UNIVERSAL TRUTHS

We have all heard of Murphy’s Law, when anything that can go wrong will.  I believe it is common knowledge that when we drop a slice of bread it will always fall butter side down, but there are many other universal truths.

One of the constants in my life is picking the wrong line for checkout.  There is the lady with a month’s worth of groceries, and one person with two items in the express lane. Who will be checked out first? Why the person I choose NOT to get behind. The shopper in express will invariably have picked the item that will not scan.  “Price check.” This entails finding an employee who is free, and sending them to find the item located in an undisclosed spot in the store.  It usually plays out like “Where is Waldo.” A glance over at the checkout line not chosen, reveals that half of the purchases from the huge order have been rung up. Once the price has been located, a lively discussion about how that item is on sale, and the price is ringing up incorrectly will ensue. After intense discussions with the manager, who has been called off his coffee break, the situation is remedied. By the way, the shopper in lane two is packed, paid, and heading toward the exit. The express shopper is now experiencing problems with their credit card, does not have check cashing privileges, and has left their wallet in the car. After the wallet has been retrieved, the express shopper will count out the amount due in pennies and nickels. The non-express shopper is already home, and has her purchases unpacked and stowed.

You may think lucky non-express shopper! However another universal truth is about to kick in.  The house she left an hour earlier had three teenagers and one husband in residence. When she arrives home with bags easily weighing half a ton, there will be no one home to help bring in the groceries.  The missing residents will only reappear after the purchases are put away, and then pillaging will commence.

Another odd occurrence is the phantom tooth ache.  This is when your jaw has been aching with a pounding toothache for days.  You’ve been consuming Advil like M&Ms, but there is no relief.  You finally break down and make an appointment to see your dentist.  The instant your front car wheels hit the parking lot at his office, the pain miraculously disappears. Furthermore you can’t even tell him with any certainty, which tooth was giving you trouble. You get a lecture on the importance of flossing, and are sent on your way.

The same thing occurs with haircuts. You have been sporting a hair-do that is really a hair-don’t. Small children flee in terror, and you’ve even frightened yourself in the mirror a time or two. You book an appointment at your hairdresser’s earliest opportunity.  That is always at least a week away.  In the meantime you lay low and remain in the house, as a public service.  The morning of your appointment, you will be greeted in your mirror by a woman sporting the best hair-do you have ever seen. People will toss compliments in your direction about your crowning glory.  Jennifer Anniston’s publicist calls to find out where you got that rockin’ style. Just another universal truth.

In this same vein, while sporting your hair-don’t, clothes spotted with splashed coffee, a bumper crop of facial hair, and not a stitch of make-up, you will run into an old beau.  He was your first love, and you haven’t seen him in about twenty years. You make small talk, all the while wondering if he is thinking, “thank God I dodged that bullet!” You are tempted to tell him you are involved in a study about basing judgments on appearance, and you are “made up” to look unattractive all for the sake of science.

Some other universal truths are related to clothes.  I don’t know why, but stockings will break out in runs and snags proportional to the importance of an event.  For instance, if you are going on an interview for the job you have coveted for years, your stockings will spontaneously burst into runs and holes as soon as you reach your appointment.  Ditto for weddings, gala events, and any other important occasions. If you try and purchase a quick replacement pair, the store will only carry size zero, which in my humble opinion is even too small for newborns. On the flip side, you could dig ditches with nary a snag if you will not be running into another soul.  There is also another clothing oddity known to most women.  If you break down and purchase a pair of beautiful silk under drawers, costing at least thirty dollars, you will get your period on their maiden voyage.

Another bothersome truth is the inability to sleep late when you can. All week long that alarm clock rings, and you wish you could just roll back over and snatch another hour or two. Come the weekend with nothing on the agenda, and your eyes fly open, and you couldn’t get back to sleep if your life depended on it.  This may in some way be related to that other sleep related occurrence, the smoke detector.  For some reason the batteries only run out at four A.M. You will be roused from a deep sleep to the sounds of chirping.  Step one is to find out which detector is the culprit. This involves one scurrying from room to room ears cocked to the elusive chirp.  Its’ a lot liking playing Marco Polo, only not as much fun. Usually after a number of false starts the bad battery is found, a step stool retrieved and the battery pried out with a butter knife.  This wouldn’t be a universal truth, unless you than realize you are out of 9 volt square batteries.  You cannibalize one of the kid’s toys, and all is quiet on the bedroom front.  It is now 5:30 A.M., and you can’t fall back to sleep until 5 minutes before you need to get up and start your day.

The Holidays bring their own special universal truths.  Let’s start out with the annual Christmas card picture. If you have one child, it’s a piece of fruitcake.  You take a few shots, and you will find one that is pleasing to all.  Two kids and the job gets tougher.  After numerous takes, a passable photo can usually be squeezed out.  Anymore than that and all bets are off.  One or more children will be immortalized that year with a closed eye or a scrunched up face. Another common occurrence this time of year is the Christmas list revision. This will take place at approximately 7P.M. Christmas Eve. You will be informed that the original list submitted earlier in the season is null and void. A new updated list, containing only gifts impossible to find will be replacing the aforementioned document. Tis’ also the season for rampant re-gifting. You try your best not to return to your cousin the candle/potpourri/ coffee mug that she thoughtfully gave you last year.  Unfortunately she will remark that the candle/potpourri/mug looks just like the one she gave your sister two years ago. You can only reply “imagine that, more egg-nog?” 

With all this being said, I’m off to finish up my holiday preparations.  I also know that I will run out of scotch tape when I go to wrap the last present, and be out of eggs when the cookie baking begins. Such is life!  Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Updated Posthumous Letter, or I Remembered More Stuff

Apparently my husband and children are under the mistaken impression that I have a need to always be right. I really don’t need to be right 100% of the time; it just works out that way.  Remember that old Catherine Deneueve commercial for hair product? The catch phrase was “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”  Well in my case it’s “don’t hate me because I am right.” I like being right, and freely admit I derive joy from the “I told you so” song and dance. 

The other day I was daydreaming about the day when my current teenage sons grow up, wed and have babies. When out of the blue it hit me!  I will probably not be around when my future grandchildren become teenagers, or at least will not be of sound mind. I am going to miss the biggest “I told you so!” moments known to mothers the world over. I was looking forward to seeing that old cliché, “you’ll thank me someday,” come true.

 This is just not acceptable.  In response to this problem, I have decided to attach letters to my will, to be handed to my children on the day their eldest child turns 15. I am still working on the verbiage, but this is what I’ve got so far…..

My Dear Child,

You are now the proud parent of a fully fledged teenager how’s that workin’ out for you?  Have you become “friends” with your child, as you always told me you would do, or are you thigh high in “How to Raise your Teenager, Without  Mayhem” books?  I need to know if you have been the happy recipient of the heavy sigh, and rolled eye-ball?  You know this is genetic; you passed this talent to him/her, and I must add you were a master. Have you become a source of un-ending embarrassment due to your wardrobe, hair style, and general cluelessness? By the way, feel free to toss out the Dictionary, Atlas, and any other reference tomes cluttering up your home.  You don’t need them anymore; your teenager has the answer to everything.

