Thursday, January 20, 2011

The Lunchbox

I smelled it before I touched it. Yet still, I touched it. Because that’s what mothers do.

The boy was quite adept at taking a lunch box to school and failing to bring one home. And I was no stranger to washing and bleaching that same funky smelling lunch box when it miraculously reappeared on the kitchen counter a few days later. Neither of us however, was prepared to handle the lunch box that went missing in the middle of December. When it miraculously reappeared after the holiday break, in the second week of January, it had transformed into its own living and breathing being.

When I picked the boy up from school, he was holding the lunch box by his pinkie finger, his arm outstretched as far as he could manage. His other hand was covering his nose. “Here mom, I found my lunch box!”

The acrid stench was immediately overwhelming. As the boy and I walked home from his school a green cloud of poison accompanied us. The other mommies steered their children away from us. Small dogs growled at us and backed off in fear. Flocks of birds left the trees, deciding to fly south after all. For the first time, the scary teenage boys in the neighborhood looked a little bit scared of me. I’m pretty sure if I had put the lunch box down on the ground it could have walked home itself.

Let me be very clear. I was a pro at handling foul smelling lunch boxes. But this was more than even I could handle. I coughed, gagged and made an embarrassing spectacle of myself. In terms of first world, suburban mother hardships, I had hit the jackpot. This was truly a terrible thing for me to be going through.


I knew the lunch box was done for. There was no other way. Even if I managed to clean that noxious, certainly harmful, container without choking on my own lung, I would never truly feel comfortable giving it to the boy again. No good mother would take that chance.

I quickly abandoned the lunchbox on the front porch. When the husband came home I would force him to acquire a hazmat suit and dispose of the lunchbox in a manner that would ensure that I would never encounter it again.




When the husband walked into the house an hour later he announced to the family, “Hey! The boy dropped his lunchbox on the porch. I brought it in for him!”

The husband seemed unfazed as he put that awful lunchbox on the clean kitchen countertop. There was no gagging spectacle. There was no hardship. There was no terrible experience.

In shock, I made sure the husband knew exactly how I felt about that lunchbox.

The boy nodded in agreement as he played his video game, “Yeah, Dad. You’d better huck the thing. Mom thinks we’re all going to die.”

The husband grinned just enough to offend me and said, “I don’t smell a thing.”

That grinning husband then proceeded to unload the contents of that vile lunchbox onto the clean countertop. He unloaded the just-about-to-burst-pressurized-full-of-green-foam-Rubbermaid-juice-box. He unloaded that nice thermos container that oozed the leftover casserole the boy had taken to school so many weeks earlier. He unloaded the plastic baggies full of now unrecognizable scraps and crumbs. The husband then took one last look inside the lunchbox and sniffed a big sniff.

“Wow! Look at those colors inside there. And yeah…I suppose it might smell a little bit.”


I insisted the husband throw the entire lunchbox out. He said it wasn’t that bad and accused me of being wasteful. I told him it was not safe for the children. He said that a modern dishwasher could sanitize anything. I told him I didn’t care and that the whole thing grossed me out. He told me that I would never survive in the slums of India. I told him that he was probably right about that one.



When the garbage men took our garbage away the next morning they took with them that dreadful lunchbox. The husband eventually put it in the trash, but only when he realized he really would have to clean it himself. The boy promised to bring home his lunchbox in a timely manner. I cleaned the countertops more times than necessary. I opened the windows in the house to air out that awful smell I was still smelling. I added “buy new lunchbox” to my “to do” list. And then I sat down and Googled “slums of India smells”.

I mean really, how bad could it be?



Check This Out!

Far from the slums of India comes the somewhat humorous, often varied Argentinian band, Pario la Choco. A little bit reggae mixed with a little bit of everything else, Pario la Choco is a nice change of pace from what you are listening to right now. Many of their songs feature brass more than this one does. If you like that sort of thing, as I do, look up some of their other songs too.



Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Standing in Line

1. The kitchen section of the department store was full of men that mid-December afternoon. One father and his two teenage boys wandered aimlessly. The father scolded the boys for arguing and pushing, “I told you boys to stop that! Let’s hurry up and find something for you mother and get the heck out of here!” The two boys continued to jostle each other, yell at each other and tease each other with utensils. One boy had a whisk in his hand and kept following the other boy and poking him with it. After a few minutes, the second boy could take the abuse no longer. A few aisles over, I, and for that matter the entire kitchen section, heard him yell out, “G*d da**it! Quit sticking that whisk up my *ss or I’m gonna take you out with this rolling pin-right here, right now!”


