It is not my intention to cause alarm. I do, however, feel you should be warned.
The teenagers….they know.
They have found out our secret.
The jig is up.
I first became aware of this issue during a typical suburban carpool. The teenagers in my car were all enrolled in driver’s education classes. They assured me they were all very good drivers. As I approached an intersection, I turned on my signal. I jokingly asked the girls, “So how far before an intersection should you turn on your turn signal?” The girls all yelled out in unison, “100 feet!”
“Really? 100 feet?” I blurted out, surprised and wondering to myself how far 100 feet was.
I was informed that my signal was turned on 50 feet before the intersection. The car full of teenagers pursed their lips and shook their heads in disgust. They told my teenager not to worry. Their parents were all bad drivers too.
I knew those teenagers were wrong. I was a good driver. I had years of experience. Besides, they’re lucky I turned on my signal at all. It’s not like there was anyone behind me.
I sat in the passenger seat while the teenager drove to her driver’s education class the next morning. As we approached the school where her class took place I saw that we were in a long line of cars. Every car obeyed the speed limit. Every car used their turn signal. Every car carefully negotiated turns, avoided tailgating and stayed between the lines. Every car had a “student driver” sign in the rear window and was driven by a teenager.
After dropping off the teenagers, the parents ripped the student driver sign off the rear window and jumped into the driver’s seat, desperate to reclaim the control they had lost. And then they floored it. The gas pedal. And they dialed. Their phones. And they reached for it. Their coffee. And they raced out of the parking lot ignoring their partially airborne car that had just been launched off of the speed bump they had ignored. They turned the corner onto the main road flying right past the strongly suggestive stop sign. And their right tire strayed over the white line as they sped 10 miles over the speed limit down the road 6 feet off the bumper of the car in front of them.
I looked at those speeding drivers in front of me with pursed lips, shaking my head in disgust. And as I reached down to change the radio station button I thought to myself, “Those teenagers were right. Their parents really are bad drivers.
Later that afternoon I called the teenager out of the house to help me unload my newly purchased groceries from the trunk of the car. When the trunk lid was open the teenager and I both stared at the mess before us. The bags were turned over and much of their contents were strewn across the floor of the trunk. I rebagged the groceries. Except the onion. I was too short to reach the stray onion that had lodged itself in the farthest reaches of the trunk. As the taller teenager stretched her arm to reach the onion she looked at me with pursed lips, shaking her head in disgust. “So how fast did you take that last corner, mom?”
My jig was up.
The teenager thought I was a bad driver.
As we both hauled groceries into the house I realized that I had to make some changes. I was ashamed. I mean really? What kind of modern car trunk doesn’t have one of those grocery catching nets installed? I’d have to get me one.
Check This Out!
Speaking of onions, I made a tasty new sauce the other day based on a recipe from Mario Batali’s great cookbook, Molto Italiano-327 Simple Italian Recipes to Cook at Home. It was on page 341. Turkey and pork meatballs made with fresh bread crumbs, rosemary and hot red pepper flakes are baked first and then simmered for an hour in this sauce.
¼ cup olive oil (I used a bit less)
3 red onions, thinly sliced (yes, 3)
6 cloves of garlic thinly sliced (I used 8)
1 TBL hot red pepper flakes
1 cup dry red wine (I used beef broth)
1 sprig rosemary (I threw in some dry…1 tsp?)
2 cups basic tomato sauce (there is a recipe on page 71 of the book…I got lazy and just used canned plain sauce-probably close to 4 cups worth, some thyme and some garlic)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Heat the olive oil in a large ovenproof skillet or stockpot until almost smoking. Add the onions and garlic and reduce the heat to medium. Cook until well browned, at least 5 minutes. Add the red pepper flakes and wine and rosemary. Bring to a boil and cook until the wine is reduced by half. Add the tomato sauce and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Add the meatballs to the sauce and place the pan in a 350 degree oven for one hour. Season with salt and pepper. Topped with Italian parsley if you wish. (We served ours over linguine.)
