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.)
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Destined to Drive
The husband was clearly giddy when he walked through the front door last spring.
“How was the high school information meeting, dad?” the teenager naively queried.
“Oh, it was great!” the husband shouted, barely able to contain himself. “Did you know that you can get your permit when you turn 15 if you are enrolled in driver’s ed? 15!! That’s only a few months away! I have the paperwork right here! HOW. COOL. IS. THAT. Pretty soon, you will be able to drag race with me!” And with that he threw down the driver’s ed pamphlet on the living room table.
There was a family pause as the teenager, the boy and I all processed this shocking information.
The nearly 15 year old teenager finally stood up and announced with emphatic conviction to the family. “I am never, ever driving and YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!!”
The husband was dumbfounded. The boy called the teenager a big crazy chicken. I asked the husband if he had learned anything at this meeting about the benefits of AP Calculus versus AP Statistics. His answer to me was, “What does she mean she never wants to drive? How is that even possible?”
The disbelieving and disheartened husband spent the summer trying to convince the teenager that it was her innate destiny to become a driving enthusiast. Yet, when she turned 15 last week, she still had no desire to drive and she finally told us why.
“Well, I don’t want to drive…because…because…well…because I’m afraid that all the drivers on the road will be just like dad.”
“Oh.”
Said the husband.
“I’m afraid,” the teenager continued, “That people like dad will honk at me if I do something stupid.”
The husband was gone a few days later when I took the teenager to an empty parking lot. She was not happy with me when she realized what we were there for. Eventually, however, she sat in the driver’s seat. Eventually she put the car in gear. Eventually she took her foot off the brake. And, eventually, we crept forward.
“Put your foot, gently, on the gas pedal.” I urged her.
And, eventually, she did. She pressed the gas pedal. Just enough. We rolled about 20 feet at 5 miles per hour.
And then she slammed her foot down on the brake. She turned her head toward me and I saw a look of satisfied shock on her face. Her wide, excited eyes and a huge, joyous grin filled up her face.
"OH………I LIKE THAT!” she said. “Now that…THAT was FUN!”
And as she pulled up the parking brake she looked at me again, this time with a look of panic on her face. “Oh, don’t you dare tell dad that I enjoyed that, ok? He can never know!”
The entire family was in the car the next day when the stoplight turned red. We came to a stop in front of a car dealership. The husband, as usual, surveyed the cars on the dealership’s lot. The teenager looked out the window and suddenly spoke up, “Oh, wow! Do you see that red sports car dad? Now that is a cool car! I’d definitely drive that car.”
The husband voiced his approval as a look of utmost contentment spread over his face. He turned to me and whispered, “Now THAT’S my girl. I knew she’d eventually come around to this whole driving thing.”
The husband grinned, looked forward to see that the light had turned green, and then honked his horn at the car in front of us who hadn’t started moving yet.
And from the backseat we could hear the teenager blurt out, “Not that I’m ever driving, however! In fact, I’m never, ever driving and you can’t make me!”
Check This Out!
Take a listen to RiverBend on their MySpace Music page. Mostly rock, a little grunge, a little bit indie--see if you like them. www.myspace.com/riverbendrock
“How was the high school information meeting, dad?” the teenager naively queried.
“Oh, it was great!” the husband shouted, barely able to contain himself. “Did you know that you can get your permit when you turn 15 if you are enrolled in driver’s ed? 15!! That’s only a few months away! I have the paperwork right here! HOW. COOL. IS. THAT. Pretty soon, you will be able to drag race with me!” And with that he threw down the driver’s ed pamphlet on the living room table.
There was a family pause as the teenager, the boy and I all processed this shocking information.
The nearly 15 year old teenager finally stood up and announced with emphatic conviction to the family. “I am never, ever driving and YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!!”
The husband was dumbfounded. The boy called the teenager a big crazy chicken. I asked the husband if he had learned anything at this meeting about the benefits of AP Calculus versus AP Statistics. His answer to me was, “What does she mean she never wants to drive? How is that even possible?”