Are you letting your “babies” live without curfews, study when they feel like it, and eat junk food 24/7? I recall you explaining to me, that these tenets were going to be incorporated into your “parenting teenagers the right way” plan. Do they have a flat screen TV, computer, video games, and mini fridge in their bedroom? I remember you wanting these things for your room; in fact what you really wanted was a private rent free studio apartment for yourself, within our home. Does this young person leave a trail of empty water bottles, snack wrappers, and wet towels in his/her wake? I wonder if you’re “onboard” with that, and joyfully pick up after them without complaint.  “How’s that workin’ out for you?” 

 Are you enjoying their taste in music and clothes as much as your father and I enjoyed yours? Do you recall your choice of baggy jeans slung so low we could see your boxers?  I know I do, some images can never be unseen.  Have you been banned from singing along to music on YOUR radio, in YOUR car, while transporting your darling and a few friends to the mall/movies/sporting event/or an un-chaperoned party?  By the way, you told us back in the day, that you couldn’t understand why we would not allow you to go to un-chaperoned parties, so am I correct in assuming you still maintain that position?

Have you become one of the “cool” parents?  The ones you used to tell us about.  I believe their names where Mr. and Mrs. Everyone else’s Mom and Dad. You must remember them; they dispensed money at the drop of a hat, provided their kids with the latest in electronics, always on the day of release, never nagged their children about grades, and didn’t believe that kids should have chores. At Christmas do my grandchildren find that b.b. gun, new sports car, charge card, and Jet Ski under the tree? Do you still agree that a hand written thank you card is totally unnecessary if you already said “Thank you” upon receipt of the gift?

Do you believe every word that falls from the lips of your new teenager is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, or do you occasionally wonder if you might be missing some of the facts? Are you convinced that your offspring always makes good choices with friends and activities, and rely on the “don’t ask don’t tell” strategy you wanted Dad and me to employ? Again at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I must ask “how’s that workin’ out for you?”

Did your heart break a little when you were informed that all public displays of affection must cease and desist immediately?

Most importantly, do you still love him/her intensely with every fiber of your being? If you are reading this, I must assume that you have had a child, and have raised him/her to age 15. Rest assured things are going along as they should.  This is just a phase; your sweet baby will return to you after a little maturity kicks in. Stay the course, stick to your guns, and one day feel free to send this letter to my grandchild!

In the meantime, know that through this letter I have posthumously gotten in my last “I told you so” lick, and by the way, you’re welcome!

Love you forever and always,

Mom

A Posthumous Letter

Apparently my husband and children are under the mistaken impression that I have a need to always be right. I really don’t need to be right 100% of the time; it just works out that way.  Remember that old Catherine Deneueve commercial for hair product? The catch phrase was “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”  Well in my case it’s “don’t hate me because I am right.” I like being right, and admit I derive joy from the “I told you so” song and dance. 

The other day I was daydreaming about when my current teenage sons grow up, wed and have babies. When out of the blue it hit me!  I will probably not be around when my future grandchildren become teenagers, or at least will not be of sound mind. I am going to miss the biggest “I told you so!” moments known to mothers the world over. This is just not acceptable.  In response to this problem, I have decided to attach letters to my will, to be handed to my children the day their eldest child turns 15. I am still working on the verbiage, but this is what I’ve got so far…..

My Dear Child,

You are now the proud parent of a fully fledged teenager how’s that workin’ out for you?  Have you become “friends” with your child, as you always told me you would do, or are you thigh high in “How to Raise your Teenager, Without  Mayhem” books?  I need to know if you have been the happy recipient of the heavy sigh, and rolled eye-ball?  You know this is genetic; you passed this talent to them, and if I may add you were a master!

Are you letting your “babies” live without curfews, study when they feel like it, and eat junk food 24/7? I recall you explaining to me, how these tenets were going to be incorporated in your “parenting teenagers” plan. So I must add “how’s that workin out for you?” 

 Are you enjoying their taste in music and clothes as much as your father and I enjoyed yours? Do you recall your choice of baggy jeans slung so low we could see your boxers?  I know I do, some images can never be unseen.  Have you been banned from singing along to music on YOUR radio, in YOUR car, while transporting your darling and a few friends to the mall/movies/sporting event/or an un-chaperoned party?  By the way, you told us back in the day, that you couldn’t understand why we would not allow you to go to un-chaperoned parties, so am I correct in assuming you still maintain that position?

Have you become one of the “cool” parents?  The ones you used to tell us about.  I believe their names where Mr. and Mrs. Everyone else’s Mom and Dad. You must remember them; they dispensed money at the drop of a hat, provided their kids with the latest in electronics, always on the day of release, never nagged their children about grades, and didn’t believe that children should have chores. At Christmas do my grandchildren find that b.b. gun, new car, charge card, and Jet Ski under the tree? Again at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I must ask “how’s that workin’ out for you?”

Most importantly, do you still love him/her intensely with every fiber of your being? If you are reading this, I must assume that you have had a child, and have raised him/her to age 15. Rest assured things are going along as they should.  This is just a phase, your sweet babies will return to you after a little maturity kicks in. Stay the course, stick to your guns, and one day feel free to send this letter to my grandchild!

In the meantime, know that through this letter I have posthumously gotten in my last “I told you so” lick.

Love you forever and always,

Mom

Figuring Out The American Male, or Not

I have been living among the male of the human species for all of my life, first with a father and two brothers. Later with my husband, and three sons.  There are things I have noticed common to most of these individuals. Now don’t get me wrong, not all males demonstrate all of these traits, but I think most mothers/wives/girlfriends/sisters will recognize at least a few of my observations.

Male Blindness

For some unknown reason, men are seemingly struck blind when opening a refrigerator door. I don’t know if the light from inside the appliance knocks out the optic nerve, but usually when that door is opened it will invariably be followed by a plaintive cry of “Where is the milk/OJ?”  Now if your refrigerator is like mine, there is only one shelf tall enough to accommodate the aforementioned liquids. There is not a lot of space to hide things on that 2x2 space.  Yet time and time again, a female is called in to aid in the search and recovery operation.  Forget asking them to get the jelly or mustard, as the smaller size of these perishables virtually disappears before their eyes. I believe the old adage if you want something out of the fridge, just get up and get it yourself was coined by the first housewife that was a proud owner of an “ice box.” Interestingly enough they can always find a beer, soda, or that last sliver of cheesecake you were hiding, with the precision of a special ops team.

This affliction is not limited to the refrigerator. Apparently selective sight kicks in when a clean basket of laundry is sitting at the base of the stairs.  Suddenly they become imbued with the high jump capabilities of a gold winning Olympian. They go over it, around it, and basically ignore it.  When questioned as to why they didn’t bring their clean clothes up to their room, they will look you straight in the eye, and say “I never saw the basket.”

Ditto on the “this room looks like a pig sty,” refrain, you just get a puzzled look. They honestly don’t see the mess. I mean really why put things away in a closet or drawer, when you have all this available floor space?