Friday, October 14, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Hempfest, Tattoos and a Little Bit Hammered
The man was clearly hammered. Smashed. Plastered.
Certainly, most intoxicated.
And he was standing right in front of the door to the bar.
“Gewwd afternoon ladiessss.” he politely slurred. As the teenager and I approached the entrance to the bar the man’s eyes widened. “Don’t you ladies know it’s only 3 in the afternoooon?”
“Oh, we’re not going to the bar.” I told the man.
He seemed relieved. And then he gestured toward the teenager, “I th-thought she was a little young for a bar.”
The man backed up as the pony tailed teenager and her unassuming forty something mother walked past him, walked past the bar and walked next door to the tattoo parlor. And when that man saw the teenager and I walk into the tattoo parlor, his eyes widened again, he steadied himself against the wall and he started muttering to no one in particular.
I told the owner of the tattoo parlor that he had missed our appointment two nights before. I told him it was the first time I had been to a tattoo parlor at 10:30 on a Saturday night. I was surprised to find his shop closed when I arrived.
Looking a bit sheepish he chuckled awkwardly, “Um…yeah…we were working Hempfest, you know, in the city, and…..well, we just got so busy…...SO busy….and I didn’t get back to the shop until like, midnight or something. I’m sorry, you know, it was….it was…..Hempfest.”
There were quite a few people in the shop that day. All were inked up. All were staring at the teenager and me. All were waiting for my response.
“Well yeah….wow….Hempfest. “ I said. “Never been myself but I bet you do get a lot of business there.”
The shop was completely silent. The really, really tattooed guy in the corner smiled at me. The slightly less tattooed lady next to him smiled at me. The owner smiled at me and finally said, “Hey, let’s get that advertisement taken care of. I was going to write you a check but Joey took the shop checkbook. I can give you cash though. I’ve got Hempfest money from Saturday. Is that ok?”
The teenager and I walked out of the tattoo parlor having successfully sold an advertisement for her high school soccer program. As we walked back to the car, the teenager held a tattoo picture in her hand. I held a wad of Hempfest cash in my hand. The hammered man was still in front of the bar and perked up when he saw us. He swayed a bit and walked toward us. He lifted one shaking hand and pointed at the teenager. “I’ll tell you summmthing. She! She…is tooooo young for a tattoo!”
“Yes, yes she is.” I told the man. I put my arm around the teenager to steer her around the hammered man. I saw the pale, untouched, ink free skin of my arm. And I must say, it looked a little bit naked.
Check This Out!
Guilty pleasures of late: The Johnny Cash movie (and soundtrack) Walk the Line with Reese Witherspoon and Joaquin Phoenix. The Rob Lowe autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends. And toasted pesto, turkey and havarti sandwiches on sourdough bread. I enjoyed all of these things. You should check them out.
Certainly, most intoxicated.
And he was standing right in front of the door to the bar.
“Gewwd afternoon ladiessss.” he politely slurred. As the teenager and I approached the entrance to the bar the man’s eyes widened. “Don’t you ladies know it’s only 3 in the afternoooon?”
“Oh, we’re not going to the bar.” I told the man.
He seemed relieved. And then he gestured toward the teenager, “I th-thought she was a little young for a bar.”
The man backed up as the pony tailed teenager and her unassuming forty something mother walked past him, walked past the bar and walked next door to the tattoo parlor. And when that man saw the teenager and I walk into the tattoo parlor, his eyes widened again, he steadied himself against the wall and he started muttering to no one in particular.
I told the owner of the tattoo parlor that he had missed our appointment two nights before. I told him it was the first time I had been to a tattoo parlor at 10:30 on a Saturday night. I was surprised to find his shop closed when I arrived.
Looking a bit sheepish he chuckled awkwardly, “Um…yeah…we were working Hempfest, you know, in the city, and…..well, we just got so busy…...SO busy….and I didn’t get back to the shop until like, midnight or something. I’m sorry, you know, it was….it was…..Hempfest.”
