles!”
And then he emphatically added, “GOSHDARNIT!”
Except the grandpa in the stands at the basketball game, obviously frustrated with the number of fouls being called, didn’t really say “goshdarnit”. He was a bit more colorful.
Finally, he sat down and let out a hearty guffaw announcing to those around him, “Boy, in all my 78 years I have yet to find a goof ref. That’s why you gotta yell at them. You gotta set them straight.”
When the teenager’s high school basketball season began there was talk of sportsmanship and respect and personal growth. There was talk of hard work and goal setting and training schedules. There was talk of fundraising and parental volunteering and even, having a little fun playing some basketball.
Nobody, however, mentioned the yelling.
Just like the grandpa in the stands, a coach of one of the other teams in the league had an awful lot to say. You know the team I’m talking about. The well respected, super disciplined, naturally gifted, nationally ranked team that is undefeated this year.
The coach of that team called a time out and quickly ushered one of her players off the court. The coach’s face was 2 inches away from the girl’s face. The coach was seething and shaking and let loose, loud enough for the entire gym to take dictation. “WHAT COULD YOU HAVE POSSIBLY BEEN THINKING? Do you have any clue how to play basketball or were you just born a complete IDIOT!”
The entire gym was silent. We could hear every word. Even the teenager’s coach, trying to proceed with his own time out instructions, paused, not quite believing what he was hearing.
The coach of the other team continued her rant, “Did you see how that girl just made that basket? DID YOU SEE THAT? Or are you blind too? I think you must be blind to let her get by you like that! That basket is on your head. We could lose this game and it could be ALL YOUR FAULT! Now sit down because YOU. ARE. DONE.”
She then pointed her index finger at the 15 year old girl, right at that spot in the middle of her forehead just above her eyes and said with pursed lips, “I’ve told you before…I will only play winners.” She then motioned toward the line of chairs where all the subs sat and walked away, shaking her head.
The teenager’s coach took one look at the group of stunned teenage girls standing before him, focused only on the drama across the gym. “Look at me!” he demanded. “That is not us. We will play OUR game.” He tried to assure them again. “That is NOT us. You are all doing a fabulous job. Now….let’s go out there and finish this game. And let’s remember why we play this game. Because we love it and because it’s FUN.”
While it may not be unusual to have fans yelling at referees and coaches yelling at players, I was not prepared for the teenager herself to come under fire. The competition was intense, the game was close and the teenager was yet again at the foul line, shooting one of the 31 free throws she would shoot in the game. A mother from the other team started making her presence known. Each time the teenager would begin to shoot, the mother from the other team would yell out, “You’re gonna miss it, MISSY, you’re gonna miss it MISSY…because you know that you are NO good…MISS IT, MISS IT……..WOOOOOOO!”
I was surprised how quickly my usually passive nature was replaced with thoughts that any mother bear protecting her cubs would easily identify with. And while I did manage to control myself until the end of the game, I was still fuming on the way home in the car.
“This yelling at basketball games is really starting to bother me. It is not good!” I said to the teenager, a bit louder than I had intended.
“First it was that grandpa in the stands, and then it was that awful, angry coach. And now, today, there was that loud mouthed horrible mother from the other team yelling at you! Basketball should be fun, just like your coach said. All of this yelling does not make basketball fun!”
When we arrived home the teenager turned on the television to her favorite college team’s basketball game. Her team was behind and was not playing well.
The teenager immediately started yelling at the screen, “You are frickin’ idiots! How could you possibly have thought that shot was a good idea! Bunch of….LOOOOOO-SERS!"
Shocked, I asked the teenager if she had heard a word that I had said in the car about all of this yelling at basketball games.
“Oh, I heard everything you said,” the teenager replied. “Sometimes you just gotta yell though. That’s why I like watching basketball on TV. I can yell all I want at the players and coaches and no one can hear me! I’m not hurting anyone’s feelings. Isn’t it great mom?”
Just as she finished her sentence she started yelling again, “Oh, come on ref there’s no WAY that was a charge. He wasn’t set!”
And as I turned toward the TV to see what the teenager was talking about I heard the animated announcers commenting on the ref’s call, “Wow! A lot of people are unhappy with that call. We’ve got coaches, players and the fans all doing a whole lot of yelling right now. But then, Jim, isn’t that half of what makes basketball so much fun? The yelling?”
Check This Out!
Spring is just around the corner. If you need a respite from all of the basketball yelling in your home during March Madness, may I suggest you consider the calming effects that some nice quiet gardening could have on your life.
You could start by reading this fabulous book.
Better Homes and Gardens, Garden Doctor, Advice from the Experts- 1021 Questions Answered. This is great bedtime reading chock full of short, easy to understand answers to all of the gardening questions you didn't even know you had.
And once you are done reading, head to your local garden store and pick up a pack of these Ed Hume Dwarf Cherry Rose Nasturtium seeds.
This is a super easy to grow annual and a nice change of pace from the usual orange, yellow and red nasturtiums. Even the back of the seed package says, "Thrives in poor soil. Needs no fertilizer and very little water." How much easier can it get? I've planted nasturtiums for quite a few years in recently overturned sod that, after years of grass breakdown would eventually become a flowerbed. While I waited however, the nasturtiums covered the ugly mess and looked fabulous.
“COME ON YOU IGNORANT ZEBRAS! Why don’t you put away your whistles and finally let a basketball game break out! We didn’t come here to see YOU IDIOTS blow those whistles!”
And then he emphatically added, “GOSHDARNIT!”
Except the grandpa in the stands at the basketball game, obviously frustrated with the number of fouls being called, didn’t really say “goshdarnit”. He was a bit more colorful.
Finally, he sat down and let out a hearty guffaw announcing to those around him, “Boy, in all my 78 years I have yet to find a goof ref. That’s why you gotta yell at them. You gotta set them straight.”
When the teenager’s high school basketball season began there was talk of sportsmanship and respect and personal growth. There was talk of hard work and goal setting and training schedules. There was talk of fundraising and parental volunteering and even, having a little fun playing some basketball.
Nobody, however, mentioned the yelling.
