The very millisecond that my hand touched his bottom was the exact moment it became a very uncomfortable situation.
The young man was a super fit, 16 year old, high school track star- and a teammate of the teenager. I was an over 40 mother with an eager, outstretched arm, and a hand that was fully cupping a 16 year old boy’s rear end.
I knew it was wrong.
But I did it anyway.
He was going to squish my sauce.
I really couldn’t stand for that.
After spending Saturday morning at the boy’s cold and rainy soccer game, I was to spend the afternoon at the teenager’s cold and rainy track meet. I arrived at the track meet, still chilled, drive-thru burrito in hand. I sat down in the stands on a cold metal bench, directly behind the track coaches. Wishing I had remembered to bring a blanket, I took my burrito out of the bag. In the bottom of the bag were 4 tiny plastic cups of hot sauce. As I searched the crowd for the teenager, I removed the lids and laid out my 4 cups of hot sauce on the bench beside me. I was unwrapping my burrito when I spotted the teenager, who had just landed flat on her bottom in the sandy long jump pit.
I grabbed the first cup of hot sauce and poured a good third on the top of my burrito. I liked the hot sauce, and I knew that today, that hot sauce was going to help keep me warm.
The burrito was fantastic. The hot sauce was warming me up. As I watched the teenager get ready for her hurdle race, I poured some more sauce on my burrito. I was glad I had gotten 4 tiny cups worth. Today, especially, I would need it all.
The super fit, 16 year old track star, a teammate of the teenager, walked down my aisle toward where I was sitting. He wanted to talk to the track coaches sitting in the row in front of me. He stopped just to my right and leaned forward to get the coaches attention. They began speaking to each other. The super fit, 16 year old track star sensed that his conversation was going to be a long one. He decided to sit down next to me. He decided to sit down directly on my remaining 3 1/3 tiny plastic cups of hot sauce.
I watched as time then slowed down. I knew I had entered an alternate slow motion reality. I saw the teenage boy begin to sit. I turned my head to the right to see his bottom approaching my precious, my sauce. I turned my head to the left to see that I still had a fair amount of burrito left. I turned to the right again, toward the almost seated track star. I felt myself panic. I felt myself acknowledge an inappropriate attachment to my hot sauce. I felt a brief moment of confusion and shame, knowing full well what I was about to do.
I saw the track star’s bottom approach my hot sauce. I saw my arm shoot out. I saw my hand, for some reason open and palm up, attempt to protect my hot sauce.
And the very millisecond that my open and palm up hand touched his bottom was the exact moment it became a very uncomfortable situation.
I yelled out an unintelligible, “Ahhhhhhrrrrkkkk….ahh mah …ht sce!!!”
He jerked up a tiny bit and then and hovered the most uncomfortably smallest amount above my hand.
He turned his head to the left and looked at my hand. And then he looked at me. He said calmly, “OH. WOW.”
I yelled out a semi-intelligible, certainly embarrassing mini shriek, “Ahhrkk….it’s my HOT SAUCE! I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to get it on your…um….shorts. I’m sure that would have been uncomfortable.”
The super fit, suddenly supremely suave, 16 year old, high school track star turned to me and said, “Ahhhh….whatever….all my events are done…..it’s no problem. Who knows? It probably wouldn’t have bothered me…..at all……..I mean………………thanks.”
I did finish that burrito. And I used every last one of those rescued hot sauce cups. The teenager was pleased with her track meet. Until I told her I had grabbed the bottom of her teammate.
The supremely embarrassed teenager says only her dad is allowed to come to the next track meet. He’s sitting all alone. And he’s eating before he gets there.
Check This Out!
I’ve put it off for months. My mother-in-law gave it to me for Christmas. But finally, I’ve read, The Shack by William P. Young. Now, keep in mind, I’m not a joiner. I don’t like jumping on the bandwagon. I’ve avoided reading this book for many, many months.
However, YOU, yes YOU, should read this book. If only, because, the husband hasn’t yet and I need someone to talk to about it. So, if you’ve read it. Tell me what you thought of it. I’d really like to know. If you haven’t read it…hurry up and do so.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
She's a Kicker
I don’t think it would have been accurate to think of the woman as elderly. I’m sure that would have offended her. Perhaps she could have been labeled as older. Mature might have worked as well. For certain, I knew she was a sensibly dressed grandma.
I stood at the very end of the field, down near the goal, watching the boy’s new soccer team warm up for the first game of the spring soccer season. The grandma lady walked toward me and planted herself near me. Her salt and pepper hair was short and curly. Her black jacket was simple and waterproof. Her hair was covered with a clear plastic rain scarf that tied at her neck. Her square black handbag hung from the elbow of her bent arm. Her black rimmed eyeglasses were oversized and sprinkled with rain mist. The pants she wore were polyester knit, I’m convinced. The boots she wore were rubber. They came up to her knees and were covered in ladybugs and shovels and daisy flowers. I watched her raise the arm that didn’t support the handbag. She waved to one of the boys on the field. She yelled out, “Make grandma proud sweetie. You try your very best! You hear grandma, now, sweetie, you hear me? And don’t forget to KICK THEIR BUTTS!” And then that sensibly dressed grandma took a wadded up tissue from her hand and wiped her misty glasses.
As soon as the grandma had spoken, the boy’s new coach turned abruptly toward the sideline where we were standing. He stiffened up, raised his eyebrows and turned a tiny bit pale. His eyes focused on the grandma. As she shoved her wadded tissue back into her hand, she acknowledged the coach, “Hey, coach! Good to see you! You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be better this year! See? I’m way down here at the end of the field away from all the people. No one should get hurt!”
Despite my efforts to do it quietly, the grandma heard me chuckling at the confusing absurdity of the situation. She turned around and faced me.
“Oh honey, I’m blocking your view. Let me move further down the field.”
“Oh please don’t bother.” I told her. “I’m a wanderer during the game. I can’t sit or stand still. I get too nervous for the boy.”
The grandma laughed and said, “Well ok, honey. As long as you keep moving we’ll probably be ok. But I don’t recommend you stand next to me for too long though. “
“Really? Why is that?”