Toss Out Nothing

This may be related in some way to the previous discussion. I cannot count the number of times I have done a quick scan of my food inventory before I go grocery shopping only to find out we are out of most staples within the following 24 hours.  How does this happen you might ask.  The gentlemen I reside with do not believe in tossing the empty containers into the garbage.  According to my inventory, I had 6 boxes of assorted cereals, a gallon of milk, a pound of butter, and two loaves of bread.  I come to discover, usually during the following morning’s breakfast rush, that all the cereal boxes are empty. The milk jug contains less than one teaspoon of liquid, the bread has gone stale due to non-closure of the package, and once again I was duped by the empty box that I assumed held a pound of butter. Upon closer inspection I find that more than 50% of my dry goods are actually just empty husks. Well I am exaggerating a bit, some of the boxes do contain one cracker in the sleeve, and a half dozen frosted flakes. I believe the unwritten rule is if you finish off the item, you are responsible for tossing out the empties.  Hence most boxes contain trace amounts of the original contents.

Mechanical Ability with Household Apparatus

It never ceases to amaze me the dexterity displayed by the male of our species when it comes to a TV remote. The same applies to the uncanny ability they have when programming any new cell phone, knowledge of the latest apps, and their skill with texting. However they cannot change the toilet paper when the roll runs out.   Any new roll put into play by one of the “boys” will reside on the back of the tank. Similarly is the profusion of used glasses that will sit on the counter mere inches from the dishwasher, but never quite make it inside.  These same people will roll their eyes when they go to retrieve a clean glass from said appliance, and find out “no one” (a euphemism for me) turned on the dishwasher.  I have tried explaining to them that the above mentioned tasks do not require a uterus. Nor is that particular body part required to run a vacuum, wash a floor, or pick up after oneself.  This falls on deaf ears, which brings me to….

SELECTIVE LISTENING

I often wonder if the sound of my voice is what they use in white noise machines. I seem to have that effect on the males of our species. Oh they give the appropriate responses when a request is made; a head nod, an okay, whatever, yet it spurs no action. Things have to be repeated a number of times, while catching; and here is the tough part, and maintaining eye contact. Hours later they will swear I never asked, reminded, or told them anything.  This is glaringly obvious when I give directions while a male is driving the car. My husband actually told me he would rather depend on the GPS for navigation. Sad thing is, our GPS is programmed with a female voice, and he ignores her as well. Many times I listen as our GPS directs him to make the next legal u-turn, again.

Health and the American Male

Not all, but most of the men I know get sicker than women. How do I know this?  They tell me.  “My cold is much worse than yours,” is a common refrain. Their throat hurts more, their fever is higher, and their cough probably means pneumonia. In my experience the patient wants you in earshot at all times. All the better to keep them hydrated, medicated, fed toast, and to generally play step and fetch it.  There are other medically interesting factoids about males.  They do not tolerate gas; if experienced, it is forcefully and loudly expelled immediately from the nearest bodily orifice, without a whiff of embarrassment. Apparently these poor souls are also afflicted with very itchy skin, or so it would appear. Injuries seem to affect the male of our species more often as well.  Then again, you don’t see many gals trying to skateboard down a flight of concrete steps, or join in a rousting game of tackle football.  This brings me to…

Sports

Most of the men I have had the pleasure of knowing, love to watch a good sporting event.  When they get to see the game in person, it is even better.  What puzzles me though is if you were there, and saw the game, why do you have to watch the slo-mo replays, tune in to ESPN Sports Zone for highlights, and then grab up the Sports section of the newspaper to read about it the next morning?  Ask me, I can tell you, the score didn’t change. I mean I really enjoyed the Jerry Maguire movie, but I don’t rewind to watch the “you had me at hello” scene over and over.

It has also been my experience that guys also think the players can hear them through the television. Why else would they loudly scream directions at the TV, and then admonish the quarterback loudly, when he didn’t use the suggestion? Just another male mystery, I guess.

Sex

They love it.  Enough said.

Whats' in Your Gift Basket?

Well its’ that time of year again, Holiday Baskets!  That’s right; tis the season when my husband’s grateful clients and vendors send him gift baskets in a show of appreciation and seasonal cheer.  This is not a good thing.

 I am just barely recovered from my Halloween chocolate orgy.  Although I must say the kids are getting much more cunning in their attempts to thwart my candy raids. They used to leave that pillowcase in plain view on the kitchen counter.  This changed when they noticed the chocolate inventory was experiencing some mysterious, but rapid shrinking, while Mom was doing some equally curious rapid expansion. Oh they tried hiding it; in the family room, then up in their bedrooms, then down the cellar, then in zip-loc bags in the toilet tanks, you know all the usual places. But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to outwit a professional chocoholic. If I could ferret out explosives as well as I do anything make from the cocoa bean, I could be the TSA’s Gal of the year. Lord knows I try and resist, in fact I willingly put Hershey Park on my official list of “no fly zones.” But if that stuff makes it into my house all bets are off.

The first Gift basket made its appearance yesterday.  A beautifully decorated glittery basket from that fine purveyor of chocolates that will go unnamed; just think a lady with long hair, short on wardrobe choices. Yippee! I thought.  After tearing through layers of tissue and ribbons, cutting through bows and inedible decorations, the sum total of edible chocolate food stuff added together did not a full size Milky Way make. My husband, upon seeing the rifled basket, remarked that he planned to bring in some of those chocolates to share with his staff. “Were you planning on giving them one chocolate covered raisin each?”I replied.  Besides your staff are those strange people that leave little glass bowls filled with Hershey Kisses on their desks.  Who does that sort of thing? How can you really trust a person that can have that in full view, and not gobble down the entire contents in one stressful afternoon?  Back in the day when I worked in an office, my stash was kept in a locked drawer in my desk, as God intended. But I digress…..

Now I am sure this kind person paid a very pretty penny for this gift, as none of these Chocolatier’s baskets go for under $50.00. They were gyped. If they had only gone to a big box store, they could have easily purchased 100 large size snickers bars, and gotten change back! (Don’t ask me how I know this) Then I would have been willing to share…. maybe. I believe that if the packaging outweighs the edibles by more than 75%, you are getting ripped off. Call me crazy, but when it comes to sweets I am definitely in the quantity over quality camp. As a fifty plus year consumer of candy, I have yet to have a “bad” chocolate. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.

Well re-gift you may counsel.  I would, but curiosity always gets the better of me.  I always think that today will be the day I discover a huge bonanza of butter crunch hidden under the tissue paper. So far that hasn’t happened. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I counter with, satisfaction brought him back. Hope springs eternal, and the basket season has just begun. Maybe this is the year all my basket fantasies will come true. I’ll keep you posted.

Where's the Beef?

Cooking seemed like an interesting thing to tackle, back in the first days of our marriage.  I was suffused with the glow of new love, and wanted to prepare my husband a dinner he would never forget.  As it turns out, I am the one who will never forget.

I had a day off from work, and I planned to make “homemade” sauce for my beloved.  No Ragu from a jar for this devoted wife.  My mother in-law had given me her recipe, as my husband always gave it rave reviews. I was planning to make this sauce extra special with the addition of an entire pound of browned chopped meat! Lest you pause here, and say “what’s so special about that?”  Let me tell you about our household budget.  We were subsisting on “the borrow from Peter to pay Paul system.” We didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

I pulled out my large pot, (received as a shower present, and making its first foray to the stove), and began gently sautéing garlic.  I added my 3 cans of plum tomatoes, tomato paste, and the browned chopped meat.  I blended in the seasonings stated in the recipe and set the pot on to simmer. Oh I was so proud, how easy was this? Then I tasted my creation……..bleechhh! Obviously I had not followed the directions as carefully as I should have.  What I was lovingly cooking tasted like tomato cotton candy. I reviewed the recipe, and with dawning horror realized that instead of a pinch of sugar, I had added the proportions for one of the tomato components.  A half cup.