Just like the grandpa in the stands, a coach of one of the other teams in the league had an awful lot to say. You know the team I’m talking about. The well respected, super disciplined, naturally gifted, nationally ranked team that is undefeated this year.
The coach of that team called a time out and quickly ushered one of her players off the court. The coach’s face was 2 inches away from the girl’s face. The coach was seething and shaking and let loose, loud enough for the entire gym to take dictation. “WHAT COULD YOU HAVE POSSIBLY BEEN THINKING? Do you have any clue how to play basketball or were you just born a complete IDIOT!”
The entire gym was silent. We could hear every word. Even the teenager’s coach, trying to proceed with his own time out instructions, paused, not quite believing what he was hearing.
The coach of the other team continued her rant, “Did you see how that girl just made that basket? DID YOU SEE THAT? Or are you blind too? I think you must be blind to let her get by you like that! That basket is on your head. We could lose this game and it could be ALL YOUR FAULT! Now sit down because YOU. ARE. DONE.”
She then pointed her index finger at the 15 year old girl, right at that spot in the middle of her forehead just above her eyes and said with pursed lips, “I’ve told you before…I will only play winners.” She then motioned toward the line of chairs where all the subs sat and walked away, shaking her head.
The teenager’s coach took one look at the group of stunned teenage girls standing before him, focused only on the drama across the gym. “Look at me!” he demanded. “That is not us. We will play OUR game.” He tried to assure them again. “That is NOT us. You are all doing a fabulous job. Now….let’s go out there and finish this game. And let’s remember why we play this game. Because we love it and because it’s FUN.”
While it may not be unusual to have fans yelling at referees and coaches yelling at players, I was not prepared for the teenager herself to come under fire. The competition was intense, the game was close and the teenager was yet again at the foul line, shooting one of the 31 free throws she would shoot in the game. A mother from the other team started making her presence known. Each time the teenager would begin to shoot, the mother from the other team would yell out, “You’re gonna miss it, MISSY, you’re gonna miss it MISSY…because you know that you are NO good…MISS IT, MISS IT……..WOOOOOOO!”
I was surprised how quickly my usually passive nature was replaced with thoughts that any mother bear protecting her cubs would easily identify with. And while I did manage to control myself until the end of the game, I was still fuming on the way home in the car.
“This yelling at basketball games is really starting to bother me. It is not good!” I said to the teenager, a bit louder than I had intended.
“First it was that grandpa in the stands, and then it was that awful, angry coach. And now, today, there was that loud mouthed horrible mother from the other team yelling at you! Basketball should be fun, just like your coach said. All of this yelling does not make basketball fun!”
When we arrived home the teenager turned on the television to her favorite college team’s basketball game. Her team was behind and was not playing well.
The teenager immediately started yelling at the screen, “You are frickin’ idiots! How could you possibly have thought that shot was a good idea! Bunch of….LOOOOOO-SERS!"
Shocked, I asked the teenager if she had heard a word that I had said in the car about all of this yelling at basketball games.
“Oh, I heard everything you said,” the teenager replied. “Sometimes you just gotta yell though. That’s why I like watching basketball on TV. I can yell all I want at the players and coaches and no one can hear me! I’m not hurting anyone’s feelings. Isn’t it great mom?”
Just as she finished her sentence she started yelling again, “Oh, come on ref there’s no WAY that was a charge. He wasn’t set!”
And as I turned toward the TV to see what the teenager was talking about I heard the animated announcers commenting on the ref’s call, “Wow! A lot of people are unhappy with that call. We’ve got coaches, players and the fans all doing a whole lot of yelling right now. But then, Jim, isn’t that half of what makes basketball so much fun? The yelling?”
Check This Out!
Spring is just around the corner. If you need a respite from all of the basketball yelling in your home during March Madness, may I suggest you consider the calming effects that some nice quiet gardening could have on your life.
You could start by reading this fabulous book.
Better Homes and Gardens, Garden Doctor, Advice from the Experts- 1021 Questions Answered. This is great bedtime reading chock full of short, easy to understand answers to all of the gardening questions you didn't even know you had.And once you are done reading, head to your local garden store and pick up a pack of these Ed Hume Dwarf Cherry Rose Nasturtium seeds.
This is a super easy to grow annual and a nice change of pace from the usual orange, yellow and red nasturtiums. Even the back of the seed package says, "Thrives in poor soil. Needs no fertilizer and very little water." How much easier can it get? I've planted nasturtiums for quite a few years in recently overturned sod that, after years of grass breakdown would eventually become a flowerbed. While I waited however, the nasturtiums covered the ugly mess and looked fabulous.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Lean Pocket Love
We couldn’t have been more unlike each other. I, the well fed and harried suburban mother, rushing through the grocery store, pushing a cart full of suddenly necessary impulse purchases, my thoughts centered 3 hours ahead, the incomplete list in my head having been abandoned 5 aisles before. Him, the seemingly delicate but deliberate Asian man, plainly focused in the moment, grasping his well thought out list written on the yellow lined paper, as he spoke quite intentionally into his phone in a language I had no hope of deciphering.
I pretended to look at the frozen pizza while he stood in front of the Lean Pockets, the door fogging up as he held it open. It seemed as if he intended to inspect every variety of Lean Pockets and the neighboring Hot Pockets, all of which were on sale this week.
I was in a bit of a hurry and needed those Lean Pockets for the boy. He hadn’t been eating his lunch. He didn’t always like the lunches I made him nor did he like the lunches the school served. He was also in a hurry to get out to recess. He was coming home hungry. I was worried about the boy. When the boy was born, my visions of his future certainly did not include feeding him Lean Pockets. But here I found myself, 10 years later, hoping the man in front of me did not take all of the Ham and Cheddar kind, because that was the boy’s favorite flavor.
I knew that if the boy had a Ham and Cheddar Lean Pocket in his lunch, he wouldn’t, yet again, come home hungry. The Lean Pocket was my last hope.
The man in front of me continued to speak into his phone, repeatedly grabbing and then putting back numerous boxes of both Lean Pockets and Hot Pockets. I spent quite some time pretending to look at the pizza before the man finally moved to the right and let the fogged up door slam shut. I casually moved over, opened the door and scooped up a couple of cheap boxes of Philly, Cheeseburger and Ham and Cheddar Lean Pockets.