The grandma glanced toward the coach and then turned her head back toward me. “You’re new to this team aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well...I’m a bit of a kicker.”
After a short, fairly uncomfortable pause, I managed to mutter, “………uh…what?”
The sensibly dressed grandma then explained, “Yes, honey. I admit it. I’m a kicker. I kick people.” She then pointed up the sidelines. “See that lady in the purple jacket? She was sitting next to me in the final game of last season...well, I kicked her 5 times in the first half alone.” The grandma lowered her head in what I thought was a bit of shame…until I saw the small grin of amusement that she was attempting to hide.
“You actually KICK people? Why……?”
“I’m not sure why. I guess I can’t help wanting to get into the excitement of the games myself. By kicking from the sideline, I feel like I’m helping those boys out. Sometimes people get in my way.”
I had no clue how to respond to that.
“Oh, honey. The game is starting. You’d better start your wandering now...before I get myself going here......”
Said the sensibly dressed grandma.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family recently watched a few Alfred Hitchcock movies. Despite being older movies, both Rear Window and Dial M for Murder kept the teenager and the boy captivated. The teenager handled the suspense by yelling advice to the characters in peril. The boy gave the movies the best review he has ever given, “Uh….yeah. They were pretty good, I guess.” The husband even looked up from his car magazine to watch. And I thought they were so fantastic that I now have all of the Hitchcock movies in my Netflix queue.
I stood at the very end of the field, down near the goal, watching the boy’s new soccer team warm up for the first game of the spring soccer season. The grandma lady walked toward me and planted herself near me. Her salt and pepper hair was short and curly. Her black jacket was simple and waterproof. Her hair was covered with a clear plastic rain scarf that tied at her neck. Her square black handbag hung from the elbow of her bent arm. Her black rimmed eyeglasses were oversized and sprinkled with rain mist. The pants she wore were polyester knit, I’m convinced. The boots she wore were rubber. They came up to her knees and were covered in ladybugs and shovels and daisy flowers. I watched her raise the arm that didn’t support the handbag. She waved to one of the boys on the field. She yelled out, “Make grandma proud sweetie. You try your very best! You hear grandma, now, sweetie, you hear me? And don’t forget to KICK THEIR BUTTS!” And then that sensibly dressed grandma took a wadded up tissue from her hand and wiped her misty glasses.
As soon as the grandma had spoken, the boy’s new coach turned abruptly toward the sideline where we were standing. He stiffened up, raised his eyebrows and turned a tiny bit pale. His eyes focused on the grandma. As she shoved her wadded tissue back into her hand, she acknowledged the coach, “Hey, coach! Good to see you! You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be better this year! See? I’m way down here at the end of the field away from all the people. No one should get hurt!”
Despite my efforts to do it quietly, the grandma heard me chuckling at the confusing absurdity of the situation. She turned around and faced me.
“Oh honey, I’m blocking your view. Let me move further down the field.”
“Oh please don’t bother.” I told her. “I’m a wanderer during the game. I can’t sit or stand still. I get too nervous for the boy.”
The grandma laughed and said, “Well ok, honey. As long as you keep moving we’ll probably be ok. But I don’t recommend you stand next to me for too long though. “
“Really? Why is that?”
The grandma glanced toward the coach and then turned her head back toward me. “You’re new to this team aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well...I’m a bit of a kicker.”
After a short, fairly uncomfortable pause, I managed to mutter, “………uh…what?”
The sensibly dressed grandma then explained, “Yes, honey. I admit it. I’m a kicker. I kick people.” She then pointed up the sidelines. “See that lady in the purple jacket? She was sitting next to me in the final game of last season...well, I kicked her 5 times in the first half alone.” The grandma lowered her head in what I thought was a bit of shame…until I saw the small grin of amusement that she was attempting to hide.
“You actually KICK people? Why……?”
“I’m not sure why. I guess I can’t help wanting to get into the excitement of the games myself. By kicking from the sideline, I feel like I’m helping those boys out. Sometimes people get in my way.”
I had no clue how to respond to that.
“Oh, honey. The game is starting. You’d better start your wandering now...before I get myself going here......”
Said the sensibly dressed grandma.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family recently watched a few Alfred Hitchcock movies. Despite being older movies, both Rear Window and Dial M for Murder kept the teenager and the boy captivated. The teenager handled the suspense by yelling advice to the characters in peril. The boy gave the movies the best review he has ever given, “Uh….yeah. They were pretty good, I guess.” The husband even looked up from his car magazine to watch. And I thought they were so fantastic that I now have all of the Hitchcock movies in my Netflix queue.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Fancy Clothes
I was wearing my fancy clothes when I caught the little girl staring at me. I was feeling fantastic and I knew I looked good.
Perhaps, I thought, she had noticed that.
I was visiting the city for the day. All alone, I strutted the streets of downtown in my hip, city girl uniform of black high heeled boots and black pants and dark wool coat. My regular, comfortably frumpy uniform of worn yoga pants and hooded sweatshirt and the teenager’s fuzzy slip-on shoes sat crumpled in a heap on my bedroom floor. My fancy clothes had transformed me into a new woman.
It had been a fabulous day in the city. The black clad, more urbane, cooler version of myself had shopped in stores where I couldn’t afford a thing. I took my time in stores that had nothing to do with cars or sports or electronics. I ogled the spatulas in the kitchen store for over 20 minutes. No one rolled their eyeballs or huffed with impatience or begged me for a thing. No one was so hungry they were going to die. No one had to go to the bathroom 3 minutes after I asked them if they had to. No one burped out loud-twice-because they literally would have exploded if they hadn’t. No one bickered. No one touched breakable things. And no one thought it was funny to see who could squeak their wet shoes on the store floor the loudest. I was on cloud nine.
I held my head high as I took in the downtown life. I saw the sculptures and the art and the intricate oriental rugs. I went to the market and smelled the flowers and the fish and the bread that was just out of the oven. I felt like a giant among the skyscrapers. I watched an entire rainbow of races and cultures around me and knew that I belonged. I knew I was smart and edgy and hopeful. The day was good. Life was full of promise. The world was beautiful. And it all started when I put on my fancy clothes that morning.