You may say, “Well scrap that, and start over.” On my budget that was a non-starter. How can I fix this I pondered?  I had read somewhere that if something is over salted; you dump in a few raw potatoes, and let them absorb the excess.  Well if it worked on salt, maybe it would have the same effect on sugar. Into the pot went 3 large peeled spuds.  I let this concoction simmer away, allowing the Idaho’s do their thing. It didn’t work, plus now the potatoes had disintegrated into my sauce. You may say, “Well scrap that, and start over.” No, I was not defeated yet.  What is the opposite of sweet?  Why sour of course! A healthy dose of vinegar was introduced to the mix.  Another simmer, another taste, and yuucckkkk, still pretty bad. I plowed through my spice rack (another shower present making its maiden voyage) and began tossing spices Willy Nilly. Still no major improvement on the sauce.  As a last ditch effort the Tabasco sauce was pulled off the bench and put into play.  Sadly, we were still losing at the half.

I racked my brain for a solution. Then it came to me, I figured a half cup of sugar is to pinch, as a pot of tomatoes is to a vat!  (And they say you never use algebra in the real world!) I transferred my concoction to a gigantic lobster pot, (yes, another shower present!) then added 6 large cans of tomato puree.  Why would I have so many cans of tomato sauce you might wonder?  Haven’t you people ever heard of the Can-Can sale at Shop Rite? It was so cheap, they were practically giving it away, and since I naively fancied myself as a soon to be fabulous cook, I had stocked up. I began stirring this vat with the help of a canoe paddle, as it straddled two burners on my stove top.

Victory was mine!  Believe it or not, it didn’t taste half bad. Of course if you wanted to find any meat in the sauce you would need to send in a search and recovery team.

That night over dinner, my new husband remarked on what a great sauce I had made.  “You should use this recipe all the time, it’s delicious!” he stated. “I’m glad you like it”, I replied ““I decided to make enough to last 5 years.”  “I do have one suggestion, though”, he added,” next time, why don’t you add a little meat?”

I'm 15 for a Moment

I heard a song today “100 Years” by Five for Fighting.  It so reminded me of the past weekend at my 40+ grammar school reunion.  “I’m 15 for a moment, caught in between 10 and 20,” Such a watershed time on our journey to growing up.

I was raised in a blue collar town, where the majority of the Moms stayed home, and the Dads took the one and only car to work every morning. We didn’t go away on vacations; in fact our families invented the “stay-cation.” We walked or rode our bikes (usually a hand me down) around the neighborhood. If it wasn’t within riding or walking distance, chances are you weren’t going. Eating at a restaurant was unheard of, going out to dinner meant we were going to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving.  There wasn’t a lot of extra money but I don’t think we even noticed.  We were all in the same boat.  Everyone’s parents were called Mr. and Mrs., and they had the authority to give you what for, if they caught you messing around. Our parents had high expectations for us.  Woe to the unlucky child whose parents got a call from another parent or, God forbid, school! One would have a lot of explaining to do, and lame excuses were not tolerated.

Lest you get the wrong idea, it was a wonderful time! We spent hours together at each other’s homes, or played together on the playground. Our summers were spent catching fireflies together. We attended Girl Scout and Boy Scout meetings, usually run by someone’s Mom or Dad. Our friendships were constantly changing, as we moved in and out of different groups of classmates, our best friend this year, might be our sworn enemy next month. We were new teens, scared of being un-cool, not fitting in, let’s face it, we were all around awkward! We had begun to notice one another, outside of the role of person who sits next to you in school. Our golden days of childhood were rapidly coming to a close. Goodbye to the age of innocence.

At the end of 8^th grade we all scattered off to different high schools, meeting new friends. In four quick years we either went out to work, or off to college. As is wont to happen we, for the most part lost touch with each other.

The story might end here, but luckily it does not! Some of us who “found” each other decided to throw a reunion for our entire 8^th grade class. We wondered if anyone would be interested, so we started making calls. One thing led to another, and the event was planned.

I am sure most people that attended, entered that venue with at least a little trepidation.  “How will I be greeted?”  “Will people remember me?”  I know I did.  I should not have worried about a thing! As we began to reconnect, something miraculous took place.  The years fell away, and we were all back in 8^th grade. My former classmates all grew into fantastic adults. We reminisced about the “old” days, caught each other up on where our lives had taken us. The overwhelming feeling was one of total acceptance. Everyone was sincerely interested in their former classmate’s stories. We all had that common ground of shared experiences that took place at a pivotal time in our lives. I think we realized that these people helped to shape us into the persons we have become, as we helped to shape them!

Old friendships were renewed, new friendships were forged.  I was 15 for a moment, caught between 10 and 20, and it was awesome!

An Open Letter to Heather at Credit Card Services

My friend “Heather” from Credit card Services called me today, but then again she calls me almost every day, sometimes twice. She even managed to get her mitts on my cell phone number! She is such a jokester; she always starts by telling me this is my final notice to find out how to lower my credit card debt.  “Heather” is a pathological liar; she will never give me up! I have tried to end our phone friendship over the years, but “Heather” is nothing if not persistent. She usually passes me along to one of her pals for an interesting chat.  I want you to know “Heather”; some of your friends need some lessons from Ms. Manners, as they are downright rude most times!

Let me tell you about some of the zany conversations I have had with your buddies.  I asked one gal pal what was the address of the company where she was employed.  She informed me that she had no idea!  I replied, “You mean every morning when you go to work, you don’t know where you should report?” “Do you get teleported there, or do they blindfold you, and bring you to an undisclosed location?” She asked if I thought she was a “f*****G moron. Well to be painfully honest; I do. She then requested that I perform some bodily acts, which are in my opinion anatomically impossible.  Another male friend of my BFF “Heather” couldn’t explain to me why he was not allowed to pass our call on to his boss; I stayed persistent in my queries, and was hung up on! Another scam artist apparently was so annoyed with my sparkling repartee, that after I hung up on him, he called back!  He wanted to tell me to do the same anatomically impossible feat as the aforementioned young lady suggested.  Talk about your one trick ponies!

In the beginning, when I realized that these impromptu phone calls would be a daily occurrence in my life, I decided to have some fun at your expense “Heather.” Sometimes I would trot out my wacky accents.  I would try and sound British, French, Spanish, or Red Neck, as the mood hit me. Other times I would impersonate a young child, by repeating “how-lo, how-lo, in my best Elmer Fudd impression. My imagination ran wild!  Sometimes I made believe I was the FBI, and was so happy they called, as they were under investigation.  Other times I would tell them to hold on, while I retrieved my credit card, and then put the phone down on the counter till I heard the operator informing me that if I wanted to make another call, I should hang up. I was particularly fond of my Verizon imitation; this is when I would keep repeating “Can you hear me?” “Can you hear me now?’ as your buddies at card holder services kept raising their voices in exasperation.

It might have been a tad mean, but on different occasions I made believe I was Jennifer Anniston, Condoleezza Rice, or Ellen DeGeneres.  I think you need to know “Heather,” that your buds are a bit on the start struck side, or very, very, gullible. You might want to tell them they can stop waiting for; my autographed picture, an inside tour of the White House, or Tickets to my show.