As I started to walk away I saw the man eyeing the Lean Pockets in my cart. With hesitant English he asked me, “Is the Lean Pocket better than the Hot Pocket?”
“My wife and I are so worried about our daughter,” he continued, pointing to his phone that was now in his shirt pocket. “She is so big now. She sits in her chair and watches TV and eats the candy and the chips all day long. I don’t want her to be so big. I want her to eat something better than the candy but she won’t eat anything else. She won’t eat the fruit and the carrots my wife gives her for lunch. I am hoping that she will eat this Lean Pocket, though. If she has the Lean Pocket in her lunch then maybe she won’t be hungry for the candy. My wife thinks the Lean Pocket is our last hope.”
I was worried about the boy. The man was worried about his daughter. My initial impression was wrong. The man and I couldn’t have been more alike. It would be the Lean Pocket that would save us both.
Check This Out!
The Urban Cookbook, Creative Recipes for the Graffiti Generation, by King Adz is a most unique cookbook centered on the creative work of 25
super talented young urban dwellers from 5 hip cities all around the world. From advertising to art, from film to music, from toy design to fashion design, this book is chock full of cutting edge ideas and unbelievable creativity. Almost, seemingly, an afterthought, there are also 50 global recipes such as Lahmacun, Frikandel and Chicken Bicken included. I wouldn’t necessarily go buy this most untraditional book, but it was fun to see something different. It's worth a quick look at your local library if you think you'd enjoy the unique art and if you want to find out what the heck a Trinchada is.
Some of the Slightly Exaggerated family enjoyed this Middle East and North African inspired couscous dish on page 100 of The Urban Cookbook. Fry one chopped onion in oil for 5 minutes. Add 4 chicken pieces (we used thighs) and fry for another 5 minutes. Add 2 tsp ground cumin, 3 tsp ground allspice, 3 pieces of cinnamon stick and 4 cloves of garlic (chopped). Cook on low for 5-10 minutes. Add 2 ¼ cups chicken stock, 1 can whole tomatoes, 1 can chickpeas, juice of 1 lemon, 20 green beans, 4 stalks celery (chopped) and 2 carrots (chopped). Simmer for one hour, adding more stock if necessary. Make at least 6 oz of couscous according to package directions. Serve chicken on top of a bed of couscous and finish with chopped cilantro sprinkled on top.
The Lean Pocket loving Slightly Exaggerated family members were not as fond of the couscous dish as they were of the Spaghetti Pie recipe on page 248 of The Urban Cookbook. This “English variation of an Americanised Italian” recipe took a little time to make but was certainly well worth it. Fry one large onion (chopped). Add 2 1/4 lbs ground beef. When cooked, add 1 large can whole tomatoes, 4 TBL tomato puree, 2 beef stock cubes dissolved in ½ cup water,4 cloves of garlic (chopped) a splash of red wine,4 tsp of Italian herb seasoning, salt and pepper to taste and enough water to cover. Bring to a boil and then simmer for 2 hours, adding some water every 20 minutes or so (keep it wet). Near the end, throw in a handful of chopped fresh basil. In another pot, boil 1 to 1 ½ pounds of spaghetti, leaving it slightly undercooked. Drain. In a third pot, melt a large pat of butter and 2 heaping teaspoons of cornstarch and mix into a thick paste. With heat quite low, add 2 cups of milk, splash by splash, whisking constantly to avoid lumps. Increase heat a bit and add ¾ pound grated cheddar and 2 teaspoons of mustard, stirring continually until thickened. (I also added a dash of nutmeg to this cheese sauce.) In a colander, pour boiling water over a large bunch of fresh spinach. Now assemble! In a large ovenproof dish, place a layer of spaghetti, a layer of meat sauce, 4 slices of Emmental cheese, a layer of spinach, and finally a layer of cheese sauce. Repeat. Sprinkle top with more grated cheddar. Bake at 375 degrees for about 25 minutes.
I pretended to look at the frozen pizza while he stood in front of the Lean Pockets, the door fogging up as he held it open. It seemed as if he intended to inspect every variety of Lean Pockets and the neighboring Hot Pockets, all of which were on sale this week.
I was in a bit of a hurry and needed those Lean Pockets for the boy. He hadn’t been eating his lunch. He didn’t always like the lunches I made him nor did he like the lunches the school served. He was also in a hurry to get out to recess. He was coming home hungry. I was worried about the boy. When the boy was born, my visions of his future certainly did not include feeding him Lean Pockets. But here I found myself, 10 years later, hoping the man in front of me did not take all of the Ham and Cheddar kind, because that was the boy’s favorite flavor.
I knew that if the boy had a Ham and Cheddar Lean Pocket in his lunch, he wouldn’t, yet again, come home hungry. The Lean Pocket was my last hope.The man in front of me continued to speak into his phone, repeatedly grabbing and then putting back numerous boxes of both Lean Pockets and Hot Pockets. I spent quite some time pretending to look at the pizza before the man finally moved to the right and let the fogged up door slam shut. I casually moved over, opened the door and scooped up a couple of cheap boxes of Philly, Cheeseburger and Ham and Cheddar Lean Pockets.
As I started to walk away I saw the man eyeing the Lean Pockets in my cart. With hesitant English he asked me, “Is the Lean Pocket better than the Hot Pocket?”
“My wife and I are so worried about our daughter,” he continued, pointing to his phone that was now in his shirt pocket. “She is so big now. She sits in her chair and watches TV and eats the candy and the chips all day long. I don’t want her to be so big. I want her to eat something better than the candy but she won’t eat anything else. She won’t eat the fruit and the carrots my wife gives her for lunch. I am hoping that she will eat this Lean Pocket, though. If she has the Lean Pocket in her lunch then maybe she won’t be hungry for the candy. My wife thinks the Lean Pocket is our last hope.”
I was worried about the boy. The man was worried about his daughter. My initial impression was wrong. The man and I couldn’t have been more alike. It would be the Lean Pocket that would save us both.
Check This Out!
