So Your (Child is) Applying to College......

I wanted to share my experiences of the college application process with all of you that are currently enjoying this rite of passage.  First off I suggest drink heavily, it does nothing for the process, but it might make you feel better.  For seventeen years we have been preparing our babes for this momentous step, going to college.  The majority of you, like me watched the “Ivies” being taken off the table by the end of the first marking period in freshman year.  I watched as the premier colleges got shuffled to the side as the march through high school proceeded.  Oh we begged, threatened, promised rewards, stood on our heads and spit nickels, trying to motivate junior into improving his grades. We tried explaining to him that being the best at “Halo” and “Call of Duty” was not going to impress the college admission board. Well the time passed, and bang, Senior year. Now there is a bright moment here, if you’d like to partake.  You and your spouse are officially eligible to engage in the “I told you so” dance, as it pertains to grades, club participation, and community service. It goes something like this, “I told you to work harder, but no, what do I know!” Sadly it wasn’t as much fun as I anticipated.

The process began.

The first step is finding out what you want in a college. To us parents that would mean reputation, size, areas of study offered, graduate outcomes, and to some, distance from home.  In our case my son wanted a higher ratio of girls to guys, great party reputation, proximity to major cities, and did I mention  great Party reputation.  He also preferred a location close to a beach, with a temperate climate. Distance to home was not a priority, as he did not plan on coming home, unless he absolutely had to. We rapidly realized that our son was viewing this whole college gig as a Club Med singles vacation, and we would get to pay!  We asked him if he had any colleges in mind.  He replied he wouldn’t mind going to college in Hawaii. Like Don Ho school of surfing? We think not!  We asked him what he thought he would like to do with his life………”surf and be rich,” was his reply. Oh our work was cut out for us.

After heartfelt discussions, “no we are not paying $50,000 a year,” “there is no school with a major in beer, babes, and bongs,” and “keep dreaming!” we had narrowed the field down. Next step was to see what these institutes of higher learning required in the way of SATs, and GPAs.  Obviously we must be in the midst of a genius baby boom. According to the literature, the midline SAT scores, and GPAs expected by most of the colleges on our list was, in my humble opinion, wildly inflated. My husband and I are no dumb bunnies, yet with the scores we received, back in the day, we would be lucky we weren’t laughed right out of the guidance office. I would also like to interject here, DO NOT listen to other parents! If you do, you will end up crying yourself to sleep, convinced that junior will stay at home with you forever. Everyone knows someone whose child had perfect SATs or toll frees (800,800,800) and did not get into the school your child is considering.  They will also regale you with tales of valedictorians, who besides being legacies, had done promising research on global warming, received plaques for outstanding community service, yet were denied admission to the school you were thinking about for your “if all else fails” he can go there choice. On the other hand you will hear tales of a kid who received a full ride with stipends, to a prestigious college, when you know for a fact, this child is far from being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Don’t listen, don’t believe!  No one will admit to you that they are confused and worried that their children won’t “measure up.”

Now the list was down to a manageable size. Let the applications begin!  From my own experience, most of the application is very much like all those forms we have been filling out every September for our children since they toddled off to preschool. Name, birth-date, address, blah, blah, blah, blah.  The twist on the form is this, you don’t have to fill it out, they do!  Hooray!  You are not off the hook, though.  In fact you may be shocked and appalled at some of the things your children do not know. For instance, “where was I born,” ”hey mom, did you go to college?” “What is my status?” “The choices being single, married, or divorced.” I was tempted to say stupid. This segment of the application is not too bad.  Then comes the essay. Most colleges require an essay.  Usually they are asked to write something along the lines of what “makes you special!”  Because my Mom said so, usually is not enough.  This is when the real procrastination begins.  My child can text the equivalent of “War and Peace” with his thumbs, on a cell phone, with his eyes closed, while listening to music, yet was stalling on typing a 750 word essay. He would sit in front of the computer and gaze off into space, softly moaning at the indignity of it all. I had to keep reminding him, if this hurdle was not crossed, there was no Club Med, I mean college for you. Eventually that onerous task was behind us.

Addressing and mailing the applications, a snap! Paying the $50 per application, not as much fun.

The final step is the wait.  The mad rush to the mailbox, as decision days came along. The elation at being accepted, the devastation accompanying the rejections.  The worst by far, is the deferral. You’re not in, but you’re not out. Eventually all the responses are in, the good, the bad, and the ugly. It all does work out. Your son or daughter usually ends up where they are meant to be. Trust me I survived! Thank you Vodka, for all your help and support through this perilous passage.

Fashion Sense, and Sensibility

I read somewhere recently, about a woman being caught in a, shall I say, less then flattering outfit, when someone came to her house unexpectedly.  My home is my “safe” place, and some of the get-ups I flounce around in, should never see the light of day.  Sadly, I too have been caught in some Interesting wardrobe choices over the years.  (Thankfully, they pre-date u-tube.)