I was dressed in those fancy clothes when I sat down on the park bench to eat a street cart gyro for lunch. I was bloated with confidence and attitude and a tiny bit of haughtiness when I first saw the little girl and her family in the park. I smiled at the little girl when I caught her staring at me. I mindlessly nibbled at my oversized gyro and took in the beautiful scenery. I reached for my napkin when I felt the first drip of tzatziki sauce run down my hand. I thought it would be a good idea to rewrap my gyro to stop the drips.
It was not a good idea.
An impressive flood of white, tzatziki yogurt sauce that had been pooling in the bottom of the wrapper was set free when I tried to rewrap my gyro. My lone napkin was no match. The bottom part of my coat, my entire thigh and knee and one of my boots were now sporting copious amounts of white sauce, bits of cucumber and garlic and a few stray lettuce and onion strands. I tried to brush my hair out of my face and streaked it, and the side of my face, with the dripping sauce that now covered both my hands. My self-assured, bloated attitude was immediately deflated. My lone napkin had turned to mush. I sat on that park bench, stunned at my predicament and a little bit lost as to what to do next. My fancy clothes were filthy. In one instant I had become a befuddled, bedraggled mess.
I looked up at that moment to see the little girl and her family walk past me as they left the park. The little girl stared at me with eyes that couldn’t get any wider. She grabbed her mother’s hand and said loud enough for me to hear, “Mommy, look at that lady. Her clothes are so dirty. Why is she so dirty mommy?”
The mother tried to hush the girl. “Shhh. That’s not polite honey. Homeless people don’t have any place to wash their clothes like we do. That’s probably all she has. Now let’s get going.”
I was wearing my fancy clothes on the day that lady called me homeless.
I guess she didn’t notice that.
Check This Out!
Try this tzatziki sauce the next time you find yourself in need of some.
1 pint plain yogurt
1 hothouse cucumber, unpeeled and seeded
1 TBL plus ½ tsp kosher salt
½ cup sour cream
1 TBL white wine vinegar
2 TBL lemon juice (1 lemon)
1 TBL olive oil
1 ½ tsp minced garlic
1 ½ tsp minced fresh dill
pinch ground black pepper
Place the yogurt in a paper towel or cheesecloth lined sieve and set it over a bowl. Grate the cucumber and toss it with 1 TBL of the salt. Place it in another sieve and set it over another bowl. Place both bowls in the refrigerator for 3 to 4 hours to drain. (Some Greek yogurt is thick enough that it needs little draining.)
Transfer the thickened yogurt to a large bowl. Squeeze as much liquid from the cucumber as you can and add the cucumber to the yogurt. Mix in the sour cream, vinegar, lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, dill, ½ tsp of salt and the pepper. Refrigerate for a few hours.
Perhaps, I thought, she had noticed that.
I was visiting the city for the day. All alone, I strutted the streets of downtown in my hip, city girl uniform of black high heeled boots and black pants and dark wool coat. My regular, comfortably frumpy uniform of worn yoga pants and hooded sweatshirt and the teenager’s fuzzy slip-on shoes sat crumpled in a heap on my bedroom floor. My fancy clothes had transformed me into a new woman.
It had been a fabulous day in the city. The black clad, more urbane, cooler version of myself had shopped in stores where I couldn’t afford a thing. I took my time in stores that had nothing to do with cars or sports or electronics. I ogled the spatulas in the kitchen store for over 20 minutes. No one rolled their eyeballs or huffed with impatience or begged me for a thing. No one was so hungry they were going to die. No one had to go to the bathroom 3 minutes after I asked them if they had to. No one burped out loud-twice-because they literally would have exploded if they hadn’t. No one bickered. No one touched breakable things. And no one thought it was funny to see who could squeak their wet shoes on the store floor the loudest. I was on cloud nine.
I held my head high as I took in the downtown life. I saw the sculptures and the art and the intricate oriental rugs. I went to the market and smelled the flowers and the fish and the bread that was just out of the oven. I felt like a giant among the skyscrapers. I watched an entire rainbow of races and cultures around me and knew that I belonged. I knew I was smart and edgy and hopeful. The day was good. Life was full of promise. The world was beautiful. And it all started when I put on my fancy clothes that morning.
I was dressed in those fancy clothes when I sat down on the park bench to eat a street cart gyro for lunch. I was bloated with confidence and attitude and a tiny bit of haughtiness when I first saw the little girl and her family in the park. I smiled at the little girl when I caught her staring at me. I mindlessly nibbled at my oversized gyro and took in the beautiful scenery. I reached for my napkin when I felt the first drip of tzatziki sauce run down my hand. I thought it would be a good idea to rewrap my gyro to stop the drips.
It was not a good idea.
An impressive flood of white, tzatziki yogurt sauce that had been pooling in the bottom of the wrapper was set free when I tried to rewrap my gyro. My lone napkin was no match. The bottom part of my coat, my entire thigh and knee and one of my boots were now sporting copious amounts of white sauce, bits of cucumber and garlic and a few stray lettuce and onion strands. I tried to brush my hair out of my face and streaked it, and the side of my face, with the dripping sauce that now covered both my hands. My self-assured, bloated attitude was immediately deflated. My lone napkin had turned to mush. I sat on that park bench, stunned at my predicament and a little bit lost as to what to do next. My fancy clothes were filthy. In one instant I had become a befuddled, bedraggled mess.
I looked up at that moment to see the little girl and her family walk past me as they left the park. The little girl stared at me with eyes that couldn’t get any wider. She grabbed her mother’s hand and said loud enough for me to hear, “Mommy, look at that lady. Her clothes are so dirty. Why is she so dirty mommy?”
The mother tried to hush the girl. “Shhh. That’s not polite honey. Homeless people don’t have any place to wash their clothes like we do. That’s probably all she has. Now let’s get going.”
I was wearing my fancy clothes on the day that lady called me homeless.