The Urban Cookbook, Creative Recipes for the Graffiti Generation, by King Adz is a most unique cookbook centered on the creative work of 25
super talented young urban dwellers from 5 hip cities all around the world. From advertising to art, from film to music, from toy design to fashion design, this book is chock full of cutting edge ideas and unbelievable creativity. Almost, seemingly, an afterthought, there are also 50 global recipes such as Lahmacun, Frikandel and Chicken Bicken included. I wouldn’t necessarily go buy this most untraditional book, but it was fun to see something different. It's worth a quick look at your local library if you think you'd enjoy the unique art and if you want to find out what the heck a Trinchada is. Some of the Slightly Exaggerated family enjoyed this Middle East and North African inspired couscous dish on page 100 of The Urban Cookbook. Fry one chopped onion in oil for 5 minutes. Add 4 chicken pieces (we used thighs) and fry for another 5 minutes. Add 2 tsp ground cumin, 3 tsp ground allspice, 3 pieces of cinnamon stick and 4 cloves of garlic (chopped). Cook on low for 5-10 minutes. Add 2 ¼ cups chicken stock, 1 can whole tomatoes, 1 can chickpeas, juice of 1 lemon, 20 green beans, 4 stalks celery (chopped) and 2 carrots (chopped). Simmer for one hour, adding more stock if necessary. Make at least 6 oz of couscous according to package directions. Serve chicken on top of a bed of couscous and finish with chopped cilantro sprinkled on top.
The Lean Pocket loving Slightly Exaggerated family members were not as fond of the couscous dish as they were of the Spaghetti Pie recipe on page 248 of The Urban Cookbook. This “English variation of an Americanised Italian” recipe took a little time to make but was certainly well worth it. Fry one large onion (chopped). Add 2 1/4 lbs ground beef. When cooked, add 1 large can whole tomatoes, 4 TBL tomato puree, 2 beef stock cubes dissolved in ½ cup water,4 cloves of garlic (chopped) a splash of red wine,4 tsp of Italian herb seasoning, salt and pepper to taste and enough water to cover. Bring to a boil and then simmer for 2 hours, adding some water every 20 minutes or so (keep it wet). Near the end, throw in a handful of chopped fresh basil. In another pot, boil 1 to 1 ½ pounds of spaghetti, leaving it slightly undercooked. Drain. In a third pot, melt a large pat of butter and 2 heaping teaspoons of cornstarch and mix into a thick paste. With heat quite low, add 2 cups of milk, splash by splash, whisking constantly to avoid lumps. Increase heat a bit and add ¾ pound grated cheddar and 2 teaspoons of mustard, stirring continually until thickened. (I also added a dash of nutmeg to this cheese sauce.) In a colander, pour boiling water over a large bunch of fresh spinach. Now assemble! In a large ovenproof dish, place a layer of spaghetti, a layer of meat sauce, 4 slices of Emmental cheese, a layer of spinach, and finally a layer of cheese sauce. Repeat. Sprinkle top with more grated cheddar. Bake at 375 degrees for about 25 minutes.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Press Here For Song
It wasn’t the toy drive the teenager’s teacher had a problem with. It was the door decorating contest that he found unnecessary. Somehow, the decorated classroom doors were supposed to encourage and remind the students to bring toys to the school for children in need. A pizza party would be awarded to the class whose door was judged most worthy by the PTA judges.
When the door judging day arrived, the teenager and her classmates pleaded one last time with the teacher. Could they please have some time to decorate their classroom door? The teacher stood firm in his belief that classroom time should be spent on learning. They accused him of being a Grinch and sucking the joy out of their holiday season.
One boy made a final attempt to change the teacher’s mind. “It doesn’t have to be difficult or time consuming," he said. “I mean, heck, we could even tape ME to the door and at least it would be better than having nothing on the door!”
The teacher grinned, just a little bit, and believing it to be impossible said, “Ha….now that I’d like to see!”
With lightening quick speed, before the teacher could stop them, the students rushed into action. Within minutes the boy was taped to the outside of the door. Someone produced a battery powered miniature plastic Christmas tree with lights and shoved it into the boy’s hand. The boy yelled out, “Grab the red tape! Grab the red tape!” Someone covered the boy’s nose with red tape. Next to the boy’s head a sign was taped on the door. The sign said, “press here for song” and had an arrow drawn on it that pointed to the boy’s red nose.
The PTA judges arrived just as the students finished their masterpiece. The judges had already seen beautifully decorated doors covered with intricate glittered snowflakes, curly ribbons and fancy lights. They had seen real Christmas trees, and 3-D dioramas and pseudo fireplaces with stockings hung and fire glowing.
They arrived at the teenager’s classroom to find a boy taped to the door.
The judges looked at each other and giggled a bit. “Do you think he’ll really sing if we press his nose?” one asked out loud. “Only one way to find out.” said a brave one who stepped forward and pressed the red tape.
The teenage boy, voice cracking, burst out in holiday song. The students inside the classroom went uncharacteristically still and silent. Students and teachers from other classrooms quietly poked their heads out of their rooms to hear the singing. The judges dropped their judging clipboards to their sides and said not a word as they listened to the boy sing.
And when the boy was done, he started to speak, rambling just a bit. “We believe that Christmas should be a very personal time of the year. And what better way to represent Christmas and giving and what the whole season means than with some sort of personification of this special time. And we believe that there’s no better way to personify something than with a real person. That is why we have a real person on our door. Because we believe that people need to remember that Christmas and giving and toy drives are really all about people. Real people.“
One of the judges lifted her clipboard and began to write on it. Another judge asked the boy, “How long did it take you to write that speech?”
“Um…I didn’t prepare it ahead of time…I just kind of said what I think.”
And as the judges turned to walk away the boy heard one of them say, “Christmas…about people…how novel.”
Check This Out!
This is the recipe for the cookies I usually make to give to the neighbors for Christmas.