When I went to pay, the two boys and their father were behind me in line. The father spoke to the boys. “Now when we get home I want you both to wrap this stuff for your mother. And I want you to wash that whisk before you wrap it….your mother doesn’t ever need to know where that whisk has been.”

The two boys shrugged their shoulders. One finally spoke, “Well….I guess it is Christmas.”



2. I don’t know how many people were standing in line at the 12 checkout stands, but it was a lot. I don’t know how fast those lines were moving, but it was somewhere in the neighborhood of pretty darn slow. I don’t know how many cheerful people were waiting in those lines with me, but it seemed like zero.

I wanted to make the neighbors some cookies and I needed some butter. I stood in line surrounded by the cranky, huffing people, holding my 3 boxes of butter.

One man a few people back yelled, “Hey buddy, can’t you count! You got 16 items buddy! That’s more than 15! 16….more than 15……”

The woman behind me muttered to her friend as they perused a tabloid, “Those crazy Kardashians. I’ll tell you what those girls need: Jesus. Those girls need a little Jesus in their lives.”

The woman behind her kept checking her watch and sighing loudly. “I hate this time of year. It just brings out the stupid in people. How hard can it be to make this line move a little faster?” She then gasped and turned to the Jesus woman. “Dangit! I forgot the Velveeta for my dip. Could you hold my spot while I run and get some?”

The Jesus woman turned white and stammered. “Um…..I don’t know….that’s probably not going to work, honey.”

The Velveeta woman turned red and seethed. “For God’s sake, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She stayed in line.

When it was my turn to check out I plopped my butter on the moving belt. The angry counting man was still angry. The Jesus woman was still a bit pale. The Velveeta woman was still cheeseless. Things were a bit tense in that checkout line.

The checker scanned my butter. I told her I needed butter for my neighbor’s cookies. We both looked up at the little screen to see the total.

She looked at me to see if I had noticed what was on the screen. I looked at her to see if she noticed what was on the screen. We both started laughing. The Jesus woman wondered what was so funny and leaned forward to see the screen. She started laughing. The counting man in line a few people back yelled out, “Hey, what’s going on up there?” The checker turned the screen for those in line to see. Then the Velveeta lady and the counting man were then laughing as well.

The screen read:

BUTT SPECIAL-1.99
BUTT SPECIAL-1.99
BUTT SPECIAL-1.99

As the checker handed me my receipt she said, “I sure hope your neighbors enjoy their “BUTT” cookies!” And all the relaxed, smiling people in line laughed at me and my butter as we left the store.



3. “Honey, quit beating that man with your naked baby!”

The 4 year old was standing in line at the UPS store with her dad holding a naked, plastic baby doll by the leg.

“But, why daddy? My baby is mad at that man. She wants him to move so we can be first in line. This line is too slow daddy.”

The elderly man who had been beaten by the baby turned around and kneeled down to speak to the little girl. “Your baby must be very cold.” he said. “Maybe you should wrap her up in your coat so that she stays warm. She seems like such a nice baby.”

The 4 year old turned to her daddy. “It’s ok daddy. My baby said that man can be first in line. She found out he was nice.”

The dad smiled at the girl and patted her on the shoulder. The girl snuggled the naked baby inside her coat. When she was done she looked at the line of people behind her and then up to her dad. “Hey,daddy. That man was nice to me and my baby. There’s a lot of people waiting daddy. Maybe, daddy…maybe ALL of these people are nice.”



Check This Out

Soft Ginger Cookies (Neighbor’s Cookies)

¾ cup butter or shortening
1 cup sugar
1 egg
¼ cup molasses
2 ¼ cups flour
1 tsp soda
2 tsp ginger
¾ tsp cinnamon
½ tsp cloves
A shake or two of nutmeg

Beat butter for 30 seconds. Gradually add in sugar. Add egg and molasses and beat well. In separate bowl, stir dry ingredients together. Add dry ingredients to butter mixture, mixing well. Shape into balls. (Roughly 1 ½ inches round). Roll in granulated sugar. Put on ungreased cookie sheet and bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes. Let stand 2 minutes.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Urgent Care

The nice lady sitting up straight behind the desk was tapping away on her keyboard and looking at her monitor. I sat slumped on the other side of the desk, the boy beside me, waiting to pay yet another co-pay. The nice lady paused and muttered, “Hmmm…..” Then she looked up and half questioned me, “Well, I see that this is the boy’s first time visiting Urgent Care?”