There were quite a few people in the shop that day. All were inked up. All were staring at the teenager and me. All were waiting for my response.
“Well yeah….wow….Hempfest. “ I said. “Never been myself but I bet you do get a lot of business there.”
The shop was completely silent. The really, really tattooed guy in the corner smiled at me. The slightly less tattooed lady next to him smiled at me. The owner smiled at me and finally said, “Hey, let’s get that advertisement taken care of. I was going to write you a check but Joey took the shop checkbook. I can give you cash though. I’ve got Hempfest money from Saturday. Is that ok?”
The teenager and I walked out of the tattoo parlor having successfully sold an advertisement for her high school soccer program. As we walked back to the car, the teenager held a tattoo picture in her hand. I held a wad of Hempfest cash in my hand. The hammered man was still in front of the bar and perked up when he saw us. He swayed a bit and walked toward us. He lifted one shaking hand and pointed at the teenager. “I’ll tell you summmthing. She! She…is tooooo young for a tattoo!”
“Yes, yes she is.” I told the man. I put my arm around the teenager to steer her around the hammered man. I saw the pale, untouched, ink free skin of my arm. And I must say, it looked a little bit naked.
Check This Out!
Guilty pleasures of late: The Johnny Cash movie (and soundtrack) Walk the Line with Reese Witherspoon and Joaquin Phoenix. The Rob Lowe autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends. And toasted pesto, turkey and havarti sandwiches on sourdough bread. I enjoyed all of these things. You should check them out.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
11 Years Flew By
No matter how hard they tried, the five-year-olds could not stand still. Every child sported combed hair, a brand new outfit and an oversized backpack that slid off of one shoulder. The teacher at the head of the line greeted each child as they arrived. She was kind and soft spoken and safe. The children already idolized her. When the teacher announced that it was time to go into the school the children stood up straight. The teacher told them to say goodbye to their parents. Today was the first day of kindergarten. It was time to start their new life.
No matter how hard they tried, the parents of the five-year-olds couldn’t stop that lump from forming in their throats. Every parent sported a brave face, a churning stomach and a tear in the corner of their eye. They watched the teacher and wondered how she could tolerate being around that many five-year-olds at once. When the teacher announced that it was time to go into the school, the parents took a deep breath and hid behind their cameras. The teacher told them to say goodbye to their children. Today was the first day of kindergarten. It was time to let go.
Most of the parents turned to their children and waved. Most of the children turned to their parents and waved. It was a special moment for them.
Hiding my tears and putting on a big smile, I turned to wave to the then 5 year old teenager, my first born, my sweet ‘punkin’ pie. I saw her turn around to wave. But she looked right past me. Her eyes and her wave landed on the five-year-old neighbor girl who was in line with her. I heard the teenager yell to her friend, “Hey Isabella! I’ll see you at recess, ok? We can play together!”
And that was how elementary school began.
It was a September day in the year of 2000 when I watched the five-year-old teenager walk into her new elementary school. Hers would be the first kindergarten class ever to attend this school. Many years later, when the teenager was in her last year of elementary school, the boy would begin kindergarten at the same school. And after 6 more years, it is now time for the boy to move on to middle school.
I find myself with a stack of 11 elementary school yearbooks in my hall closet-every single one the school has ever printed. I remember the day the ribbon was cut to open the school. I remember holding the newborn boy in one arm and reaching down to grab the five-year-old teenager’s tiny hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd.
And then…somehow…11 years flew by.
It will be a June day in the year of 2011 when I watch the boy walk out of that elementary school for one last time. He will be sporting uncombed hair, dirty basketball shorts and oversized feet that are bigger than mine. I will look at him-my last born, my sweet little precious- and try to stop that lump from forming in my throat. As the boy and I walk home together for the very last time, we will be surrounded by children who now seem to be so small and parents who now seem to be so young. I will think, “That used to be me. Until…somehow…11 years flew by.”
And that is how elementary school will end.
Check This Out!