Soft Ginger Cookies
Mix 2 ¼ cups flour, 2 tsp ginger, 1 tsp soda, ¾ tsp cinnamon and ½ tsp cloves in a bowl. In another bowl, beat ¾ cup margarine, butter or shortening for 30 seconds. Gradually add in 1 cup sugar. Add one egg and ¼ cup molasses and beat well. Stir in dry ingredients. Mold into balls and roll them in granulated sugar. Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet in a 350 degree oven for 10 minutes. Let stand 2 minutes.
(As usual...I have a hard time following a recipe exactly. With these cookies, I tend to go a bit heavy on the spices and will often throw in a few dashes of nutmeg or mace as well.)
When the door judging day arrived, the teenager and her classmates pleaded one last time with the teacher. Could they please have some time to decorate their classroom door? The teacher stood firm in his belief that classroom time should be spent on learning. They accused him of being a Grinch and sucking the joy out of their holiday season.
One boy made a final attempt to change the teacher’s mind. “It doesn’t have to be difficult or time consuming," he said. “I mean, heck, we could even tape ME to the door and at least it would be better than having nothing on the door!”
The teacher grinned, just a little bit, and believing it to be impossible said, “Ha….now that I’d like to see!”
With lightening quick speed, before the teacher could stop them, the students rushed into action. Within minutes the boy was taped to the outside of the door. Someone produced a battery powered miniature plastic Christmas tree with lights and shoved it into the boy’s hand. The boy yelled out, “Grab the red tape! Grab the red tape!” Someone covered the boy’s nose with red tape. Next to the boy’s head a sign was taped on the door. The sign said, “press here for song” and had an arrow drawn on it that pointed to the boy’s red nose.
The PTA judges arrived just as the students finished their masterpiece. The judges had already seen beautifully decorated doors covered with intricate glittered snowflakes, curly ribbons and fancy lights. They had seen real Christmas trees, and 3-D dioramas and pseudo fireplaces with stockings hung and fire glowing.
They arrived at the teenager’s classroom to find a boy taped to the door.
The judges looked at each other and giggled a bit. “Do you think he’ll really sing if we press his nose?” one asked out loud. “Only one way to find out.” said a brave one who stepped forward and pressed the red tape.
The teenage boy, voice cracking, burst out in holiday song. The students inside the classroom went uncharacteristically still and silent. Students and teachers from other classrooms quietly poked their heads out of their rooms to hear the singing. The judges dropped their judging clipboards to their sides and said not a word as they listened to the boy sing.
And when the boy was done, he started to speak, rambling just a bit. “We believe that Christmas should be a very personal time of the year. And what better way to represent Christmas and giving and what the whole season means than with some sort of personification of this special time. And we believe that there’s no better way to personify something than with a real person. That is why we have a real person on our door. Because we believe that people need to remember that Christmas and giving and toy drives are really all about people. Real people.“
One of the judges lifted her clipboard and began to write on it. Another judge asked the boy, “How long did it take you to write that speech?”
“Um…I didn’t prepare it ahead of time…I just kind of said what I think.”
And as the judges turned to walk away the boy heard one of them say, “Christmas…about people…how novel.”
Check This Out!
This is the recipe for the cookies I usually make to give to the neighbors for Christmas.
Soft Ginger Cookies
Mix 2 ¼ cups flour, 2 tsp ginger, 1 tsp soda, ¾ tsp cinnamon and ½ tsp cloves in a bowl. In another bowl, beat ¾ cup margarine, butter or shortening for 30 seconds. Gradually add in 1 cup sugar. Add one egg and ¼ cup molasses and beat well. Stir in dry ingredients. Mold into balls and roll them in granulated sugar. Bake on an ungreased cookie sheet in a 350 degree oven for 10 minutes. Let stand 2 minutes.
(As usual...I have a hard time following a recipe exactly. With these cookies, I tend to go a bit heavy on the spices and will often throw in a few dashes of nutmeg or mace as well.)
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
It Was That Easy
Of course, if I had received any advance warning of the impossibility of the arduous undertaking I would soon find myself regretfully immersed in, I would have rapidly abandoned all illusion of parental compassion and concern. I would have just told the teenager that I really didn’t care if her old basketball shoes gave her blisters. I would have turned a blind eye to those slippery soles that caused her to fall down on the hardwood and come home bruised and battered.
But I didn’t have any advanced warning.
So when the teenager announced that she needed new basketball shoes I eagerly agreed to help her shop for them. I was, of course, naive and oblivious, singing along to the radio, when I drove those back roads to the mall that one Saturday morning. I had initially wanted to travel south to the super large sports store. But the teenager pointed out that if that single super large sports store did not have what she was specifically looking for, we were somewhat far away from any other basketball shoe store. So instead, we headed north to the insanity of the big mall and the many accompanying strip malls within close proximity. With this option, we would have 12 stores to choose from.
The teenager found basketball shoes that she liked at the very first store we went to. She did not however, find them in the correct color or the correct size.
We spent the next 4 1/2 hours travelling to the other 11 stores in the area. We looked at many, many different kinds of shoes but didn’t try on a single pair. As a last resort, I convinced the teenager to go back to the first store and again, try on the pair that she had initially liked. I tried to convince her that ½ a size too big wasn’t really THAT big. I tried to convince her that the color didn’t matter one bit. I tried to convince her to, please, put me out of my shopping misery and just pick any darn pair of shoes in that store as soon as she possibly could.
This unsuccessful shoe shopping was making me very cranky.
I was not, apparently, the only ill-natured mother in the store that day.
I heard another mother raise her voice and I turned my head to see a teenage girl shaking her head. I heard her mother bark, “What do you mean ‘white basketball shoes are stupid’? That’s ridiculous. When I was a kid I was grateful to even have a pair of shoes, let alone special basketball shoes. I wouldn’t have dared tell my mother they were the wrong color!”
It wasn’t long before another mother/daughter pair joined in on the shoe shopping discontent. This time it was the daughter who provided the lecture. “Yes. Mother. They are too small. They really, really are. Besides, I wanted the Nike and these are Adidas. Nobody on my team wears Adidas. I’ll look like an idiot if I’m the only one with Adidas shoes.”