I guess she didn’t notice that.
Check This Out!
Try this tzatziki sauce the next time you find yourself in need of some.
1 pint plain yogurt
1 hothouse cucumber, unpeeled and seeded
1 TBL plus ½ tsp kosher salt
½ cup sour cream
1 TBL white wine vinegar
2 TBL lemon juice (1 lemon)
1 TBL olive oil
1 ½ tsp minced garlic
1 ½ tsp minced fresh dill
pinch ground black pepper
Place the yogurt in a paper towel or cheesecloth lined sieve and set it over a bowl. Grate the cucumber and toss it with 1 TBL of the salt. Place it in another sieve and set it over another bowl. Place both bowls in the refrigerator for 3 to 4 hours to drain. (Some Greek yogurt is thick enough that it needs little draining.)
Transfer the thickened yogurt to a large bowl. Squeeze as much liquid from the cucumber as you can and add the cucumber to the yogurt. Mix in the sour cream, vinegar, lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, dill, ½ tsp of salt and the pepper. Refrigerate for a few hours.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Down the Drain
I suppose you could say that I nagged the husband to unclog the pipes. The resigned husband however, had determined that it was simply the least time consuming chore on the honey do list. And that is how he found himself surrounded by the slime and gunk and hair that inhabited the pipes below the backed up sink.
The husband did a fantastic job unclogging the pipes. The sink no longer backs up and my toothpaste spit drains like it did the day I first brushed my teeth above it. I did feel a little bad for the husband, having to confront the slime and the gunk and the hair. It really was most unpleasant.
That didn’t stop me however, from clogging up the garbage disposal a few days later. Again, it might be possible that there was a bit of wifely nagging that took place. And again, the husband did a fantastic job of rescuing the mutilated Beefaroni lid that had taken the disposal hostage. I did feel a little bad for the husband, having to immerse himself among the slime and the gunk and the twisted Chef Boyardee metal.
When the teenager dropped her brand new, not inexpensive, earrings down the drain of the downstairs bathroom sink the very next day, I assumed they were gone forever. I couldn’t bring myself to do any more nagging. But the husband was, by now, feeling confident in his skills with drains and pipes and slime and gunk. Yet again, he lumbered off to the garage for his tools.
When the husband recovered the earrings, the teenager told him he had done a fantastic job. He told her it better not happen again because he was done with drains. And for a third time, I felt bad for the husband having to endure the hardship of the slime and the gunk and the missing earrings.
As the teenager walked away with her slimy earrings, the husband suddenly cried out, “Hey, I think I found a tooth!”
The husband emerged from the bathroom, small tooth in hand, raised it above his head toward the light and reiterated his discovery. “I’ve FOUND a TOOTH!!”
The teenager and I stared in disbelief at the tooth above the husband’s head.
After some delay we heard a cry from the living room, “Did you say a tooth? I lost a tooth in the drain a while back. That’s MY tooth!”
The boy sauntered in and grabbed the tooth from the husband’s hand. He looked the tooth over and announced with certainty. “Oh yeah, this is the one I lost. It fell down the drain. This is my tooth. Wow dad! You should take apart all of the drains! Who knows what we’ll find!”
The husband looked a bit pale.
The boy, running up to his bedroom, yelled back down to the teenager and the husband and I. “By the way, I never got paid for this tooth. You’d better let the Tooth Fairy know….there’s got to be some interest coming to me or something…..”
Check This Out!
The teenager recently read The Color Purple by Alice Walker. I have never read the book but the teenager claims it to be well worth the time. After she finished the book, I showed her the 1985 Steven Spielberg movie that was based on the book. If you’ve never seen the movie, you must. If it’s been awhile since you’ve seen it, watch it again. It is such a good movie. It was so enjoyable to see again the performances of Oprah and Whoopi Goldberg and Danny Glover and really, every single actor in the movie. All were phenomenal. Two thumbs way up.
Check out one of my favorite scenes. You might want to wait however, if you haven't seen the movie. It gives a few things away.
The husband did a fantastic job unclogging the pipes. The sink no longer backs up and my toothpaste spit drains like it did the day I first brushed my teeth above it. I did feel a little bad for the husband, having to confront the slime and the gunk and the hair. It really was most unpleasant.
That didn’t stop me however, from clogging up the garbage disposal a few days later. Again, it might be possible that there was a bit of wifely nagging that took place. And again, the husband did a fantastic job of rescuing the mutilated Beefaroni lid that had taken the disposal hostage. I did feel a little bad for the husband, having to immerse himself among the slime and the gunk and the twisted Chef Boyardee metal.
When the teenager dropped her brand new, not inexpensive, earrings down the drain of the downstairs bathroom sink the very next day, I assumed they were gone forever. I couldn’t bring myself to do any more nagging. But the husband was, by now, feeling confident in his skills with drains and pipes and slime and gunk. Yet again, he lumbered off to the garage for his tools.
When the husband recovered the earrings, the teenager told him he had done a fantastic job. He told her it better not happen again because he was done with drains. And for a third time, I felt bad for the husband having to endure the hardship of the slime and the gunk and the missing earrings.
As the teenager walked away with her slimy earrings, the husband suddenly cried out, “Hey, I think I found a tooth!”
The husband emerged from the bathroom, small tooth in hand, raised it above his head toward the light and reiterated his discovery. “I’ve FOUND a TOOTH!!”
The teenager and I stared in disbelief at the tooth above the husband’s head.
After some delay we heard a cry from the living room, “Did you say a tooth? I lost a tooth in the drain a while back. That’s MY tooth!”
The boy sauntered in and grabbed the tooth from the husband’s hand. He looked the tooth over and announced with certainty. “Oh yeah, this is the one I lost. It fell down the drain. This is my tooth. Wow dad! You should take apart all of the drains! Who knows what we’ll find!”
The husband looked a bit pale.
The boy, running up to his bedroom, yelled back down to the teenager and the husband and I. “By the way, I never got paid for this tooth. You’d better let the Tooth Fairy know….there’s got to be some interest coming to me or something…..”