The teenager's high school marching band played this super fun song recently for our hometown parade. They were awesome! Listen to this version. It's pretty good too!
No matter how hard they tried, the parents of the five-year-olds couldn’t stop that lump from forming in their throats. Every parent sported a brave face, a churning stomach and a tear in the corner of their eye. They watched the teacher and wondered how she could tolerate being around that many five-year-olds at once. When the teacher announced that it was time to go into the school, the parents took a deep breath and hid behind their cameras. The teacher told them to say goodbye to their children. Today was the first day of kindergarten. It was time to let go.
Most of the parents turned to their children and waved. Most of the children turned to their parents and waved. It was a special moment for them.
Hiding my tears and putting on a big smile, I turned to wave to the then 5 year old teenager, my first born, my sweet ‘punkin’ pie. I saw her turn around to wave. But she looked right past me. Her eyes and her wave landed on the five-year-old neighbor girl who was in line with her. I heard the teenager yell to her friend, “Hey Isabella! I’ll see you at recess, ok? We can play together!”
And that was how elementary school began.
It was a September day in the year of 2000 when I watched the five-year-old teenager walk into her new elementary school. Hers would be the first kindergarten class ever to attend this school. Many years later, when the teenager was in her last year of elementary school, the boy would begin kindergarten at the same school. And after 6 more years, it is now time for the boy to move on to middle school.
I find myself with a stack of 11 elementary school yearbooks in my hall closet-every single one the school has ever printed. I remember the day the ribbon was cut to open the school. I remember holding the newborn boy in one arm and reaching down to grab the five-year-old teenager’s tiny hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd.
And then…somehow…11 years flew by.
It will be a June day in the year of 2011 when I watch the boy walk out of that elementary school for one last time. He will be sporting uncombed hair, dirty basketball shorts and oversized feet that are bigger than mine. I will look at him-my last born, my sweet little precious- and try to stop that lump from forming in my throat. As the boy and I walk home together for the very last time, we will be surrounded by children who now seem to be so small and parents who now seem to be so young. I will think, “That used to be me. Until…somehow…11 years flew by.”
And that is how elementary school will end.
Check This Out!
The teenager's high school marching band played this super fun song recently for our hometown parade. They were awesome! Listen to this version. It's pretty good too!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
I'll Take Two
The Great Salt Lake was to my right and the Wasatch Range was to my left on the day I bought my dining room table. The grinning salesman, in a fine tweed suit, said, “Of course we have tables that seat 12! This is Salt Lake City-the land of the large family!”
The salesman assured me that the table was well made, of sturdy oak, and would last more than a lifetime. The salesman assured me it was a practical choice, perfect for creating years of wonderful family memories.
“How many children do you have to sit at this big table?” the salesman asked me.
“Oh, I don’t have any kids,” I replied, “but I do have 12 place settings of china I just got for my wedding. They are going to look fantastic sitting on this pretty table.”
More than two decades later, that table continues to be just as sturdy and practical as the salesman promised. The table has held up well, despite the destructive behaviors of the children and pets the husband and I eventually acquired. The same cannot be said for my sofa. After more than 20 years of helping to create wonderful family memories, it was shredded.
Two bickering kids were on my right and a mostly disinterested husband was on my left on the day I replaced that sofa. The grinning salesman, in casual Friday apparel, said, “Of course we have a wonderful sofa for you!”
I asked the salesman if the sofa was well made, of sturdy materials, and would last more than a lifetime. I asked the salesman if the sofa was a practical choice, perfect for creating years of wonderful family memories. I implored the salesman, “Please tell me this sofa will not get shredded.”
The salesman paused and then looked me in the eye.
“No. I can’t say that.”
“What? Why? I have 3 cats, 2 kids and 1 husband! I need a sofa that will hold up for a long time.”
The salesman tilted his head to the side. His facial expression softened a bit. I think the corner of his mouth was trying not to smile.
“For goodness sakes, ma’am, I’m going to be honest with you here. You have 3 cats... 2 kids... and 1 husband...your sofa is going to get shredded.”