After awhile all this hilarity became stale, and I began to use these calls as a kind of free “Anger Management” therapy. This was especially true if your call came while I was making dinner, reviewing homework, or just having a bad day.  I would channel my best “Judge Judy” attitude and let it fly! There is something to be said about screaming “you are an idiot,” to an idiot! Usually the politeness filters in my conscience don’t allow what’s on my mind, to make it out of my mouth. As much as I would like to yell “can’t you count” to the person in the express lane with 50 items, or “did you happen to look in a mirror before you left your house?”  I never do. (Well almost never) With these calls, all bets are off. It is positively liberating! For this I must thank you.

Lately, though, “Heather,” when I see your number flash up at me, “Out of Area,” or some odd area code (you sneaky little minx!) you and your associates hang up on me as soon as I say hello! My husband and children are firmly convinced that you and yours now recognize my voice or voices as the case may be.   

Could it be “Heather,” that you are giving me up? One can only hope!

I've Been Axed!

I can always tell what rooms my sons have been in during the morning. They are reeking of that teenage scent Axe.   For those of you that do not have young teenage sons I will explain. Axe is the current “in” thing for the well groomed young man. This product comes in deodorant, body wash, and body spray.  Additionally it comes in a variety of editions with names such as Provoke, Instinct, Vice, Click and my offspring’s choice, Dark temptation. This particular flavor is supposed to evoke the smell of hot chocolate; my olfactory senses are evoking car fire.  I know this is a rite of passage, but I wonder why the user needs to douse one’s self so heavily, that it becomes difficult to breathe when an unsuspecting bystander comes within ten feet of the wearer. I can tell where they have ventured in the morning by following their scent trail. I have to tell you, that the smell doesn’t completely disappear till hours after they have left the building!

I started thinking back to my own adolescence, and realized that the names have changed but the actions remain the same.  In my day, the young men would drown themselves in English Leather, High Karate and Joe Nameth’s favorite, Brut. They were not alone.  The colognes of choice for young ladies during that time were Chantilly, Heaven Scent, Love’s Baby Soft, Tabu, and Ambush!  The only thing they had in common was their cloying sweetness.  My heart goes out to all those school bus drivers stuck in an enclosed space with twenty assorted teens, saturated with twenty competing fragrances. I guess Visine for tearing eyes, and an industrial gas mask should be regarded as necessary accruements for the job.

As time marched on, so did our taste in colognes and perfumes. Young men moved upscale to Polo, and Aramis, while we gals took a spin with Obsession, Lauren and Eternity. Catching a whiff of the aforementioned scents brings back a flood of memories; most of them centered on Disco fever, and my skin tight Calvin’s! For a time we all dabbled with Musk oil, that fragrance based on the theory that the pheromone based scent would attract the opposite sex like bees to honey.  It was short lived, as the smell more reminded one of Musk Ox.

Meanwhile, our parents had their own favorites; Dads had Aqua Velva and Old Spice. Bay Rum was reserved for special occasions.  Mom had Jean Nate, for everyday and Channel Number 5 for fancy affairs. Thankfully for us kids; Evening in Paris had gone out of style. They used restraint upon application, as the one bottle was usually stretched out between Christmases.  I don’t think my parents ever entertained the idea of buying scents for themselves.  Soap, water, deodorant and a dusting of talc usually sufficed. I can honestly say any colognes or perfumes that came into my parent’s home were received as gifts.

As time moves on, it is interesting to note what colognes and perfumes are currently scattered on our bedroom dressers.  It probably comes as no surprise that my go to scent is Channel Number 5, while my husband leans toward Old Spice. Funny how even our choices in fragrances came full circle!

Queen of the Funeral Home

There is an old cliché about Irish Wakes that liken them to a big party, where the mourners engage in boisterous revelry.  This is not entirely true. However they do seem to always evolve into a large family reunion.  No one knew this better then my mother.  Every morning the first stop in her perusal of the newspaper was the obituaries. She always knew someone, who had shuffled off this mortal coil. She was queen of the funeral home back when I grew up, well schooled in the proper wake protocol. She knew where everyone should sit; immediate family in the upholstered chairs upfront, lesser relatives further back, friends, co-workers, and neighbors in the cheap seats at the back. Children who had reached the age of reason were required to attend as well. Our job, back then, was to smile politely as we were dragged up to everyone she knew for an introduction.  We all knew our parts perfectly.  “You remember my daughters” she would ask as she pushed us front and center.  “Oh my God, yes, look how beautiful they turned out” would be the reply, as our cheeks were pinched.  Now don’t get me wrong, our looks did not send small children scurrying away in fear, however at different stages in our young lives, beauty was not the first adjective that popped into one’s head.  Mom just ate it up!

My mother was the go to person to find out everything you wanted to know about Wakes, but were afraid to ask.  She could tell you not only what type of floral tribute to send, but which florist gave the best price, and the nicest flowers.  She had a personal stash of Mass cards ranging from a single all the way up to eternal perpetual prayers said by the good brothers and sisters in the overseas mission. You want to donate to a Charity in the deceased’s name?  She would know their favorite charity, or make sure she found out.  She could also supply you with a name and address of where to send your donation. Woe to the poor funeral director who did not have enough tissue boxes scattered strategically throughout the funeral home. When Mom was in the house, that situation was rectified immediately! 

Mom also had opinions about obituaries.  She always maintained that what made up the dash was the most important.  I am talking about the dash that comes between the date of your birth, and the date of your death.  What you did between those dates should be remembered in one’s obituary.  She loved a good meaty obit which told you more than a spouse’s name and the number of children; one that included a person’s favorite pastime, or passion. 

My mother has been gone now, almost 10 years.  She had a wake and funeral that she would have been proud of.  What my sisters and I have been discovering (much to our surprise) is that she must have passed down the Funeral “Diva” gene to us. It seems that our first stop in the morning papers is the obituaries. We will then notify each other, and start making our plans accordingly.  We all have a stash of Mass cards, and know which florist to use.  One of my sisters has already written out her obituary, she is sure her husband would forget some of the things in the dash. (not that she is planning on leaving anytime soon, she feels her ETD, or estimated time of departure isn’t for at least another  30 years) I have to say I was surprised when I looked it over for her.  I didn’t remember her being a finalist in the Miss Universe Pageant circa 1979, or helping Al Gore invent the internet. Then again my memory is not what it used to be.

Depending on the closeness of the recently departed, I also bring my sons to the wake.  While there I drag them around to friends and relatives and say “you remember my sons?” And when they reply, “Oh yes, look how handsome they turned out!”  I just eat it up.

In Search of The Perfect Tan

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed, and I was a kid, there was no such thing as sunscreen. Our mothers would slather us up with baby oil containing a healthy measure of Mercurochrome, and we would head off to the beach.  After an hour , we would be cautioned to sit under the umbrella, or put on the rash guard of the times; a white cotton undershirt. Needless to say the first night, our little rented bungalow reeked of Noxzema, and was filled with the whimpering of children in pain.  Laying on hot sandy sheets, with a ferocious case of the chills, a great start to summer.