Check This Out!
The teenager recently read The Color Purple by Alice Walker. I have never read the book but the teenager claims it to be well worth the time. After she finished the book, I showed her the 1985 Steven Spielberg movie that was based on the book. If you’ve never seen the movie, you must. If it’s been awhile since you’ve seen it, watch it again. It is such a good movie. It was so enjoyable to see again the performances of Oprah and Whoopi Goldberg and Danny Glover and really, every single actor in the movie. All were phenomenal. Two thumbs way up.
Check out one of my favorite scenes. You might want to wait however, if you haven't seen the movie. It gives a few things away.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
One Lucky Man
The husband is one lucky man. He knows this because I point it out to him when I get the chance.
When the TV promos for “Hoarders” or “Kate Plus 8” or “The Real Housewives of (anywhere)” blare into our living room, I say to the husband, “See? It could be worse.”
The husband mumbles back in agreement, “Why, yes it could.”
And when the TV promos for “Pimp My Ride”, “Monster Garage” and “Overhaulin'” blare into our living room, the husband is kind enough to remind me as well. “See? It could be worse.”
I always wholeheartedly agree, “Why, yes it certainly could.”
I approached Valentine’s Day this year with that same tolerant, observant practicality that the husband and I have mastered. While never one to be extravagant in my gift giving, I do find it important that the husband not go empty handed on Valentine’s Day. I found a card for him at the grocery store that wasn’t too corny and didn’t make me gag and roll my eyeballs. And because it was such a special day, I forced myself not to look at the price. I put the card in a bag with a very special car magazine and a few other items I had purchased for the husband.
When the husband was brushing his teeth on Valentine’s Eve, I secretly took the bag with the card and other items down to the dining room. The husband went to bed. I stayed up very late learning about AP European History with the teenager.
The husband’s alarm went off at 4am on Valentine’s morning. He took his shower and went downstairs to eat breakfast. I was sound asleep. He was greeted at the seat where he sits by a grocery store bag. Perplexed, the husband opened the bag and pulled out a few random goodies, a very special car magazine and a few receipts. He reached in toward the bottom of the bag and pulled out a pink envelope. And then he pulled out a Valentine’s card that wasn’t too corny. The card was not in the envelope. The card wasn’t even signed.
When the husband went to leave for work awhile later, he tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day. And thanks for the car magazine.”
The shame shot through me and I sat bolt upright in bed. I was immediately awake. “OH NO!” I cried out to the husband. “I forgot your stuff! I took it downstairs and just left it on the table! I got too tired……”
I rambled in embarrassment to the husband about the wrapping paper I was going to use and the nice ribbon I was going to tie the magazine up with and the witty and loving repartee I had planned to write inside the card.
The tolerant husband assured me that we would somehow survive this difficult hardship. He also said, “I did find it a bit odd that the card wasn’t even signed…”
Yes, that husband sure is one lucky man.
Check This Out!
The teenager was given an amazing opportunity to play a few basketball games this past weekend with a local Special Olympics Unified basketball team. Special Olympics Unified Sports is a program that combines Special Olympics athletes and athletes without intellectual disabilities (partners) on sports teams for training and competition. The teenager went in a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect. She came out having loved every minute of it.
Both the teenager and I found the entire day inspiring. Every person we encountered, from the Special Olympics athletes and parents to the coaches and volunteers, was positive and supportive. The basketball was good and the competition was fierce. The parents cheered. The athletes played their hearts out. But mostly, it was a whole lot of fun. It was how kids’ sports should be.
If you ever get the chance to watch or be part of any Special Olympics event, I cannot recommend it highly enough. You should most definitely check it out.
When the TV promos for “Hoarders” or “Kate Plus 8” or “The Real Housewives of (anywhere)” blare into our living room, I say to the husband, “See? It could be worse.”
The husband mumbles back in agreement, “Why, yes it could.”
And when the TV promos for “Pimp My Ride”, “Monster Garage” and “Overhaulin'” blare into our living room, the husband is kind enough to remind me as well. “See? It could be worse.”
I always wholeheartedly agree, “Why, yes it certainly could.”
I approached Valentine’s Day this year with that same tolerant, observant practicality that the husband and I have mastered. While never one to be extravagant in my gift giving, I do find it important that the husband not go empty handed on Valentine’s Day. I found a card for him at the grocery store that wasn’t too corny and didn’t make me gag and roll my eyeballs. And because it was such a special day, I forced myself not to look at the price. I put the card in a bag with a very special car magazine and a few other items I had purchased for the husband.
When the husband was brushing his teeth on Valentine’s Eve, I secretly took the bag with the card and other items down to the dining room. The husband went to bed. I stayed up very late learning about AP European History with the teenager.
The husband’s alarm went off at 4am on Valentine’s morning. He took his shower and went downstairs to eat breakfast. I was sound asleep. He was greeted at the seat where he sits by a grocery store bag. Perplexed, the husband opened the bag and pulled out a few random goodies, a very special car magazine and a few receipts. He reached in toward the bottom of the bag and pulled out a pink envelope. And then he pulled out a Valentine’s card that wasn’t too corny. The card was not in the envelope. The card wasn’t even signed.
When the husband went to leave for work awhile later, he tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day. And thanks for the car magazine.”
The shame shot through me and I sat bolt upright in bed. I was immediately awake. “OH NO!” I cried out to the husband. “I forgot your stuff! I took it downstairs and just left it on the table! I got too tired……”
I rambled in embarrassment to the husband about the wrapping paper I was going to use and the nice ribbon I was going to tie the magazine up with and the witty and loving repartee I had planned to write inside the card.
The tolerant husband assured me that we would somehow survive this difficult hardship. He also said, “I did find it a bit odd that the card wasn’t even signed…”
Yes, that husband sure is one lucky man.
Check This Out!
The teenager was given an amazing opportunity to play a few basketball games this past weekend with a local Special Olympics Unified basketball team. Special Olympics Unified Sports is a program that combines Special Olympics athletes and athletes without intellectual disabilities (partners) on sports teams for training and competition. The teenager went in a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect. She came out having loved every minute of it.