I’m pretty sure the laughter that came out of me disturbed the walking pneumonia lady 3 seats away.

“Oh no…..there’s some mistake. The boy has been here many times before. He’s a regular customer.”



I was pleased to see that my favorite chair was available in the Urgent Care waiting room that Thursday morning. I had a good view of Regis and Kelly on the TV. I wasn’t near the drafty, constantly in motion, door. On my right hand side was the table that always had the best real magazines. The in-house promotional medical magazines were always kept on the table across the room, near the drafty door. I picked up a copy of a 2008 Redbook and tried to decide if I would read the “Easter Fun for All Ages!” article or take the quiz on page 142 that would tell me if my marriage was “Heavenly Blissful, Rock Solid, Truthfully Terrible or Ignorantly Even”.

The pneumonia lady made it hard to concentrate on my reading. She kept hacking and quietly moaning. The impatient father in the corner kept looking at his watch and sighing. He kept telling 4 year old Kayla that someone would look at her ear soon, very soon. The teenager in the football jersey sitting across from me couldn’t fit his foot in a shoe. His foot was purple and swollen. He texted the entire time he waited. His mom absentmindedly kept running her hand along his shoulders and asking, “How does it feel now, sweetie?” The middle aged woman in the corner sat hunched and held her back with one hand. She told her husband, “That is the LAST time I am ever going to do THAT! Mark my words!”

We all turned our heads as the hairy, sweaty workman in overalls walked in. He held his right arm funny and walked a bit sideways. In his left hand he held a brown paper bag. He walked up to the nice lady behind the desk. “May I help you?” she asked him.

“Yeah. I was working over at the Burger King installing their new playground. I slipped and fell and impaled myself on this. I ripped it out of myself and put it in this bag. I figured the doctor would need to see it.”

He opened the bag to show the nice lady. The nice lady’s eyes grew wide. “Oh dear. Wow! Now THAT must not have felt very good at all. How unusual. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

The entire waiting room craned their heads toward the man in overalls, desperate to see what was in that paper bag.


At that moment a nurse came into the waiting room and called the boy’s name.



I was pleased to see that the boy and I were ushered to my favorite Urgent Care room. It had walls, not curtains. It had the most interesting paintings on the walls, not just pictures of kittens and strawberries. It also had the cool inner ear and nose diagram poster. The room next door only had the proper coughing and sneezing technique poster. And just as I had hoped, the 2009 College Basketball Preview Sports Illustrated was hidden behind the Spanish language influenza flyers in the magazine rack-right where I had left it last time.

When the doctor finally arrived, she exclaimed to the boy, “I have never, ever heard of such a thing. I can honestly say that you are my first tetherball injury. I had no idea it was such a violent game!”

The doctor turned to me. “Do you know the way to the X-ray room?" Which really meant, "The boy will need many, many, very expensive X-rays that will give him cancer when he is 47.”

I said to the doctor, “Yes, I know the way.” Which really meant, “Are you kidding me? Not only do I know how to get to X-ray, I also know two shortcuts in those back “restricted” hallways. And this time I’m gonna beat my record of 1 minute and 23 seconds. Last time the boy and I got behind that lady with the walker and we lost 12 precious seconds.”


While waiting for the boy to be X-rayed, I visited the secret bathroom only the employees knew about. It still had that fabulous vanilla melon scented soap. I chatted with Serena M. who checked the boy in. She’d finally had her baby. His pictures were adorable. And I flipped through the January 2010 People magazine. They always had the most current magazines in X-ray.




The boy left Urgent Care with his arm in a sling and his lower arm in a brace, instructions to take a lot of pills and a sheet of physical therapy exercises. On our way out, we walked past Ray, the security guard. “Oh dear, BOY! You can’t possibly be back here again? Weren’t you just here a month or two ago…or was that your sister? Please tell me what you have done to yourself this time.”


The boy told his story.


“I was playing tetherball at recess with a tall kid. He swung the ball really high above my head. I jumped up to hit the ball. I missed the ball and instead the rope wrapped quickly, all around my arm, really tight. When I came down, I found my entire body dangling, held up by the rope that was wound around my arm. I have a bunch of super nasty red marks and a ton of ugly bruising. My forearm is sprained and the doctor said I tore the rotator cuff in my shoulder. It all hurts a lot.”

Security guard Ray shook his head in disbelief. He patted the boy on the head and told me to say hello to the teenager. “It’s been a few months since she’s been in, hasn’t it? She's probably due.”