The disbelieving and disheartened husband spent the summer trying to convince the teenager that it was her innate destiny to become a driving enthusiast. Yet, when she turned 15 last week, she still had no desire to drive and she finally told us why.
“Well, I don’t want to drive…because…because…well…because I’m afraid that all the drivers on the road will be just like dad.”
“Oh.”
Said the husband.
“I’m afraid,” the teenager continued, “That people like dad will honk at me if I do something stupid.”
The husband was gone a few days later when I took the teenager to an empty parking lot. She was not happy with me when she realized what we were there for. Eventually, however, she sat in the driver’s seat. Eventually she put the car in gear. Eventually she took her foot off the brake. And, eventually, we crept forward.
“Put your foot, gently, on the gas pedal.” I urged her.
And, eventually, she did. She pressed the gas pedal. Just enough. We rolled about 20 feet at 5 miles per hour.
And then she slammed her foot down on the brake. She turned her head toward me and I saw a look of satisfied shock on her face. Her wide, excited eyes and a huge, joyous grin filled up her face.
"OH………I LIKE THAT!” she said. “Now that…THAT was FUN!”
And as she pulled up the parking brake she looked at me again, this time with a look of panic on her face. “Oh, don’t you dare tell dad that I enjoyed that, ok? He can never know!”
The entire family was in the car the next day when the stoplight turned red. We came to a stop in front of a car dealership. The husband, as usual, surveyed the cars on the dealership’s lot. The teenager looked out the window and suddenly spoke up, “Oh, wow! Do you see that red sports car dad? Now that is a cool car! I’d definitely drive that car.”
The husband voiced his approval as a look of utmost contentment spread over his face. He turned to me and whispered, “Now THAT’S my girl. I knew she’d eventually come around to this whole driving thing.”
The husband grinned, looked forward to see that the light had turned green, and then honked his horn at the car in front of us who hadn’t started moving yet.
And from the backseat we could hear the teenager blurt out, “Not that I’m ever driving, however! In fact, I’m never, ever driving and you can’t make me!”
Check This Out!
Take a listen to RiverBend on their MySpace Music page. Mostly rock, a little grunge, a little bit indie--see if you like them. www.myspace.com/riverbendrock
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Becoming My Mother
It was when I started reading celebrity biographies that it occurred to me that I just might have…finally… become my mother. She loved those biographies. I had never been a fan of them myself. But, here I was, sitting on my bed, staring at a stack of biographies on the nightstand in front of me. I remember many times when my mother had in front of her, a similar stack, and would try to decide which biography to read first from the many she had picked out at the library. And here I was, so many years later, doing the very same thing.
I was aware that my transition to becoming my mother had started awhile ago. I had, for some time, been warning my family to throw out raw meat that had turned brown in the package. I cautioned them to watch out for falling pallets in warehouse stores. I had started carrying a Kleenex in my pocket and placing the children in front of me in family photos. I found myself becoming irrationally overprotective of my father and brothers. And, without thinking, I began to put extra mayonnaise on my family’s sandwiches.
Increasingly, the signs of my transition had become somewhat undeniable.
Like any independent young woman, I was convinced early on, that my life’s journey would be very different than the one my mother had taken. And for some time, it was. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found my life’s journey coming full circle to a place that would have been very familiar to my mother. Certain personality traits and interests and values that were so uniquely hers, I am now finding myself wholeheartedly embracing as my own. It would have been such a joy to share with her these new things we would have had in common.
But I can’t.
Because on this day, two years ago, my mother died.
I would have dearly loved to have had more time with her. However, at the time she died, I was thankful for and content with the 38 years that we did have together.
But, now that I’ve become my mother, it is quite apparent that 38 years together wasn’t nearly enough time at all. Now that I like celebrity biographies, just like she did, I’m not so content anymore. I want her to recommend some biographies for me. I want to talk to her about the Dean Martin biography I just read. Now that I’ve become my mother, the last 2 years suddenly seems like such a very, very, long time for her to be gone. 2 years seems like a long time not to talk to your mother.