My new blue sofa was on my right and my other new blue sofa was on my left on the day I sat down at my sturdy dining room table. I looked from the dining room into the living room and saw those 3 cats with claws and shedding fur and those 2 kids with dirty knees and sweaty socks and that 1 husband with the open Mountain Dew bottle and greasy Carhartt jeans.
And they sure looked fantastic sitting on those pretty sofas.
Check This Out!
Always a fan of authors specializing in humorous, honest essays about every day life, I was thrilled to read Sloane Crosley's new book, How Did You Get This Number.
I laughed at Ms. Crosley's first book, I Was Told There'd Be Cake. I still have a few pages left in How Did You Get This Number, but have thoroughly enjoyed what I've read so far. You should check out the link above and both of Ms. Crosley's books. You'll be happy you did.
The salesman assured me that the table was well made, of sturdy oak, and would last more than a lifetime. The salesman assured me it was a practical choice, perfect for creating years of wonderful family memories.
“How many children do you have to sit at this big table?” the salesman asked me.
“Oh, I don’t have any kids,” I replied, “but I do have 12 place settings of china I just got for my wedding. They are going to look fantastic sitting on this pretty table.”
More than two decades later, that table continues to be just as sturdy and practical as the salesman promised. The table has held up well, despite the destructive behaviors of the children and pets the husband and I eventually acquired. The same cannot be said for my sofa. After more than 20 years of helping to create wonderful family memories, it was shredded.
Two bickering kids were on my right and a mostly disinterested husband was on my left on the day I replaced that sofa. The grinning salesman, in casual Friday apparel, said, “Of course we have a wonderful sofa for you!”
I asked the salesman if the sofa was well made, of sturdy materials, and would last more than a lifetime. I asked the salesman if the sofa was a practical choice, perfect for creating years of wonderful family memories. I implored the salesman, “Please tell me this sofa will not get shredded.”
The salesman paused and then looked me in the eye.
“No. I can’t say that.”
“What? Why? I have 3 cats, 2 kids and 1 husband! I need a sofa that will hold up for a long time.”
The salesman tilted his head to the side. His facial expression softened a bit. I think the corner of his mouth was trying not to smile.
“For goodness sakes, ma’am, I’m going to be honest with you here. You have 3 cats... 2 kids... and 1 husband...your sofa is going to get shredded.”
My new blue sofa was on my right and my other new blue sofa was on my left on the day I sat down at my sturdy dining room table. I looked from the dining room into the living room and saw those 3 cats with claws and shedding fur and those 2 kids with dirty knees and sweaty socks and that 1 husband with the open Mountain Dew bottle and greasy Carhartt jeans.
And they sure looked fantastic sitting on those pretty sofas.
Check This Out!
Always a fan of authors specializing in humorous, honest essays about every day life, I was thrilled to read Sloane Crosley's new book, How Did You Get This Number.
I laughed at Ms. Crosley's first book, I Was Told There'd Be Cake. I still have a few pages left in How Did You Get This Number, but have thoroughly enjoyed what I've read so far. You should check out the link above and both of Ms. Crosley's books. You'll be happy you did.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Nice Show, Mom
I was a wide eyed witness to the entire event.
I watched him callously shoot the man and then laugh about it.
I watched the man fall to the ground where he lay motionless. For a brief moment, the world stood still. And then I watched the man get right back up and point his gun toward me. I drew in a quick breath. My boy, with quick reflexes, and clearly competent, raised his controller and killed the man for a second time.
And again, the boy laughed.
I told the boy killing was no laughing matter. I lectured him on death and reality and video games and real blood. The boy assured me he would never laugh if he killed a real man. He told me he knew the difference between video games and real life. I said the game was a bad game. The boy said it was a fun game and thanked me again for buying it for him for Christmas.