Still the lesson wasn't learned. As a teenager my friends and I would wrap our bi-fold album covers in aluminum foil, and make sun reflectors for our faces. When the "Who" introduced  the album "Tommy", we eagerly moved up to the tri-fold reflector arena.  As soon as we were able to lay out at the beach without being frostbitten, our sun worship would continue. We worked on our tans religiously, flipping every half hour for even coverage, and continual basting with baby oil.  We even toyed with the idea of using motor oil, as one girl had read this was a popular option with southern gals. Now I don't know if this was a myth perpetrated by NASCAR, or the good people of Pennzoil, but we decided to stay with our Johnsons & Johnsons, and leave that other oil in the car. Our motto was "Burn, Peel, and Repeat."

Then  there was the advent of the "self tanning" lotions.  They sounded great on paper, but unless you wanted to look like an Umpa Loompa, and have your palms stay an unnatural color for two weeks, they did not deliver the even golden tan we hankered for. We stuck with the tried and true. Burn, peel, and repeat.

Lets' face it, we lay in the sun every chance we got.  This continued well into our young adulthood. No one wanted to come back from a mid-winter get away without a little color.

Then one morning, it was time to pay the piper. Those creases on our face were not just from sleeping on scrunched up sheets.  They were permanent.  Our payment had come due! The sun had prematurely wrinkled our skin into alligator hide.  Spackling compound became the first item applied, when one was doing their makeup. Our moisturizing cream expenditures rivaled the National Debt.  I had my dermatologist on speed dial. Welcome to SPF 150, and floppy hats!

 I had finally learned my lesson.  It was too late for me, but I would be a watchdog for my children. Before I would head to the beach with my offspring they would be generously covered  in waterproof SPF 50 cream.  Their lips would be coated with specially formulated sun block. They wore long sleeved rash guards, hats, and water shoes.  The lotions and potions would be reapplied every hour on the hour. If they developed wrinkles, alligator skin, or worse, it could not be laid at my feet.

My children returned home at the end of the summer, the same shade of pale they were sporting when they arrived. My possibly over zealousness became abundantly clear at the close of one summer. An end of season photo was taken of their swim team.  All the children were photographed in their swim suits, sans rash guards.  You could be in a darkened room, and still be able to pick out my children.  They were so white that they actually glowed in the dark. The older they got, the more they bucked my sun paranoia.  Rash guards were being stowed away in back packs, hats were mysteriously lost, and I started seeing...TAN LINES!

 Whats' a mom to do? I had protected their skin for 12 years, and now I must trust them to use the quarts of sun screen and tubes of zinc oxide  lovingly tucked  in their back packs. I can only pray that they are quicker learners than I, and hope that their future doesn't contain a face full of Naugahyde. I am  fairly sure that they can't rig their I-pods into sun reflectors, to my knowledge  there's no app for that!

Sherpa Training

Every Friday evening during the summer, my husband makes the trek from up north , to join us on the Island. Every Friday evening, we get a call from our driveway, when he arrives. His message never varies, "send the boys down." My three sons hurry down the steps to help him carry in his things. One son lugs in his suitcase, which I have a feeling he lives out of all summer. Another brings in the leftover tomatoes, lettuce and bread, from his go to dinner meals of BLT's. The last one brings in the mail from up north and any other odds and ends .   My husband brings in himself. He would never make it as a Sherpa, but I think many of us moms would, we are the "Sherpettes."

Many of us have homes that employ the "reverse" living configuration. Kitchens being located on the uppermost floor. These are excellent training grounds for our Sherpette lessons.  You know who we are; the ladies pushing the overloaded shopping carts through the local grocery store. We are the hunters/gatherers for our families.  We load up on milk and orange juice, bread and cereal. Sacks of fruit, and packages of snacks. Barbeque fixings, and a variety of dinner ingredients. I can't vouch for anyone else, but I'd say easily 20 plastic bags of groceries enter my home weekly. This is not counting the cases of water that disappear like hot cakes.

How do you transport those overwhelming loads up to the third floor? You might ask. In the least amount of trips possible! The children always seem to be curiously absent when I return from a food run. So it's' up to mom to put on the Sherpette hat and get to it. I drape as many bags as possible down the lengths of my arms, while carrying a case or two. I have been known to toss dry cleaning over my shoulder, and carry my purse with my teeth. I slowly make my way up three flights, precariously balancing my load. Occasionally I run into an avalanche, when a bag or two breaks, and scatters the contents. This is when I get to practice uneven terrain maneuvers while  dodging rolling cans and apples. I am a Chiropractor's dream!

Once the supplies make it to the top floor, I set up base camp. Frozen food gets stowed, fruit gets washed, and the cartons with one millimeter of fluid taking up the shelf space in the fridge, get tossed and replaced with full containers. Apparently the mountaineering folk I live with, are emotionally attached to empty food containers, as that is the only plausible excuse I can think of for returning empties to fridge and pantry.

Mission accomplished, I sit back, and catch my breath. Miraculously my children reappear, and my newly purchased stores disappear.  I know tomorrow I will embark on yet another supply run.  I am  queen of the food aisles, master pack mule extraordinaire ! Happy shopping to all my fellow Sherpettes, see you at the grocery store.

First Summer Job

I remember back to my 16th summer, and my first summer job. I had officially joined the work force. I, like most of my friends , was thrilled to have been hired  to work full time for the summer.  dreams of a car, new clothes, and the latest in rock albums danced in my head.  Of course I was making the grand sum of $1.60 an hour, but that was a buck sixty more then I would have had otherwise.

 My grand entrance into the world of the employed took place at our local Woolworth's 5 &10. We had a dress code that consisted of either a dress or skirt, and an aqua colored smock/jacket, complete with name tag.  Jeans were strictly verboten!  My first day on the job, I learned how to make keys and cut shades to order.  Life skills! The old cash registers were nothing more than glorified adding machines, so any sales tax (5% back then) had to be calculated in your head, and added to the total. Once the total was figured, you would mentally "count up" the change due back to your customer. Mental math gymnastics.

A few weeks into my "career", the older lady who ran the pet department was taking her vacation, and I was transferred to that department for the week. I lasted one day, and it is a day that will go down in infamy. The pet department didn't carry dogs or cats, however they did a thriving trade in the birds, fish, and hamster  department. My first morning on the job, I was informed by my boss, mean old Mr. D., that  all the cages needed to be cleaned out.  One glance was enough to convince me that this was obviously an annual event , and would take place the one day a year, when the "new Kid" filled in for summer vacations. I was looking at 5 cages of year old bird poop! 

Well a job is a job, and I got to it.  Unfortunately one bird, a blue parakeet, made a break for the border and escaped. Oops! There wasn't much I could do, as the ceilings in the store were easily over 25 feet high, and my personal ability to fly was non-existent. Oh well, I thought and continued on scrubbing cages. Shortly thereafter, there seemed to be quite the commotion coming from the front of the store.  The snack counter to be exact. Apparently, as was related to me by mean ole Mr. D.  (who was now sporting a pulsing blood vessel on his forehead) my "Free" bird, had decided to try log walking on the hot dogs that were spinning on the hot rollers. Needless to say the patrons and waitresses were not impressed. I mean lighten up, this was decades before we even heard of bird flu! I was told in no uncertain terms, that I had to recapture that bird before the close of business.  I was armed with a 5 inch net used for scooping  fish, and as I mentioned earlier, the ceilings were at least 25 feet high.  In other words, Mission Impossible.