It’s too bad that it took me 40 years to become my mother. It’s too bad she’s no longer here to enjoy our new found similarities. It’s too bad, because I have a feeling she would have liked me a lot.
In Loving Memory of MAMA.
One of the few times she didn't get away with standing behind me in a picture. Taken, my senior year in high school, May 1987, at the Mother's Tea.
I was aware that my transition to becoming my mother had started awhile ago. I had, for some time, been warning my family to throw out raw meat that had turned brown in the package. I cautioned them to watch out for falling pallets in warehouse stores. I had started carrying a Kleenex in my pocket and placing the children in front of me in family photos. I found myself becoming irrationally overprotective of my father and brothers. And, without thinking, I began to put extra mayonnaise on my family’s sandwiches.
Increasingly, the signs of my transition had become somewhat undeniable.
Like any independent young woman, I was convinced early on, that my life’s journey would be very different than the one my mother had taken. And for some time, it was. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found my life’s journey coming full circle to a place that would have been very familiar to my mother. Certain personality traits and interests and values that were so uniquely hers, I am now finding myself wholeheartedly embracing as my own. It would have been such a joy to share with her these new things we would have had in common.
But I can’t.
Because on this day, two years ago, my mother died.
I would have dearly loved to have had more time with her. However, at the time she died, I was thankful for and content with the 38 years that we did have together.
But, now that I’ve become my mother, it is quite apparent that 38 years together wasn’t nearly enough time at all. Now that I like celebrity biographies, just like she did, I’m not so content anymore. I want her to recommend some biographies for me. I want to talk to her about the Dean Martin biography I just read. Now that I’ve become my mother, the last 2 years suddenly seems like such a very, very, long time for her to be gone. 2 years seems like a long time not to talk to your mother.
It’s too bad that it took me 40 years to become my mother. It’s too bad she’s no longer here to enjoy our new found similarities. It’s too bad, because I have a feeling she would have liked me a lot.
In Loving Memory of MAMA.
One of the few times she didn't get away with standing behind me in a picture. Taken, my senior year in high school, May 1987, at the Mother's Tea.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Now, finally, everybody has one.
It is entirely possible that I am the last person in the developed world to not own a cell phone. I’m sure this will come as a bit of a shock, but I’ve never really wanted one, either. I’ve never had the desire to be reachable at all times. And I’ve certainly been reluctant to squeeze the money out of the budget to pay for one.
The teenager, following in her strange mother’s footsteps, does not own a cell phone either. Despite being the last teenager she knows without a cell phone, she has never asked for one. In fact, the teenager has never been comfortable talking on the phone at all. She even actively avoids talking her friends on the land line phone in the house. “I just don’t like talking on the phone!” she emphatically states.
But the teenager is now in 9th grade. She has many activities that take her far away from home. Perhaps someday there will be an emergency. Perhaps every single person around her will have had their cell phones die because they talked on them too much that day. Perhaps then, a cell phone of her own would come in handy.
Recently, a nice relative asked if we wanted her old TracFone. “You can just prepay for the minutes you think you will use!” she told us. This seemed to be the perfect way to enter the cell phone world, particularly since we intended to use the phone so very little.
I got a little bit excited when I saw our new cell phone for the first time. I unwrapped it from the bubble wrap the nice relative had wrapped it in. I flipped the top of the phone open and in one instant crossed into the addicting world of the cell phone. And while I had absolutely no desire to call anyone and absolutely no desire to have anyone call me, I did feel just a little bit more important knowing that these calls could happen if I wanted them to.
I motioned for the teenager to come take a look at the new cell phone. I wanted her to feel just a little more important too. I wanted her to feel like, finally, she would fit in with all of her peers. When the soccer team phone list came out, she would no longer be the only girl on the list without her own cell number. Perhaps, she’d even lose her fear of talking on the phone.
The teenager walked up to the table where the cell phone was sitting on top of the bubble wrap it came wrapped in. The nice relative and I looked on, in great anticipation of the teenager’s reaction to seeing her cell phone for the first time.