The boy tried to teach me to play his video game. He showed me how to navigate the battle scene. I told him that I thought the architecture of the buildings was stunning. He showed me how to hide behind a large tree. I wondered what kind of tree it was and said it looked much healthier than the ones in my yard. He showed me how to pull the trigger and kill a man. I asked him if the man had a wife or a mother or life insurance.
The boy told me it wasn’t any fun playing video games with me. He said I needed to “just go with it” and stop talking so much.
It was clear the boy and I were on different pages.
I was eating my lunch, flipping through the channels when I found the TV show about video games. I learned about the most popular video games, the new releases and the exclusive secret tips that were guaranteed to improve my score. I knew I had found the answer. The boy and I would watch this show together. We would be on the same video game page. We would bond.
I beamed proudly when I sat next to the boy and turned on the show. The boy stared silently at the TV as the games were reviewed. I listened intently, trying to memorize the video game lingo. When it was time for the first commercial the announcer looked into the camera and spoke directly to my innocent boy. “Don’t you dare get off that couch. Don’t you dare change that channel. You absolutely aren’t going to want to miss what we have coming up next! We take a look at the absolute HOTTEST video game sex you have ever seen! I’m talking realistic, smokin’ hot babes here. So get yourselves ready and we’ll be back in 2 minutes.”
Practically frozen in place on the couch, I managed to slowly turn my head to look at the boy. I opened my mouth to speak. “Uuuummmm…..I…….”
The boy casually leaned forward and grabbed the remote. “Yeah…I got this.” He turned the TV off and got up off the couch. “Nice show, Mom. Nice show. I think I’m gonna go in the other room and play my video game-the one with the shooting and lots of pretend killing. That OK with you, Mom?”
Check This Out!
My new favorite book is Restore. Recycle. Repurpose. With the subtitle.
Create A Beatiful Home, this Country Living book by Randy Florke has tons of great pictures of every room in the home. Written from a "green" perspective, this book is full of old stuff, flea market finds and a whole bunch of really cool ideas. It's been super fun to peruse. You should check it out.
I watched him callously shoot the man and then laugh about it.
I watched the man fall to the ground where he lay motionless. For a brief moment, the world stood still. And then I watched the man get right back up and point his gun toward me. I drew in a quick breath. My boy, with quick reflexes, and clearly competent, raised his controller and killed the man for a second time.
And again, the boy laughed.
I told the boy killing was no laughing matter. I lectured him on death and reality and video games and real blood. The boy assured me he would never laugh if he killed a real man. He told me he knew the difference between video games and real life. I said the game was a bad game. The boy said it was a fun game and thanked me again for buying it for him for Christmas.
The boy tried to teach me to play his video game. He showed me how to navigate the battle scene. I told him that I thought the architecture of the buildings was stunning. He showed me how to hide behind a large tree. I wondered what kind of tree it was and said it looked much healthier than the ones in my yard. He showed me how to pull the trigger and kill a man. I asked him if the man had a wife or a mother or life insurance.
The boy told me it wasn’t any fun playing video games with me. He said I needed to “just go with it” and stop talking so much.
It was clear the boy and I were on different pages.
I was eating my lunch, flipping through the channels when I found the TV show about video games. I learned about the most popular video games, the new releases and the exclusive secret tips that were guaranteed to improve my score. I knew I had found the answer. The boy and I would watch this show together. We would be on the same video game page. We would bond.
I beamed proudly when I sat next to the boy and turned on the show. The boy stared silently at the TV as the games were reviewed. I listened intently, trying to memorize the video game lingo. When it was time for the first commercial the announcer looked into the camera and spoke directly to my innocent boy. “Don’t you dare get off that couch. Don’t you dare change that channel. You absolutely aren’t going to want to miss what we have coming up next! We take a look at the absolute HOTTEST video game sex you have ever seen! I’m talking realistic, smokin’ hot babes here. So get yourselves ready and we’ll be back in 2 minutes.”
Practically frozen in place on the couch, I managed to slowly turn my head to look at the boy. I opened my mouth to speak. “Uuuummmm…..I…….”