As we three mothers began to commiserate with each other, the three daughters huffed a lot, rolled their eyeballs and asked each other what high school they played for. One mother finally announced, with great frustration, that she and her daughter were going to have to brave the mall stores. She was a fair bit testy and patently annoyed when the other mother and I said that our shoe shopping experiences at the mall had produced nothing other than lunch at the Panda Express.
The teenager and I left that store empty handed. As we drove away, the teenager grumbled a request to go to the super large sports store. After a long day of shoe searching, I most definitely did did not want to travel south to that super large sports store. But the teenager pointed out that if anyone would have the shoes she wanted, it would be the super large sports store, of course. And so, like all obedient sports mothers who have come before me, I drove south. I drove another half hour to the very store we had considered starting with many, many hours earlier that day.
The teenager and I arrived at the super large sports store at 3:32 pm. The teenager walked over to the basketball shoe section. She found the shoes she liked. She found the right size. She found the right color. She tried them on. We paid for them. At 3:49 pm we drove out of the parking lot and headed home.
It was that easy.
Check This Out!
The husband and I have been doing a little remodeling. In an effort to get a few ideas for our home projects, I’ve been enjoying the book, The Not So Big House.
From author’s website comes this description,“The Not So Big House books by Sarah Susanka bring to light a new way of thinking about what makes a place feel like home—characteristics that many people desire of their homes and their lives, but haven't known how to verbalize."
Full of great ideas for all areas of your home, the initial book The Not So Big House and the many other similar ones that follow it do not focus merely on square footage and the standard builder options all too common in today’s modern houses. Ms. Susanka's books offer creative examples that make a real design impact that is personal, meaningful and most likely, just what you wanted for your home.
Explore more at www.notsobighouse.com and www.susanka.com.
But I didn’t have any advanced warning.
So when the teenager announced that she needed new basketball shoes I eagerly agreed to help her shop for them. I was, of course, naive and oblivious, singing along to the radio, when I drove those back roads to the mall that one Saturday morning. I had initially wanted to travel south to the super large sports store. But the teenager pointed out that if that single super large sports store did not have what she was specifically looking for, we were somewhat far away from any other basketball shoe store. So instead, we headed north to the insanity of the big mall and the many accompanying strip malls within close proximity. With this option, we would have 12 stores to choose from.
The teenager found basketball shoes that she liked at the very first store we went to. She did not however, find them in the correct color or the correct size.
We spent the next 4 1/2 hours travelling to the other 11 stores in the area. We looked at many, many different kinds of shoes but didn’t try on a single pair. As a last resort, I convinced the teenager to go back to the first store and again, try on the pair that she had initially liked. I tried to convince her that ½ a size too big wasn’t really THAT big. I tried to convince her that the color didn’t matter one bit. I tried to convince her to, please, put me out of my shopping misery and just pick any darn pair of shoes in that store as soon as she possibly could.
This unsuccessful shoe shopping was making me very cranky.
I was not, apparently, the only ill-natured mother in the store that day.
I heard another mother raise her voice and I turned my head to see a teenage girl shaking her head. I heard her mother bark, “What do you mean ‘white basketball shoes are stupid’? That’s ridiculous. When I was a kid I was grateful to even have a pair of shoes, let alone special basketball shoes. I wouldn’t have dared tell my mother they were the wrong color!”
It wasn’t long before another mother/daughter pair joined in on the shoe shopping discontent. This time it was the daughter who provided the lecture. “Yes. Mother. They are too small. They really, really are. Besides, I wanted the Nike and these are Adidas. Nobody on my team wears Adidas. I’ll look like an idiot if I’m the only one with Adidas shoes.”
As we three mothers began to commiserate with each other, the three daughters huffed a lot, rolled their eyeballs and asked each other what high school they played for. One mother finally announced, with great frustration, that she and her daughter were going to have to brave the mall stores. She was a fair bit testy and patently annoyed when the other mother and I said that our shoe shopping experiences at the mall had produced nothing other than lunch at the Panda Express.
The teenager and I left that store empty handed. As we drove away, the teenager grumbled a request to go to the super large sports store. After a long day of shoe searching, I most definitely did did not want to travel south to that super large sports store. But the teenager pointed out that if anyone would have the shoes she wanted, it would be the super large sports store, of course. And so, like all obedient sports mothers who have come before me, I drove south. I drove another half hour to the very store we had considered starting with many, many hours earlier that day.
The teenager and I arrived at the super large sports store at 3:32 pm. The teenager walked over to the basketball shoe section. She found the shoes she liked. She found the right size. She found the right color. She tried them on. We paid for them. At 3:49 pm we drove out of the parking lot and headed home.
It was that easy.
Check This Out!
The husband and I have been doing a little remodeling. In an effort to get a few ideas for our home projects, I’ve been enjoying the book, The Not So Big House.
From author’s website comes this description,“The Not So Big House books by Sarah Susanka bring to light a new way of thinking about what makes a place feel like home—characteristics that many people desire of their homes and their lives, but haven't known how to verbalize."
Full of great ideas for all areas of your home, the initial book The Not So Big House and the many other similar ones that follow it do not focus merely on square footage and the standard builder options all too common in today’s modern houses. Ms. Susanka's books offer creative examples that make a real design impact that is personal, meaningful and most likely, just what you wanted for your home.
Explore more at www.notsobighouse.com and www.susanka.com.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Vodka
I noticed her name because it wasn’t spelled the right way on her nametag. Instead of Jordan, it was spelled Jordynne. She was the grocery store checker for the line I was waiting in. I was next in line when the lady in front of me put a bottle of Merlot on the dull black belt that seemed to move quite randomly. Jordynne quickly picked up the black phone receiver. “Override on check stand 3. Override on check stand 3.” she announced to the entire store as she rolled her eyeballs. The very young looking, gum popping Jordynne wasn’t old enough, apparently, to run a bottle of wine across the magic beeping, barcode reading, scanning machine. I watched as the lady wanting the bottle of Merlot became annoyed at the delay.
A hardly mature looking, but apparently more important woman, who was probably 23 years old, casually appeared from parts unknown. As she ran her special card across the scanning machine, she turned to Jordynne and started joking…or so I thought. “So Jordynne, I see you are trying to drink on the job again!” The young Jordynne huffed and again rolled her eyeballs at the presumably older, special card woman as she wandered back to her hiding place. Jordynne politely took the Merlot lady’s money and told her to have a nice day.