Both the teenager and I found the entire day inspiring. Every person we encountered, from the Special Olympics athletes and parents to the coaches and volunteers, was positive and supportive. The basketball was good and the competition was fierce. The parents cheered. The athletes played their hearts out. But mostly, it was a whole lot of fun. It was how kids’ sports should be.
If you ever get the chance to watch or be part of any Special Olympics event, I cannot recommend it highly enough. You should most definitely check it out.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
You. Are. My. Son.
We were separated by the blue curtain. Two mothers, two sons.
I sat on the right side, next to the boy who was lying on a gurney with a swollen, purple and very painful knee. She sat on the left side, next to her son who was lying on a gurney with his head covered in blood.
I was not doing well. My mouth assured the boy that it would all be ok. My brain screamed at me, “Urgent Care, AGAIN! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with that boy? Do you know what too many x-rays can do to a person?” My heart tightened up, my stomach churned. I took a deep breath and wondered how many visits one could make to Urgent Care before Child Protective Services was called. I wished I was in pain instead of the boy. I kept shaking my head in resigned disbelief and brushing the boy’s hair off his 11 year old forehead.
The mother on the other side was not doing well. The curtain, of course, could not contain her crying. It could not contain the whimpering of her son. The curtain could not contain grief.
“You are my boy………my son……..… Look at you!”
Her son tried to answer. “Mama…”
“NO!” she shouted. “It is MY turn!”
I saw her worn shoes begin to pace the edge of the curtain. Then her shoes turned and stopped. “I TOLD you not to leave the house. I TOLD you. Do you know what it’s like to worry about someone every single minute of the day? Do you? I worry about you with every cell in my body. You are my son…..in the name of Jesus....... YOU. ARE. MY. SON.”
I turned to my boy with the swollen knee and grabbed his hand. He held tight. His eyes had grown large.
The mother on the other side lowered her voice a bit. “Why do you think I work two jobs? It is for you. You are 16 years old. I want you to be happy. I want you to always be safe. I want you to be better than you ever thought you could be. But here I see you…..no, no….I can’t even see you….your head is covered in blood. I don’t see you at all. My God…….you are my son and I can’t even see you.
Oh why would you leave the house when I told you not to……?”
I could hear her start to cry again. The boy and I stared at each other, silently.
The curtain was pulled back on the other side and I saw many feet. A doctor told the whimpering, bloodied boy that he was in bad shape. His hand was probably broken. His nose was probably broken. He most likely had some broken ribs. His jaw was no longer aligned properly. And his head was in really bad shape. There was so much blood, the doctor said, that he couldn’t yet tell how many wounds he had.
At least two nurses began to clean up the bloodied boy. I heard things like “matted hair”, “too many to count”, “I can’t get this one to stop bleeding”, “wow, I finally got one eye open” and “we’re going to need a lot of staples”.
I heard the doctor ask, “Do you want to tell me how this happened?”
The bloodied boy tried to speak. “This dude jumped me on the trail. He had brass knuckles on. He lit into me. Pretty bad, I guess.”
The doctor asked, “Did you know him? Why would he beat you up like this…..I mean…I gotta be honest. You ARE in pretty bad shape here, buddy.”
“He said he beat me up because I beat up his brother yesterday.”
The crying mother spoke up. “Oh Jesus, help me. Seriously? Why would you beat his brother up? Why would you beat anyone up? Haven’t I taught you better?”
The bloodied boy paused and then finally answered.
“...........because he was talking trash about you Mama.”
The mother groaned loudly. “Oh for goodness sake, son. You are better than that! We are better than that! Why do you care what people say, what people think?”
“Because, Mama. He was going to kill you. He said so. I couldn’t let him do that, because, I mean, you are my Mama……….You. Are. My. Mama.”
And all the curtain rooms at Urgent Care went silent.
For a long moment.
Finally I heard the doctor say, “Legally, I may need to call in the police, ok?”
The bloodied boy tried to yell out, “No!” The mother on the other side of the curtain cried. And a new voice, a deep voice, suddenly spoke up and pointedly asked, “I want you to tell me exactly what kind of car they were driving. And tell me their names. I need names.”
My boy with the swollen knee and I looked at each other in disbelief and with raised eyebrows. We were still holding hands when we heard the bloodied boy speak.
“It was a tan Buick, Uncle Matt. And I can tell you exactly who they were.”
When the doctor pulled back the curtain on our side the boy and I instinctively dropped our hands.
“So, how are we doing?” the doctor cheerfully asked.
“Oh, the boy here has banged up his knee a bit.” I replied. “But other than that, we are doing fine, just.. fine…”
Check This Out!
Listen to this great song, Rolling in the Deep, from the always amazing Adele when you make this Chili-Lime Chicken.
This is how the recipe came to me.
3 TBL olive oil
1 ½ TBL red wine vinegar
1 lime juiced
1 tsp chili powder
½ tsp onion powder
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
1 pinch cayenne pepper, or to taste
salt to taste
black pepper to taste
1 pound chicken breast halves
Combine all ingredients, except chicken, in a bowl and whisk until the oil and vinegar are emulsified. Add chicken to bowl, cover chicken with mixture, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for a few hours. Grill chicken over medium high heat until the juices run clear.
This is how I made it.
I tripled the marinade ingredients and added a bunch of chopped garlic (at least 8 smallish/medium cloves) and 2 chopped Anaheim chiles (use hotter if you wish). I used a whole cut up chicken and a boneless breast (for the teenager). I only marinated for an hour or so in a big plastic freezer baggie. (I would have done much longer had I planned ahead.) Then I dumped the whole lot into a large roasting pan and cooked at 375 degrees for 45 minutes….or so.
I served with rice made with chopped fresh garlic and chicken broth and a bit of salt and pepper. The boy ate this version. The husband and the teenager and I then mixed in black beans, lime juice and more chopped up Anaheim peppers. I then added TONS of cilantro. Sadly, I am the only cilantro fan in the family. On top of it all I spooned the juices from the chicken. It was super fantastic. Next time I might quadruple the marinade ingredients….