“Teenager! Look what this nice relative gave you! Can you believe it?” I excitedly said to the teenager as I pointed toward the phone.
The teenager’s face lit up. A big grin spread across her face. Her hand reached down toward the phone.
“Wow! Cool!” she yelled out, as her hand bypassed the phone and quickly grabbed the bubble wrap. “That is the coolest bubble wrap! I love bubble wrap! Can I pop it?”
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated CEO has been obsessed with Dean Martin, as of late. Numerous Dean Martin biographies have been read. His music has been playing constantly. And his movies have all been put to the top of the Netflix queue. One of the favorite movies has been, The Young Lions. Not being a “WWII movie kind of gal”, I hadn’t anticipated enjoying this war movie, which stars Dean Martin, Montgomery Clift and Marlon Brando. Released in 1958, Young Lions is most definitely full of all the good and the bad that comes with a movie of that age. (I am always surprised by how abruptly movies from that time period frequently seem to end.) Nevertheless, I did enjoy The Young Lions quite a bit and urge you to move it to the top of your Netflix queue.
And while you’re waiting for you movie to come in, check out my favorite Dean Martin song, Ain’t That a Kick in the Head, from the original 1960 Ocean’s Eleven movie.
The teenager, following in her strange mother’s footsteps, does not own a cell phone either. Despite being the last teenager she knows without a cell phone, she has never asked for one. In fact, the teenager has never been comfortable talking on the phone at all. She even actively avoids talking her friends on the land line phone in the house. “I just don’t like talking on the phone!” she emphatically states.
But the teenager is now in 9th grade. She has many activities that take her far away from home. Perhaps someday there will be an emergency. Perhaps every single person around her will have had their cell phones die because they talked on them too much that day. Perhaps then, a cell phone of her own would come in handy.
Recently, a nice relative asked if we wanted her old TracFone. “You can just prepay for the minutes you think you will use!” she told us. This seemed to be the perfect way to enter the cell phone world, particularly since we intended to use the phone so very little.
I got a little bit excited when I saw our new cell phone for the first time. I unwrapped it from the bubble wrap the nice relative had wrapped it in. I flipped the top of the phone open and in one instant crossed into the addicting world of the cell phone. And while I had absolutely no desire to call anyone and absolutely no desire to have anyone call me, I did feel just a little bit more important knowing that these calls could happen if I wanted them to.
I motioned for the teenager to come take a look at the new cell phone. I wanted her to feel just a little more important too. I wanted her to feel like, finally, she would fit in with all of her peers. When the soccer team phone list came out, she would no longer be the only girl on the list without her own cell number. Perhaps, she’d even lose her fear of talking on the phone.
The teenager walked up to the table where the cell phone was sitting on top of the bubble wrap it came wrapped in. The nice relative and I looked on, in great anticipation of the teenager’s reaction to seeing her cell phone for the first time.
“Teenager! Look what this nice relative gave you! Can you believe it?” I excitedly said to the teenager as I pointed toward the phone.
The teenager’s face lit up. A big grin spread across her face. Her hand reached down toward the phone.
“Wow! Cool!” she yelled out, as her hand bypassed the phone and quickly grabbed the bubble wrap. “That is the coolest bubble wrap! I love bubble wrap! Can I pop it?”
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated CEO has been obsessed with Dean Martin, as of late. Numerous Dean Martin biographies have been read. His music has been playing constantly. And his movies have all been put to the top of the Netflix queue. One of the favorite movies has been, The Young Lions. Not being a “WWII movie kind of gal”, I hadn’t anticipated enjoying this war movie, which stars Dean Martin, Montgomery Clift and Marlon Brando. Released in 1958, Young Lions is most definitely full of all the good and the bad that comes with a movie of that age. (I am always surprised by how abruptly movies from that time period frequently seem to end.) Nevertheless, I did enjoy The Young Lions quite a bit and urge you to move it to the top of your Netflix queue.
And while you’re waiting for you movie to come in, check out my favorite Dean Martin song, Ain’t That a Kick in the Head, from the original 1960 Ocean’s Eleven movie.
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