As I was pondering my predicament, we received a fish delivery. When the fish guy comes, he tosses plastic bags containing water and fish, into the large aquariums. I finished up cage detail, and started dumping the fish out of their bags into their respective tanks. I was almost finished, when a blood curdling shriek erupted at the Hamster pen. It seems that one of the hamsters had given birth, and her cell mates were engaging in baby hamstercide in full view of customers. People came running, as I bravely scooped the new mother and children to safety in a separate pen. Mean ole Mr. D. was not impressed.

After all the hoopla died down, I returned to my fish duties, when uh-oh.....all the fish I had previously dumped into their new home, were doing a particularly gruesome back float.  I learned later, that the fish delivery guy was not being lazy when he didn't dump the fish into the aquariums, rather he was letting the water in the bags acclimate to the water in the tanks. In this way the fish would not be shocked to death when undergoing a significant temperature change. Mean ole Mr. D. explained this to me, as I watched not only his pulsing blood vessel, but his face turn a bright magenta.

Well the cages were clean, the fish (or what was left of them) were fed, and the Hamster situation resolved. My only problem was my run away bird. I came up with, what I thought was a very crafty solution.  Back then, some birds had clipped wings.  They were kept in a chicken wire enclosure, with a screen window placed on top. Luckily the pen was deep enough, that none of the "clippies" could hop out. I removed the top screen, and walked to the back of the department.  Sure enough my little runaway came sailing in for a quick snack.  It seems that hot dogs weren't cutting it. I quickly replaced the top.  Victory was mine! I thought Mean ole Mr. D. would be happy, but all he could sputter in my direction, was "that bird is a $5.00 bird, and you have him in the $1.00 pen!" " Get him where he belongs, before someone tries to buy him for a buck!"

Finally my day in the pet department came to a close.  Mean ole Mr. D. transferred me back to house wares where I spent the remainder of my summer making keys and cutting shades, grateful I didn't lose my job after "Nightmare in Petville."  You know, maybe he wasn't that mean after all.

A Chicken Returns to the Roost

We're back!  And we are not alone!  Junior is home after that first year at college, and we all have some adjusting to do. He departed straight from the island to his in-state school last August. We assumed we would see him occasionally, as he was only about 45 minutes away, but you know what happens when one assumes. That first semester he graced us with his presence once, over Thanksgiving break. We have a sneaking suspicion they closed the dorms that weekend, and since we were the only game in town he stopped by. Saying he came home to see us, would be exaggerating that weekend.  We were treated like timeshare pitchmen. He would stop in for the obligatory family meal on Thanksgiving, and then be free to come and go, mostly go, with friends, while having a nice clean bed, and fully stocked refrigerator at his disposal. Did I mention we were also his personal ATM?

Now he is home for the summer, and I have to say the bloom is fading off that rose. Apparently he is under the impression that we have converted our LBI home into a Motel 6, complete with maid service and an in house restaurant. We can track his movements through our house by the trail of empty water bottles, discarded socks, and empty food wrappers. Did I mention curfews? Apparently,  unbeknown to us, he has out grown them.

Now I realize that he did not have to adhere to any of these silly rules while at college, but as most parents will tell you, ignorance is bliss. I am a strong believer in adhering to the local social mores and customs, when visiting a foreign country. I don't think it has dawned on him that he is no longer living in the land of the free (read dorms), and the home of the non-existent curfew. I suspect there was more than a few nights this past year, when he arrived home the same time dawn was breaking, and as hard as this is to believe, I was young once too. The problem is I cannot fall asleep till I hear that bike rolling over the stones in our front yard, and the subsequent mid-night (or later) raid on my refrigerator. Only then, am I free to roll over and drift off, knowing all my chicks are accounted for. Welcome to the Parent Hood!

To be fair, there were also some great things I have witnessed. I have seen some signs of maturity.  He actually talks, and LISTENS to his younger siblings. He thanks me for making dinner.  We can engage in conversation, and miracle of miracles, he has admitted, in front of witnesses, that maybe his parents were right about a few things! Be still my heart.

I can't say I wasn't warned about this phenomena, by friends and family. How you gonna keep them down on the farm, once they've seen and tasted freedom? So this summer will be a delicate dance, one in which I slowly retreat with trepidation, and he goes fearlessly forward into adulthood. Now if I can just manage to keep my fridge and pantry stocked, I'm sure we'll make it through.

Vindication

I haven’t written much lately, and I want to explain why.  I have been recovering from a shock, which shook me to my very core. Not a bad thing, but rather a wondrous event.  My eldest admitted to me that I might have been right.  I know, I know, I am still reeling myself! Friends and acquaintances with older offspring told me this day would come, but I believed my child would defy those optimists, and continue to roll his eyes at me till he was well into middle age.

So on what issue did this miraculous reversal take place, you might ask.  Wardrobe choices! For years I had pointed out various outfits that I felt would look complimentary.  I wanted him to take advantage of the physique he so nonchalantly ignored, tall and lean.  Like most in his peer group, he believed his body would stay like this forever.  I tried to warn him that a beer belly waited for him after a college kegger or two, that the freshman 15 turned into the young adult 30 in the blink of an eye.  Make hay while the sun shines, dress well while clothes still look good on you, I counseled. Trust me, you will look back from middle age at the photos from college, and be mortified at your wardrobe choices. Extra long gym shorts slung way too low, with a wide swatch of boxer shorts on display doesn’t do anything for anybody.  Not even if you are a hip-hop rapper, which by the way, you are not.  The ratty t-shirts sporting grease stains from the last few pizzas you scarfed down coupled with a beat up pair of board shoes, will never get you on the cover of GQ! It was a battle that could not be won.  Peer pressure one, Mom zero.

I was looking over the latest catalogue from Land’s End on a recent afternoon, admiring the clean classic looks sported by the young men, when a miracle occurred.  He leaned over, paged through and said to me, “You know, I wouldn’t mind getting some of these clothes, they look really good.” WHAT!!!!!  Are you being sarcastic, was the first thought that ran through my mind.  I looked around to see if there were any video cameras filming this. Had I had just been a victim of a cruel joke, for the viewing pleasure of u-tube aficionados?  “Are you serious”, I asked? “Yeah, I think it’s’ time to start cleaning up my act in the clothes department.” He replied. Be still my heart, he was agreeing with me!

In the blink of an eye, I had him in the car, racing to the mall.  I figured strike while the iron is hot, this change in attitude was very fragile, and could reverse at any moment. He hasn’t allowed me to help with garment choices since he grew out of his Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls. At the mall, we zeroed in on the young clean looks shown in the catalogue.  He headed off to the dressing room, arms laden with classic Bermuda shorts, cotton button down shirts, and a pair of docksiders. He emerged dressed how I always hoped and prayed he would.  I think I actually brushed a tear or two away. Major damage was done to my American Express card that day, but they were joyous purchases. I felt like a kid at Christmas.

Later that evening he showed his dad the new duds. My husband smiled fondly, and reminisced that these were the same classic looks that he wore in college.  However that was not the same story my mother in law had related.  She had shared with me her battles with children versus clothes. She used to insist that her sons wear the classic khakis, Izod shirts, and boat shoes for major holidays, family events, and any picture taking opportunities.  This was done under protest.  “If left to their own devices, you would have seen a lot more Nehru Jackets and Leisure Suits” she said.  “Trust me, they grow up, and start making some smarter wardrobe decisions” she counseled.