Check This OutA co-worker of the husband shared this interesting homemade cookie a few days ago. He sandwiched peanut butter between two Ritz crackers and covered the whole thing in chocolate. I haven’t had time to look up a recipe, but you definitely should. It was reeaallly gooood.

Monday, November 29, 2010

School Conferences........Oh. Dear.

The boy’s teacher said it so casually that it took a few moments for me to muster the appropriate shocked response.

“In all my 13 years of teaching I have never had a student make me want to crawl under a rock and hide.”


Oh. Dear.

My brain raced.

This sounded like it could be bad.


The teacher continued, “It was the first day of school. I had a new student that didn’t know anyone. I knew your boy from chess club last year. I knew he was a good kid. And so, I asked your boy to accompany the new student around during the first recess.

One hour into the new school year, in front of the entire class, your boy looked at me and refused. Without pause, he said, ‘No thanks. I’m not that good with people.’”


Oh. Dear.

Yes.

This might be bad.


“Imagine my shock. One hour into the new school year. My authority already challenged. And… the new student. I’m sure the poor kid wanted to crawl under a rock too.”


Oh. Dear.





The teenager’s teacher said it so casually that it took me a few moments to realize she was serious.

“I’ve got a real problem with your teenager in my class.”


Oh. Dear.

My brain raced.

This sounded like it could be bad.


The teacher continued, “Your teenager is not living up to her potential in my class. She is not contributing like she should.”


Oh. Dear.

Yes.

This might be bad.


“Imagine my shock when I read her first paper. She had wonderful, well thought out ideas. But, in class, she is very quiet and never speaks up. I need her to start speaking up and sharing her ideas with the class.”


Oh. Dear.




One kid spoke up. One kid never spoke.



When confronted, the boy who spoke up to the teacher explained, “What? It’s true. I’m very shy.”


When confronted, the teenager who never speaks in class explained, “What? I can’t believe she would say that! I’m a good kid. I don’t see what the problem is! I get good grades and I wish you would just get off my back. I don’t have time for this. I have too much homework. What is for dinner by the way? What? I’m so tired of pizza. Do we have any pasta? And do we have any cider left? That was some good stuff. You should get some more the next time you go to the store. Oh, by the way, basketball practice ends early tomorrow night. And guess what my friend told me. She twisted her ankle and might not be able to play. And she also said her cat just died. I told her that I was sick of my cat waking me up in the middle of the night. Hey! Can we turn the TV to ESPN? SportsCenter should be on. Boy I hope it snows. I really don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I have a test in history. Oh man. I can’t believe she said I need to speak up. I suppose it’s true though. I really don’t raise my hand at all. I’m very shy.”



Oh.

Dear.




Check This Out!


The newish Elton John/Leon Russell album, The Union, has been much enjoyed by the Slightly Exaggerated family in recent weeks. Produced by T Bone Burnett, the superstar John and the superstar of the past, Russell, have created what can only be called “good music”. Great songwriting, fabulous piano, and solid, interesting vocals make this an album you should definitely check out.

For more info:

Read this.

Or watch this.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Homecoming

When the girl in green ferociously hurled the teenager to the ground,
the crowd, though not at all surprised, managed to express a stunned gasp in response to the forceful attack. The crowd watched in anticipation as the teenager’s still body lay straddling the sideline of the soccer field-her legs on the inbounds turf, her head on the faded red track that encircled the field. As the battered teenager finally rose from the ground, her elbow had already started swelling, her hip had already started bleeding and the cleat impression on her leg had already started bruising. And when the teenager then proceeded to launch herself down the field after the ball, determination on her face, none of those injuries really seemed to matter to her at all.




It was a Saturday afternoon near the end of the soccer season when the teenager decided to paint her toenails. The homecoming dance was that evening and the teenager was attempting a metamorphosis from tough athlete in worn out sweatpants to refined princess beauty in sparkly dress. The teenager looked down at her toes. The nail polish had managed to cover the black, half dead, toenails stomped on all season by opponents’ cleats.

She looked up at her mother, a bit surprised, and muttered, “We just might be able to pull this off.”



The teenager with the recent flu shot looked at her arm. She was pleased to see that the promised redness and swelling had not materialized. She shaved her legs, evaluated her leg bruises and watched the biggest scab on her knee wash down the shower drain.