The boy casually leaned forward and grabbed the remote. “Yeah…I got this.” He turned the TV off and got up off the couch. “Nice show, Mom. Nice show. I think I’m gonna go in the other room and play my video game-the one with the shooting and lots of pretend killing. That OK with you, Mom?”
Check This Out!
My new favorite book is Restore. Recycle. Repurpose. With the subtitle.
Create A Beatiful Home, this Country Living book by Randy Florke has tons of great pictures of every room in the home. Written from a "green" perspective, this book is full of old stuff, flea market finds and a whole bunch of really cool ideas. It's been super fun to peruse. You should check it out.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Revenge
I knew I had lost.
I stared at her through the door made of bars. My pounding heart, residual evidence of our struggle, attempted to burst from my chest. I glared at her through those bars, my eyes full of enraged humiliation. The very core of my being was stinging with fear and despair and hopelessness.
I saw her fingers brush her tousled hair back into place. I was pleased to see her examine a new scratch on her arm. It took her five minutes to pick up the junk basket I had knocked over, straighten the throw rug and hang that picture back up on the wall. I watched as she swept up drifts of my black and white fur and introduced it to the interior of that horrid Dustbuster. I may have been brutishly stuffed into the cage of doom, but I most certainly did not go willingly or peacefully.
And now, I feared the worst.
I began my death howls the minute she picked the cage up. I managed to intensify them to a terrifying, otherworldly kind of low scream as she took me to the car. As she drove, the hum of the engine was drowned out by my spine tingling and horrifying display of evil, guttural moaning. I impressed even myself. It was my best work ever. She peeked at me through the bars with a look of surprised fear in her eyes and exclaimed, “Holey, moley! How in the heck do you make those sounds come out of your body?”
I snickered inside.
I let out one final bellow when we walked into that detestable, foul smelling place. The lady up front turned around and cheerfully said, “This must be Max! What a precious honey. Don’t worry sweetie, we’re gonna get you all checked out.”
I was pretty sure I hated her. And I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be "checked out". I needed a new plan.
I went completely silent. I rolled myself into the smallest ball I could and pushed myself against the back of the cage. If no one could see me or hear me, then perhaps they would forget about “checking me out”.
I saw the lady peering into the cage. The nerve. I wasn’t about to look her in the eye. I turned my head. She peeked in the other side of the cage. I turned my head again. She went back to the first side. Quickly, I turned my head again. Then she gave up.
My plan was working.
But then she called my name, “Max. Come on back now Max. We’ll have a good look at ya.”
I scrunched and balled myself and closed my eyes as best I could. I politely refused to come out of the cage. The lady brazenly called me “such a sweetheart” when she selfishly dismantled the entire cage and lifted me out. I was picked up and petted and talked to in a soft, soothing voice. I responded by making myself as stiff as a board. I knew for sure I hated that lady.
I’m not really comfortable talking about what happened to me next. I’m too ashamed. Let’s just say it involved the lady taking me to a secret room. There was a thermometer and the wrong end of my body and an idiotic barking dog who seemed oblivious to his own caged situation. He couldn’t stop laughing at me. Even when the hated lady told me I was a healthy and very handsome 10 pounds I refused to look her in the eye.
When I returned from the secret room, the hated lady tried to look into my eyes and my ears. She tried to press her fingers all over my body. I made myself so stiff that she asked me to relax a little. Of course, I refused. She punished me by giving me 3 shots. And even though I was most unhappy with those shots, I refused to mutter a sound.
When I got home from the detestable, foul smelling
place, I hid under the bed for two days stewing in a jumble of anger, embarrassment and side effects from those darn shots. For those two days, however, I was able to plot my revenge. And on the third night, I arose from my under bed cave. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 2:43. I glanced out the window and saw that it was dark outside.
I walked into her bedroom and jumped up on the nightstand. I knocked a magazine to the floor. I knocked a lotion bottle to the floor. I banged the lamp into the wall with my head. I walked onto the bed and touched her lips with my paw. I started meowing and sat down on her head. She groaned my name- half asleep, half awake. When the man on the other side of the bed threw a sock at me I started laughing.