I sat on the right side, next to the boy who was lying on a gurney with a swollen, purple and very painful knee. She sat on the left side, next to her son who was lying on a gurney with his head covered in blood.
I was not doing well. My mouth assured the boy that it would all be ok. My brain screamed at me, “Urgent Care, AGAIN! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with that boy? Do you know what too many x-rays can do to a person?” My heart tightened up, my stomach churned. I took a deep breath and wondered how many visits one could make to Urgent Care before Child Protective Services was called. I wished I was in pain instead of the boy. I kept shaking my head in resigned disbelief and brushing the boy’s hair off his 11 year old forehead.
The mother on the other side was not doing well. The curtain, of course, could not contain her crying. It could not contain the whimpering of her son. The curtain could not contain grief.
“You are my boy………my son……..… Look at you!”
Her son tried to answer. “Mama…”
“NO!” she shouted. “It is MY turn!”
I saw her worn shoes begin to pace the edge of the curtain. Then her shoes turned and stopped. “I TOLD you not to leave the house. I TOLD you. Do you know what it’s like to worry about someone every single minute of the day? Do you? I worry about you with every cell in my body. You are my son…..in the name of Jesus....... YOU. ARE. MY. SON.”
I turned to my boy with the swollen knee and grabbed his hand. He held tight. His eyes had grown large.
The mother on the other side lowered her voice a bit. “Why do you think I work two jobs? It is for you. You are 16 years old. I want you to be happy. I want you to always be safe. I want you to be better than you ever thought you could be. But here I see you…..no, no….I can’t even see you….your head is covered in blood. I don’t see you at all. My God…….you are my son and I can’t even see you.
Oh why would you leave the house when I told you not to……?”
I could hear her start to cry again. The boy and I stared at each other, silently.
The curtain was pulled back on the other side and I saw many feet. A doctor told the whimpering, bloodied boy that he was in bad shape. His hand was probably broken. His nose was probably broken. He most likely had some broken ribs. His jaw was no longer aligned properly. And his head was in really bad shape. There was so much blood, the doctor said, that he couldn’t yet tell how many wounds he had.
At least two nurses began to clean up the bloodied boy. I heard things like “matted hair”, “too many to count”, “I can’t get this one to stop bleeding”, “wow, I finally got one eye open” and “we’re going to need a lot of staples”.
I heard the doctor ask, “Do you want to tell me how this happened?”
The bloodied boy tried to speak. “This dude jumped me on the trail. He had brass knuckles on. He lit into me. Pretty bad, I guess.”
The doctor asked, “Did you know him? Why would he beat you up like this…..I mean…I gotta be honest. You ARE in pretty bad shape here, buddy.”
“He said he beat me up because I beat up his brother yesterday.”
The crying mother spoke up. “Oh Jesus, help me. Seriously? Why would you beat his brother up? Why would you beat anyone up? Haven’t I taught you better?”
The bloodied boy paused and then finally answered.
“...........because he was talking trash about you Mama.”
The mother groaned loudly. “Oh for goodness sake, son. You are better than that! We are better than that! Why do you care what people say, what people think?”
“Because, Mama. He was going to kill you. He said so. I couldn’t let him do that, because, I mean, you are my Mama……….You. Are. My. Mama.”
And all the curtain rooms at Urgent Care went silent.
For a long moment.
Finally I heard the doctor say, “Legally, I may need to call in the police, ok?”
The bloodied boy tried to yell out, “No!” The mother on the other side of the curtain cried. And a new voice, a deep voice, suddenly spoke up and pointedly asked, “I want you to tell me exactly what kind of car they were driving. And tell me their names. I need names.”
My boy with the swollen knee and I looked at each other in disbelief and with raised eyebrows. We were still holding hands when we heard the bloodied boy speak.
“It was a tan Buick, Uncle Matt. And I can tell you exactly who they were.”
When the doctor pulled back the curtain on our side the boy and I instinctively dropped our hands.
“So, how are we doing?” the doctor cheerfully asked.
“Oh, the boy here has banged up his knee a bit.” I replied. “But other than that, we are doing fine, just.. fine…”
Check This Out!
Listen to this great song, Rolling in the Deep, from the always amazing Adele when you make this Chili-Lime Chicken.
This is how the recipe came to me.
3 TBL olive oil
1 ½ TBL red wine vinegar
1 lime juiced
1 tsp chili powder
½ tsp onion powder
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
1 pinch cayenne pepper, or to taste
salt to taste
black pepper to taste
1 pound chicken breast halves
Combine all ingredients, except chicken, in a bowl and whisk until the oil and vinegar are emulsified. Add chicken to bowl, cover chicken with mixture, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for a few hours. Grill chicken over medium high heat until the juices run clear.
This is how I made it.
I tripled the marinade ingredients and added a bunch of chopped garlic (at least 8 smallish/medium cloves) and 2 chopped Anaheim chiles (use hotter if you wish). I used a whole cut up chicken and a boneless breast (for the teenager). I only marinated for an hour or so in a big plastic freezer baggie. (I would have done much longer had I planned ahead.) Then I dumped the whole lot into a large roasting pan and cooked at 375 degrees for 45 minutes….or so.
I served with rice made with chopped fresh garlic and chicken broth and a bit of salt and pepper. The boy ate this version. The husband and the teenager and I then mixed in black beans, lime juice and more chopped up Anaheim peppers. I then added TONS of cilantro. Sadly, I am the only cilantro fan in the family. On top of it all I spooned the juices from the chicken. It was super fantastic. Next time I might quadruple the marinade ingredients….
Thursday, February 3, 2011
We Wii
I watched the boy launch himself toward the teenager. He attacked her with an aggressive combativeness I didn’t know he possessed. I watched helplessly as he struck her over the head and across the face. He pounded her ribs and her stomach and her back, over and over, until she could no longer stand up straight.
The teenager was not one to be taken down that quickly, however. She gathered what little strength she still had and focused it all on the boy’s neck. She narrowed her eyes, drew back her arm and swung at the boy’s neck like a capricious lunatic.