I began to reflect on my own outfit choices, back when I was a teen. Low slung “elephant” bell bottom jeans, with beaded head bands tied Indian style across one’s forehead was not a good look for anyone.  Ditto on the hot pants, 5 inch platform shoes, and the de rigueur tie dyed anything. I must admit I ignored my own mother’s requests to just “take a look” at matching twin sets, and shorts not sporting frayed hems. So I too must admit “sorry Mom, you were right.” Mea culpa.

I overheard my eldest talking to his younger brothers, he was telling them, that maybe Mom wasn’t totally off the mark with her clothing selections.  He actually said, “You know, I have to admit, I should have listened to her sooner.” Ahh music to my ears.  They rolled their eyes and wandered off, one sporting a t-shirt with a picture of a Sumo wrestler, which said “I’m Big in Japan”, the other with a shark tee, sporting the old “Bite Me” logo. I just have to remember they are still in the larva stages of wardrobe development.  One day, in the not so distant future, they too may gladden my heart and ask for button down shirts and argyle socks! 

Searching for Diamonds

They say that diamonds are formed as a result of intense downward pressure, for a long period of time.  If in fact this is true, I probably have a tennis bracelet or two waiting for me at the bottom of my family’s dresser drawers. It appears that my husband and sons are incapable of tossing out any clothes, no matter the state of un-wearability.  I put away my husband’s freshly laundered, neatly folded clothes, and quite frankly there is no room left at the inn. He still has underwear crushed at the bottom of the drawer, which in my humble opinion, pre-dates his college years.  This occurs when he buys new items, and then proceeds to ignore the layers of clothes underneath them.  The new stuff gets into the laundry cycle and overlays the former like a sedimentary crust. You can probably figure out his age, by counting the layers, much like you would count the rings on a tree.

Woe to the wife who cleans out the drawer and disposes of any artifacts! Apparently there is some special sentiment attached to each and every t-shirt he owns. If one does make it to the garbage, chances are it will be rescued, with baleful looks cast in my direction.  My husband tells me that he is “saving” all these old clothes, to use as his “fishing outfits.” According to my calculations, unless he plans to fish every day for the next 50 years, he’s’ got it covered.

My son’s have inherited this paternal trait, and can never seem to part with anything. There have been days when I tackled their clothes drawers, and ruthlessly tossed items in the goodwill bag. As it turns out, I usually end up accidentally tossing out a t-shirt or two, which was needed for some special event at school.  They assure me that everything in their clothes drawer is of vital importance, and to please leave the clothes alone.  Hmmm, wonder when you last wore that Carter’s onesie, in size 18 months?  

The other thing that is so annoying about this problem is the wrinkles.  I neatly fold each garment that makes its way through my laundry room.  After repeated requests of “take your clean clothes to your room, and put them away” the clothes make up to the bedroom.  There they are ruthlessly stuffed into overflowing drawers and turned into what looks like crepe paper.  I feel like attaching a disclaimer to the backs of their shirts stating “Condition of Clothes is not Due to Management Inefficiency, But Rather the Fault of the Wearer.”

Faulty diet and lack of exercise lead to high blood pressure, according to the experts.  I am going to go out on a limb here and state that overflowing dresser drawers are a significant contributing factor as well.  I know it is in my case.

I have to go and take some clean clothes to put away now, maybe I’ll find a newly formed pair of diamond studs waiting for me as well!

Final Exam Frenzy

My oldest child is finishing up his first year at college, and will be home soon. It seems like it was just yesterday, that he left. Many of my friends, who were going through the same rite of passage, would say to me, “at least he is staying in state; you’ll get to see him pretty often.”  My neighbor’s child was heading over 600 miles away, and she was saddened at the thought of not seeing her very often. She ended up seeing her daughter at least 3 times as many days as I did sonny boy.  Her daughter did not come running home, she only returned at the major Holidays, Spring break, and one weekend.  My son stayed on campus until they locked the dorms, and he had no other option. Don’t get me wrong, he came home for Thanksgiving, and was present for the dinner, but then he immediately went off to “hang” with friends. Over The winter break, he went away with his team for a training trip.  When Spring break came, he had some surgery done, and was zonked out most of his time home. I think all told we spent maybe 48 hours with him, over the past 9 months.

This semester he was taking Accounting 101.  In my former life, I was an accountant; in fact I have the Bachelors Degree to prove it.  Great!  I thought. This I can help him with.  Visions of us bonding over debits and credits, or having lively debates on the FIFO versus LIFO inventory valuation, danced in my head.  I don’t know what planet I thought I was living on. He called me for help on one problem. The conversation lasted 3 minutes.

Every time we spoke, I reminded him that I was here to help and guide him through this subject. In fact I not only promised help with the school work, but I was willing to toss in his favorite dinner to boot.  Nothing.  I think he started to feel sorry for me, so he said he would come home for 3 and a half days prior to his final, and let me help him review.

I was so excited!  I broke out my own (30 year old) Accounting 101 text, sharpened up a slew of pencils, and set up a study station on my dining room table.  He needed me! He brought home a practice exam with answer key which his professor had distributed.  We sat down at the table Monday morning and jumped in.  Let the arguing begin!

The first problem we had was with question number one.  I disagreed with the professor’s answer. I told him to e-mail the teacher immediately, to inform of his error. He told me to get lost; I probably had forgotten a thing or two over the years.  This of course led to the discussion of how I had given up a promising career in the stimulating world of accounting, to stay home and raise his ungrateful butt. We decided to agree to disagree on this problem and head to number two. We fared better, but there were still some raised voices, and accusations of “No, you are doing it wrong!” flung back and forth, ultimately we both ended up with the correct answer according to the solution key. We painfully made our way through the practice exam, with differences of opinion at every turn. After about 4 hours of study, we decided to call it a day. Later that night, I overheard him telling his father that we had spent over 6 hours studying.  I guess he was on the same planet that I was, when I thought we would bond over accounting.

Tuesday morning we headed back to the torture chamber. I had lovingly googled a slew of exams from the internet.  He was surprisingly unappreciative. We started tackling a few problems, when he noticed my old text book on the table.  On the side of the book in black ink was written    F**K this S**T (substitute some letters for the asterisks). Imagine my surprise, not to mention horror!  How had this happened?  I was a very diligent student.  I worked hard, and sometimes even did extra problems to make sure I understood the concepts. (Well at least this was the party line I had been spouting the last couple of years.) I was stone cold, busted. I had been found out! I bought used books from profane accounting students.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

We didn’t last too long that morning, and by noon, he requested to be returned to school. He assured me it was no reflection on my tutoring abilities, (or inabilities) but rather some study groups were getting together later that afternoon.  Whatever, he wanted outta Dodge.

His last exam, accounting, is on Friday. Then freshman year will be officially over. I will be picking him up, plus the contents of his dorm room, and bringing my boy back home.  I am looking forward to it. He called this morning to tell me that his professor had e-mailed the class to inform them that the answer to question number one was incorrect. “You were right mom.” Yes, my boy is growing up!