The teenager with athlete’s foot was relieved to see that the cream had finally worked and the nasty bruise on the top of her foot had faded. Rough elbows were lotioned and she was able to rid herself of another scab. She had refused tanning lotion and pondered whether her farmer’s tan from her soccer shirt was visible. She ran her fingers through her conditioned hair. The sweat was gone for now. The scrapes on her hands, from the last time she had been thrown down, were nearly invisible.




The hairstylist took one look at the teenager’s hair and declared, “Honey, you definitely need some texture.” The teenager replied, “Can you make me girly?”




The mother attempting to put on the teenager’s, hopefully tasteful makeup declared, “You do know I’m not very good at this, right?” The teenager replied, “Just don’t make it too obvious, OK. Remember, I’m not used to wearing all of this crap on my face.”




The teenager that wiggled into the sparkly dress had to do so carefully. She didn’t want to aggravate her hamstring pull again. When she leaned against the bathroom counter to put on her earrings she had to avoid resting on her sore hip. As she poked at her ears, she prayed her ear piercings hadn’t closed up. And as that teenager walked downstairs in her strappy, high heeled sandals, with a death grip on the stair railing for balance, she hoped her sprained ankle was fully healed.





The proud father that watched the sparkly princess come down the stairs had to hold his emotions in. He couldn’t believe how fast 16 years had gone by. He remembered how tiny and bruise free she was when she was born. The boy wondered what the heck had happened to his older sister. She walked by him without punching or teasing him.



The mother with the camera hoped her heart wouldn’t burst.

She remembered everything.

Every day.

Every moment.

Every second.


The mother took the pictures.

Too many of them. Over and over.



The teenager wanted to be done. She wanted to sit down.

The father and the mother and the brother watched the sparkly princess-athlete-teenager gingerly walk on her unfamiliar high heels, over to the old, worn chair to sit down.

That sparkly teenager, in a dress, plopped in that old chair and spread her legs wide, like only a NFL linebacker could. She planted her 3” heels on the wood floor and lay back in the chair to relax for awhile.

The mother, appalled, scolded the teenager, “Oh honey, if you’re going to dress like a lady, you must learn to act like a lady. You must put your legs together. And please, cross your ankles. It’s the proper way.”

The sparkly princess-athlete-teenager grinned back at the concerned mother and announced, “It’s OK mom, I’ve already thought of that. That’s why I’m wearing my Under Armour spandex shorts underneath my dress. That way, I can sit any way I like and it won’t ever be a problem.”


The teenager then lifted her dress to show the family that despite the sparkles and the hair and the makeup and the heels, she wasn’t quite ready to cross over, completely, to the girly side.

The father dropped his head in fatherly shame.

The boy grinned in brotherly amusement.

The mother, of course, documented the moment in pictures that were soon deleted. After all, the family must maintain some minimal positive reputation.

The teenager, finally ready for her first homecoming dance, could only think of one thing. “I wonder if I’ll be the starting point guard on the JV basketball team this year…”



Check This Out!


We here at Slightly Exaggerated have finally jumped on the Stieg Larsson bandwagon. We've read the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and the sequel, The Girl Who Played With Fire. While initially slow, the books soon became impossible to put down. Definitely R rated, these mystery thrillers easily lived up to their hype. Now, I just need someone to loan me their copy of the third book. Now. Please.

While reading these books, the Slightly Exaggerated family enjoyed a turkey, red pepper and blue cheese on sourdough toasted sandwich. The sandwich was almost as good as the book. You should really try it.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

All That Was Good

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when the neighbor and I stood on the sidewalk and were surrounded by all that was good in the neighborhood.

The little girl’s blonde hair was a blur when she flew by on the bike she had just learned to ride. A brand new Spider Man costume ran by with a happy little boy inside. The teenage boy mowed a lawn that wasn’t even his own. At the end of the street the toddlers giggled. Their mothers talked of trading babysitting and trading recipes. The man up the street was underneath his car, changing the oil. The man down the street was washing his car. His son was perfecting his skateboarding tricks. A jogger ran by and waved. A calico cat took a bath in the center of the road. Three big dogs trotted by, dragging their owner by a leash. You could hear the soccer practice at the nearby school.

All the grass was green because of last week’s rain. Next spring we would all have iris in our yards because one neighbor had shared her large bunch. One family would have apple pie that weekend, made from the apples that were shared by their next door neighbor. A 15 year old girl planned how she would wear her hair for the upcoming homecoming dance. She wondered if the neighbor girl she’s known since she was 4 years old was going to homecoming too. An elderly man, two houses up, said goodbye to the neighbor who had checked in on him. Some third grade girls ran to the neighborhood park to hang upside down on the monkey bars. The neighbor who always takes care of the park wondered if it might need some new bark. You could smell the barbeque from someone’s backyard. Another neighbor was finishing up the potato salad. Tonight, the neighbors would gather.