And in one fell swoop, the boy went down. Perhaps, without his head.
I was speechless, appalled and in a state of shock. I blamed myself. Only the worst kind of mother could raise children who could summon such violence at a moment’s notice. Our family needed help.
I looked over to the husband for guidance. I wondered if he blamed himself as well.
The husband was grinning from ear to ear. He leapt off the couch and ran over to the boy and the teenager. “That was the most AWESOME thing I’ve ever seen! Can I play next?”
We used to be such a nice family. Before we got a Wii, that is.
I watched as the husband began to play his game. I waited for him to show the children a more civilized way of playing. Within seconds however, the husband, still grinning, had begun taunting the boy as he swung his Wii Remote violently and expertly through the air. The husband cheered when the boy fell off the tower into the water.
It was obvious I would have to be the one to model for the family proper manners, genteel graciousness, and behavior more becoming a nice family like ours.
At least that was my intention. Before I put that Wii Remote in my hand.
I don’t know how much time had passed, but the next thing I remember was screaming like a madwoman at the teenager, “Oh yeah baby! Bring it! Bring it! Hot Mama ain’t going down!”
Our nice family spent our entire first Wii day bashing each other in the head. The teenager punched the boy’s lights out when she boxed. A sword wielding boy would force the teenager off a cliff to her death. A simple pickup game of basketball would cause the teenager to yell out, “Oh yeah! You got schooled baby!” A scenic bike ride would find the children “pedaling” so fast and furiously they would knock each other down. Even a simple game of bowling caused the cats to run upstairs and hide under the beds. Before long, the husband began to consider himself a true archery expert. I began to consider canoeing the worst sport ever invented. And this was all before the teenager even discovered the pink stroller in the Mario Kart game.
I woke up the next morning with my first Wii hangover. I was a bit ashamed of my behavior the day before. I vowed to myself that it would never happen again. And then I giggled to myself as I remembered the good times our nice family experienced. It didn’t take long to justify the unfortunate Wii behavior to myself. In fact, I decided to get out of bed and play a round of Wii tennis before the rest of the family got up.
15 minutes later my nice family was all lined up, sitting perfectly still on the couch. Not one of us could lift our aching arms above our heads without wincing. The teenager complained about the sore muscles she didn’t know she had. The husband complained about feeling old. The boy wondered out loud who was going to pour him a bowl of cereal because he knew he couldn’t lift the box. I gingerly leaned over and grabbed the Wii Remote. “Um…guys,” I said to my nice family. “Do you think it’s possible to play Wii Frisbee golf from the couch?”
Check This Out!
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is a Holocaust movie. And yes, it has some sad and depressing moments. But it’s a good movie, a beautiful movie, told from a perspective not often seen in Holocaust movies. The two boys in the movie-one on the outside of the fence, one on the inside of the fence-will draw you in and make you think. I haven't read the book the movie is based on, written by John Boyne, but the movie is certainly recommended.
The teenager was not one to be taken down that quickly, however. She gathered what little strength she still had and focused it all on the boy’s neck. She narrowed her eyes, drew back her arm and swung at the boy’s neck like a capricious lunatic.
And in one fell swoop, the boy went down. Perhaps, without his head.
I was speechless, appalled and in a state of shock. I blamed myself. Only the worst kind of mother could raise children who could summon such violence at a moment’s notice. Our family needed help.
I looked over to the husband for guidance. I wondered if he blamed himself as well.
The husband was grinning from ear to ear. He leapt off the couch and ran over to the boy and the teenager. “That was the most AWESOME thing I’ve ever seen! Can I play next?”
We used to be such a nice family. Before we got a Wii, that is.
I watched as the husband began to play his game. I waited for him to show the children a more civilized way of playing. Within seconds however, the husband, still grinning, had begun taunting the boy as he swung his Wii Remote violently and expertly through the air. The husband cheered when the boy fell off the tower into the water.
It was obvious I would have to be the one to model for the family proper manners, genteel graciousness, and behavior more becoming a nice family like ours.
At least that was my intention. Before I put that Wii Remote in my hand.
I don’t know how much time had passed, but the next thing I remember was screaming like a madwoman at the teenager, “Oh yeah baby! Bring it! Bring it! Hot Mama ain’t going down!”
Our nice family spent our entire first Wii day bashing each other in the head. The teenager punched the boy’s lights out when she boxed. A sword wielding boy would force the teenager off a cliff to her death. A simple pickup game of basketball would cause the teenager to yell out, “Oh yeah! You got schooled baby!” A scenic bike ride would find the children “pedaling” so fast and furiously they would knock each other down. Even a simple game of bowling caused the cats to run upstairs and hide under the beds. Before long, the husband began to consider himself a true archery expert. I began to consider canoeing the worst sport ever invented. And this was all before the teenager even discovered the pink stroller in the Mario Kart game.
I woke up the next morning with my first Wii hangover. I was a bit ashamed of my behavior the day before. I vowed to myself that it would never happen again. And then I giggled to myself as I remembered the good times our nice family experienced. It didn’t take long to justify the unfortunate Wii behavior to myself. In fact, I decided to get out of bed and play a round of Wii tennis before the rest of the family got up.
15 minutes later my nice family was all lined up, sitting perfectly still on the couch. Not one of us could lift our aching arms above our heads without wincing. The teenager complained about the sore muscles she didn’t know she had. The husband complained about feeling old. The boy wondered out loud who was going to pour him a bowl of cereal because he knew he couldn’t lift the box. I gingerly leaned over and grabbed the Wii Remote. “Um…guys,” I said to my nice family. “Do you think it’s possible to play Wii Frisbee golf from the couch?”
Check This Out!
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is a Holocaust movie. And yes, it has some sad and depressing moments. But it’s a good movie, a beautiful movie, told from a perspective not often seen in Holocaust movies. The two boys in the movie-one on the outside of the fence, one on the inside of the fence-will draw you in and make you think. I haven't read the book the movie is based on, written by John Boyne, but the movie is certainly recommended.
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