Revenge was going to be so much fun.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has recently become infatuated with the History Channel's shows Pawn Stars and American Pickers. Part history, part really cool old stuff and part amusement, both shows are definitely worth checking out.
I stared at her through the door made of bars. My pounding heart, residual evidence of our struggle, attempted to burst from my chest. I glared at her through those bars, my eyes full of enraged humiliation. The very core of my being was stinging with fear and despair and hopelessness.
I saw her fingers brush her tousled hair back into place. I was pleased to see her examine a new scratch on her arm. It took her five minutes to pick up the junk basket I had knocked over, straighten the throw rug and hang that picture back up on the wall. I watched as she swept up drifts of my black and white fur and introduced it to the interior of that horrid Dustbuster. I may have been brutishly stuffed into the cage of doom, but I most certainly did not go willingly or peacefully.
And now, I feared the worst.
I began my death howls the minute she picked the cage up. I managed to intensify them to a terrifying, otherworldly kind of low scream as she took me to the car. As she drove, the hum of the engine was drowned out by my spine tingling and horrifying display of evil, guttural moaning. I impressed even myself. It was my best work ever. She peeked at me through the bars with a look of surprised fear in her eyes and exclaimed, “Holey, moley! How in the heck do you make those sounds come out of your body?”
I snickered inside.
I let out one final bellow when we walked into that detestable, foul smelling place. The lady up front turned around and cheerfully said, “This must be Max! What a precious honey. Don’t worry sweetie, we’re gonna get you all checked out.”
I was pretty sure I hated her. And I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be "checked out". I needed a new plan.
I went completely silent. I rolled myself into the smallest ball I could and pushed myself against the back of the cage. If no one could see me or hear me, then perhaps they would forget about “checking me out”.
I saw the lady peering into the cage. The nerve. I wasn’t about to look her in the eye. I turned my head. She peeked in the other side of the cage. I turned my head again. She went back to the first side. Quickly, I turned my head again. Then she gave up.
My plan was working.
But then she called my name, “Max. Come on back now Max. We’ll have a good look at ya.”
I scrunched and balled myself and closed my eyes as best I could. I politely refused to come out of the cage. The lady brazenly called me “such a sweetheart” when she selfishly dismantled the entire cage and lifted me out. I was picked up and petted and talked to in a soft, soothing voice. I responded by making myself as stiff as a board. I knew for sure I hated that lady.
I’m not really comfortable talking about what happened to me next. I’m too ashamed. Let’s just say it involved the lady taking me to a secret room. There was a thermometer and the wrong end of my body and an idiotic barking dog who seemed oblivious to his own caged situation. He couldn’t stop laughing at me. Even when the hated lady told me I was a healthy and very handsome 10 pounds I refused to look her in the eye.
When I returned from the secret room, the hated lady tried to look into my eyes and my ears. She tried to press her fingers all over my body. I made myself so stiff that she asked me to relax a little. Of course, I refused. She punished me by giving me 3 shots. And even though I was most unhappy with those shots, I refused to mutter a sound.
When I got home from the detestable, foul smelling
place, I hid under the bed for two days stewing in a jumble of anger, embarrassment and side effects from those darn shots. For those two days, however, I was able to plot my revenge. And on the third night, I arose from my under bed cave. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 2:43. I glanced out the window and saw that it was dark outside.
I walked into her bedroom and jumped up on the nightstand. I knocked a magazine to the floor. I knocked a lotion bottle to the floor. I banged the lamp into the wall with my head. I walked onto the bed and touched her lips with my paw. I started meowing and sat down on her head. She groaned my name- half asleep, half awake. When the man on the other side of the bed threw a sock at me I started laughing.
Revenge was going to be so much fun.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has recently become infatuated with the History Channel's shows Pawn Stars and American Pickers. Part history, part really cool old stuff and part amusement, both shows are definitely worth checking out.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Squish My Sauce
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.
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.
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