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when the neighbor and I stood on the sidewalk and were surrounded by all that was good in the neighborhood.





It was that same sunny Friday afternoon when the TV news reporter came to our neighborhood and stood on the sidewalk with the neighbor and I.

“Have you heard about the shooting?” she asked.

Have you heard about the horrible things and the awful stuff and the ugliness and the chaos?

Did you hear it was your neighbor?



Your neighbor was shot.

Your neighbor is dead.





Standing on that sidewalk, in the middle of our neighborhood, the neighbor and I knew that none of what the reporter had just said would ever make any sense to us.


You see, our neighbor was a big part of all that was good in the neighborhood.




It was past my bedtime on a dark Friday evening when I turned on the late night news. I saw my neighborhood on TV. The little girl’s blonde hair was a blur off in the distance as she rode her bike down the street. The grass was just as green from last week’s rain. You could hear a dog barking.

I heard the reporter’s voice coming from my TV.


“Neighbors say they are shocked. Neighbors say he was a good man.”


RIP RW

Monday, October 11, 2010

Cowlick Surrender

The boy knew it was futile to run from me. Like every other morning of the year, I was armed with a spray bottle of water, a tube of hair gel and a comb. Like every other morning of the year the boy attempted escape.
On this day however, the boy knew I would win. Today those cowlicks would be tamed, for today, was school picture day.

When he woke up on the morning of his school pictures the boy was already resigned to wearing an itchy collared shirt. He was not, however, happy about having his hair combed. The boy didn’t believe in combing his hair preferring instead to, “show the world my personality!” The two cowlicks the boy was born with guaranteed his hair would always have personality.

When I dropped the boy off at school that morning I had claimed victory over the cowlicks. The boy’s hair was combed and mother approved. I had a smile on my face as I proudly watched my handsome boy approach his group of friends. The boy spoke. His friends laughed and pointed at the boy’s head. I watched as the boy’s friend put both of his hands in the boy’s hair and ruined my hard won cowlick victory. I put on my angry face, put one hand on my hip and gestured at those boys with the wagging index finger on my other hand. The boy, half embarrassed and half annoyed, smoothed his hair down as his group of friends giggled. My cowlick victory was still intact.



It would not have been my choice to schedule the boy’s school pictures immediately after PE class. The boy ran hard in PE. The boy sweated. When the boy left PE his hair was no longer mother approved. The cowlicks had reasserted control and the boy’s personality was in full view. The experienced ladies helping the photographer took one look at the boy’s hair and knew it was not mother approved. They grabbed a comb and attacked the boy’s hair. The cowlicks fought back. The photographer called the boy’s name.


But, the comb was stuck.


The helper ladies, wide eyed and panicked, stared at the boy. The boy, wide eyed and unconcerned about their worry, stared back.

And as the photographer called the boy’s name again he turned to find the boy’s sweaty hair, wound forever around a black plastic comb, the entire mess shooting straight up out of the boy’s head. The boy’s personality was shining in full glory. It was not mother approved.




“So, how were your school pictures?” I asked the boy when he arrived home from school.

“Oh they were great!” the boy said. “Except I had PE right beforehand and my hair got sweaty and messed up and those ladies tried to comb it and the comb got stuck in my hair and 6 people tried but none of them could get it out."

I instantly regretted purchasing the more expensive picture packet with those extra 5x7’s. It sounded as if the boy’s pictures were not going to be mother approved.

The boy continued, “But you don’t have to worry mom, I think my pictures will turn out ok. After those ladies cut the comb out of my hair, most of it didn’t stick up very far anymore!"

Stunned into silence by this hair cutting news, I realized I had no choice. I raised my white flag and surrendered, permanently, to the undeniable power of the cowlick.




Check This Out!

A bunch of important publications named the novel, Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon, one of the best books of 2009. I couldn’t agree more. If you like mystery, suspense and plot twists, then this page turner is for you. I initially thought that Await Your Reply’s topic of identity theft sounded a bit dry. I was wrong. I couldn’t put the book down. So go make up a big pot of chili or a nice double recipe of casserole. Because your children will need to eat while you’re reading and you’re not going to want to stop and cook. Not that that happened to me…..ahem.