And then it was my turn.
I couldn’t resist having a little chat with Jordynne. As she scanned my garbanzo beans and my orzo and my Smores Goldfish I audaciously asked her outright, “So, been drinking on the job lately, huh?”
Jordynne, thankfully, taking my comments in stride, let out a mini guffaw laugh. “Ha! If I was gonna drink on the job, I can tell you one thing. I wouldn’t be drinkin’ no fancy wine.”
Fascinated by the most exciting grocery store moment I’d had in awhile, I, mostly sarcastically, continued to pester Jordynne. “Really? No wine drinking on the job, huh?”
Jordynne, however, became altogether serious. She was also most forthcoming and educational with her answer. “Oh, hell no! You gotta be smart. Anyone can smell wine on your breath. Wine at work is usually a bad idea.” And then she lowered her voice and turned her head a bit more toward me. “If you’re gonna drink at work it’s gotta be vodka. There’s no other choice. It’s clear, it’s innocent looking and there ain’t no one who can smell vodka.”
Not being a vodka consumer, I found myself captivated by Jordynne the checker and her patent honesty.
I curiously pushed on while Jordynne tried to find the produce code for my fresh ginger. “So, seriously, if you drink vodka, no one can smell it? Has that worked for you before?”
Jordynne stiffened a bit. She slowly looked to the left. She casually put my ginger in the bag and told me I owed her forty seven dollars and eighty three cents. Then she slowly looked to the right.
And then young Jordynne,20 years my junior, looked me straight in the eye and scanned my face, just like her scanning, checking machine did to my produce just moments before.
Jordynne lowered her voice to a whisper and she pointedly said to me, “Well, all I can say... is that….well……it worked in Junior High. “
Check This Out!
I must admit, I think American Idol alum Adam Lambert's recent television actions probably were uncessary. I've listened to his new album. He's good. He's got talent. He doesn't need the drama. Sure...he's trying to make a certain point. But the fact remains, the voice can stand on it's own. I suppose the drama makes for good publicity. In fact, I'll admit...the dramatic publicity got me to listen sooner than I would have. But honestly, it's the great voice that will get me to buy the whole album instead of just his first single. See for yourself at www.adamofficial.com/us./intro where you can sample the entire album.
And in case you're looking for something a bit more traditional, Christmas music, perhaps, I am here to tell you that the wait is over. Heavy Metal fans finally have Christmas and winter music that they can listen to at this special time of year. Rob Halford, of Judas Priest fame, has just released Halford III, Winter Songs. Complete with Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel, We Three Kings and many other Christmas traditionals and originals, this album will fill a void in your collection that has existed for a very long time. I encourage you to go to www. halford music.com and explore his latest.
A hardly mature looking, but apparently more important woman, who was probably 23 years old, casually appeared from parts unknown. As she ran her special card across the scanning machine, she turned to Jordynne and started joking…or so I thought. “So Jordynne, I see you are trying to drink on the job again!” The young Jordynne huffed and again rolled her eyeballs at the presumably older, special card woman as she wandered back to her hiding place. Jordynne politely took the Merlot lady’s money and told her to have a nice day.
And then it was my turn.
I couldn’t resist having a little chat with Jordynne. As she scanned my garbanzo beans and my orzo and my Smores Goldfish I audaciously asked her outright, “So, been drinking on the job lately, huh?”
Jordynne, thankfully, taking my comments in stride, let out a mini guffaw laugh. “Ha! If I was gonna drink on the job, I can tell you one thing. I wouldn’t be drinkin’ no fancy wine.”
Fascinated by the most exciting grocery store moment I’d had in awhile, I, mostly sarcastically, continued to pester Jordynne. “Really? No wine drinking on the job, huh?”
Jordynne, however, became altogether serious. She was also most forthcoming and educational with her answer. “Oh, hell no! You gotta be smart. Anyone can smell wine on your breath. Wine at work is usually a bad idea.” And then she lowered her voice and turned her head a bit more toward me. “If you’re gonna drink at work it’s gotta be vodka. There’s no other choice. It’s clear, it’s innocent looking and there ain’t no one who can smell vodka.”
Not being a vodka consumer, I found myself captivated by Jordynne the checker and her patent honesty.
I curiously pushed on while Jordynne tried to find the produce code for my fresh ginger. “So, seriously, if you drink vodka, no one can smell it? Has that worked for you before?”
Jordynne stiffened a bit. She slowly looked to the left. She casually put my ginger in the bag and told me I owed her forty seven dollars and eighty three cents. Then she slowly looked to the right.
And then young Jordynne,20 years my junior, looked me straight in the eye and scanned my face, just like her scanning, checking machine did to my produce just moments before.
Jordynne lowered her voice to a whisper and she pointedly said to me, “Well, all I can say... is that….well……it worked in Junior High. “
Check This Out!
I must admit, I think American Idol alum Adam Lambert's recent television actions probably were uncessary. I've listened to his new album. He's good. He's got talent. He doesn't need the drama. Sure...he's trying to make a certain point. But the fact remains, the voice can stand on it's own. I suppose the drama makes for good publicity. In fact, I'll admit...the dramatic publicity got me to listen sooner than I would have. But honestly, it's the great voice that will get me to buy the whole album instead of just his first single. See for yourself at www.adamofficial.com/us./intro where you can sample the entire album.
And in case you're looking for something a bit more traditional, Christmas music, perhaps, I am here to tell you that the wait is over. Heavy Metal fans finally have Christmas and winter music that they can listen to at this special time of year. Rob Halford, of Judas Priest fame, has just released Halford III, Winter Songs. Complete with Oh Come Oh Come Emmanuel, We Three Kings and many other Christmas traditionals and originals, this album will fill a void in your collection that has existed for a very long time. I encourage you to go to www. halford music.com and explore his latest.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Lockdown
While the rapid gunfire, so close to where the teenager and I were sitting, did come as quite a shock, it was the look on the teenager’s pale face that scared me the most. “Those weren’t gun shots, were they, mom?” the teenager asked me with wide eyes, her heart beating much faster than it was just a moment before. In one second, I found myself nervously assuring her that it couldn’t possibly be gunshots. And in the next second, it seemed, we were in lockdown.
The teenager and I had gone to watch a girls’ high school soccer game at a local stadium. Just as we took our seats the shots rang out. It happened just like the shooting victims on the TV news said it would. It was fast forward. And it was slow motion. All at the same time.
As the shots rang out I saw dozens of birds fly off the roof of the building next to where we were sitting. It seemed as if I saw the details of every single bird. I saw both soccer teams running off the field, toward the locker rooms, with escorts yelling at them to run faster. It seemed as if I saw every single girl’s face filled with perplexed fear. I saw the fans in the stands questioning each other. “Did that sound like gunshots to you?” I saw the usher running toward us telling us to get to the safety of the building as quickly as we could. I remember running toward the building beside the teenager. I remember thinking that it was important for me to shield her from the gunshots. I remember wishing that I knew which direction they were coming from so I would know which side of her to run beside.
After an hour and a half in lockdown we were allowed to leave. They said it was gang related. They said they never caught the shooters. It happens all the time, they said. No big deal. The shaken up soccer teams left as well. The game was rescheduled for later that evening at another field.
The husband took the teenager to the rescheduled game that evening. As he left, I handed him the cell phone. “Now, I don’t want any calls about teams being rushed off the field or your life being in danger or anything…..!” I jokingly lectured. We laughed at the absurdity of my overprotective warnings.
The game was to start at 7:00 pm. At 7:01 pm my phone rang. It was the husband. Shocked, I answered the phone and didn’t give him any chance to speak. “Why are you calling me?” I yelled. “Hasn’t the game started yet?”
“No," the husband answered. “We’re having a little situation here. The teams have been rushed off the field into the safety of the locker room. It looks as if it’s going to be awhile before the game can start.”
The husband tried to explain more but I quickly interrupted him with my own rapid paced questioning. “What do you mean ‘rushed off the field’? There are no gangs in that area! It can’t possibly be another gang shooting! That’s ridiculous! Are you and the teenager ok? Are you safe? Seriously! What could possibly stop a game other than ‘SHOTS FIRED’? What could be worse than gang shootings?” I hysterically yelled at the husband as I had flashbacks to my own scary afternoon.
Like a good and wise and experienced husband, he paused to make sure I was done with my unrestrained verbal flailing.
And then he spoke.
“I’ll tell you what can be worse than gangs. It is MOTHER NATURE! We are in a 30 minute lightning delay. We have quite a storm going on here!”
OH. It was a storm.
Gunshots versus lightning-I wasn't quite sure which was worse.
Check This Out!
The older half of the Slightly Exaggerated family recently enjoyed the old Bette Davis and Joan Crawford movie, "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?". While we initially thought this to be a nice, happy movie, we were quickly proven wrong. It's a bit scary and a bit shocking...but all in a nice old movie not too over the top kind of way. We enjoyed this movie while eating our romaine, salmon, red onion and garbanzo bean salads topped with sea salt and black pepper croutons. Add a nice vinaigrette and you can enjoy the perfect movie/salad combination as well.
The teenager and I had gone to watch a girls’ high school soccer game at a local stadium. Just as we took our seats the shots rang out. It happened just like the shooting victims on the TV news said it would. It was fast forward. And it was slow motion. All at the same time.
As the shots rang out I saw dozens of birds fly off the roof of the building next to where we were sitting. It seemed as if I saw the details of every single bird. I saw both soccer teams running off the field, toward the locker rooms, with escorts yelling at them to run faster. It seemed as if I saw every single girl’s face filled with perplexed fear. I saw the fans in the stands questioning each other. “Did that sound like gunshots to you?” I saw the usher running toward us telling us to get to the safety of the building as quickly as we could. I remember running toward the building beside the teenager. I remember thinking that it was important for me to shield her from the gunshots. I remember wishing that I knew which direction they were coming from so I would know which side of her to run beside.
After an hour and a half in lockdown we were allowed to leave. They said it was gang related. They said they never caught the shooters. It happens all the time, they said. No big deal. The shaken up soccer teams left as well. The game was rescheduled for later that evening at another field.
The husband took the teenager to the rescheduled game that evening. As he left, I handed him the cell phone. “Now, I don’t want any calls about teams being rushed off the field or your life being in danger or anything…..!” I jokingly lectured. We laughed at the absurdity of my overprotective warnings.
The game was to start at 7:00 pm. At 7:01 pm my phone rang. It was the husband. Shocked, I answered the phone and didn’t give him any chance to speak. “Why are you calling me?” I yelled. “Hasn’t the game started yet?”
“No," the husband answered. “We’re having a little situation here. The teams have been rushed off the field into the safety of the locker room. It looks as if it’s going to be awhile before the game can start.”
The husband tried to explain more but I quickly interrupted him with my own rapid paced questioning. “What do you mean ‘rushed off the field’? There are no gangs in that area! It can’t possibly be another gang shooting! That’s ridiculous! Are you and the teenager ok? Are you safe? Seriously! What could possibly stop a game other than ‘SHOTS FIRED’? What could be worse than gang shootings?” I hysterically yelled at the husband as I had flashbacks to my own scary afternoon.
Like a good and wise and experienced husband, he paused to make sure I was done with my unrestrained verbal flailing.
And then he spoke.
“I’ll tell you what can be worse than gangs. It is MOTHER NATURE! We are in a 30 minute lightning delay. We have quite a storm going on here!”
OH. It was a storm.
Gunshots versus lightning-I wasn't quite sure which was worse.
Check This Out!
The older half of the Slightly Exaggerated family recently enjoyed the old Bette Davis and Joan Crawford movie, "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?". While we initially thought this to be a nice, happy movie, we were quickly proven wrong. It's a bit scary and a bit shocking...but all in a nice old movie not too over the top kind of way. We enjoyed this movie while eating our romaine, salmon, red onion and garbanzo bean salads topped with sea salt and black pepper croutons. Add a nice vinaigrette and you can enjoy the perfect movie/salad combination as well.
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