Many years ago, my husband and I purchased our first home.  I carefully packed up our belongings, and meticulously identified the contents on the side of the boxes.  Since I had been at my previous residence for over 9 years, and was unwilling to part with a thing, there was a boat load. I stayed at our old place overseeing the move, while my spouse directed traffic at our new digs.  One would think that “someone” would have the movers place the containers according to their labeled contents.  One would be wrong.

When I arrived late that night, our new home seemed curiously empty. However the bedroom at the back of the house was packed ceiling to floor, with every box I had packed.  Remember the last scene in the first Indiana Jones movie, where they wheeled the Ark into the massive warehouse?  Enough said.

The next morning, after grabbing a quick shower, and starting the wash from the previous day, I went looking for clothes. Well I couldn’t find them. Even if I knew which box they were in, I wouldn’t be able to get to them. The clothes I had worn the previous day were now mid-wash cycle.  I began the joyful task of unpacking, keeping an eye out for something I could put on.  Lucky husband had gone off to work.

After unpacking 5 or 6 boxes, I came upon a negligee.  Now this was no ordinary night gown. This number had the “Fredrick’s of Hollywood” stamp of approval all over it. I had received this lovely get-up from some co-workers for my wedding night. The adjectives, sheer, plunging, peek-a-boo, and marabou trim, would all be useful in describing this ensemble. Well desperate times call for desperate measures, and with the alternative, wearing only underpants, on it went.  I got back to work, unpacking and putting things away.

Ding-Dong!  The front door bell. I am hoping it is a friend or family, coming to help, but no. It would be the cable guy.  I try to be nonchalant as I tell him where the outlets need to go, and scurry back to the “warehouse” to hide out.  Ding-Dong! Phone guy.  Ding-Dong! Gas company guy, to hook up your dryer. Ding-Dong! Electric man, to switch over your  service.  All the while I am prancing through the house with this “Hookers R Us” outfit, trying unsuccessfully to shield the “peek-a-boo” parts from the now sizable audience of utility technicians. I believe the phrase “Desperate Housewife” was coined that day. Finally everyone was finished, and gone, or so I thought.  One joker who’s utility will remain anonymous, came back later in the day with a partner, stating they needed to double check something! I think they were looking for my non-existant dance pole.

Now my Mother always told me to look for the silver lining in events.  My silver lining here was the prompt response received from my utility companies for that first year.  When something had to be repaired or replaced, I usually got a TEAM of technicians, immediately.  I was thinking about donning the old outfit when I moved into my present home, but alas that was 25 years and 50+ pounds ago, and I fear it might have the opposite effect.

Summer Tune-up

    OH, the crying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that ensued as I stood in front of the mirror, clad in my gray (formally white) bra and large granny panties.  Thank God I was behind closed doors, with the shades down. It was time to get my body “detailed” for summer, and there was much “detailing” to do.

   Starting at the top, I knew the two-inch gray skunk roots had to go.  Off to Carol, the coloring queen at the local salon.  Carol covered my hair in dark brown dye.  She also painted some on my gray eyebrows and waltzed off as her magic potions took effect.  I glanced up after five minutes and who should I see looking back at me but former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev.  I was sporting a thick dark uni-brow and jowls like deputy dog!  I was so shocked I nearly dropped my devil dog. Luckily all turned out well; the devil dog was safe.

    The only gray hairs left were those sprouting off my chin and upper lip.  My sister-in-law informed me that waxing was not good for thin postmenopausal skin. (Figures, the only thin thing on me.) She told me about threading - a painless facial hair removal procedure.  Threads are gently rolled over the offending hair and magically whisked away.

    I decided to go to a threading kiosk located in the center of the mall. I had nothing to lose but my whiskers.  The operator stands above you while she “threads” the offending hair away. Since I am a tad over six feet tall, I had to scootch down in my chair.  When the right height was established, I was lying on my back with feet propped up on the counter. The threading began. My sister in-law, who shall hence-forth be known as the big fat liar, glossed over the pain factor. The last time I was in that much pain, and position, they gave me an epidural. Unfortunately, my HMO does not cover anesthesia for hair removal, a gross oversight in my humble opinion.  According to the crowd of on-lookers, I shook like a leaf, and had tears running down my face. One eyewitness swore I was foaming at the mouth.  Three hours later (it had been closer to five minutes) I was the proud owner of a face that looked as if it had been attacked by killer bees, but oh so silky smooth.

  Tomorrow’s agenda will find me at my local weight loss group, the “Middle Age Muffin Tops”, where I fear I will hear: “Hey, weren’t you the crazy lady I saw yesterday getting your mustache threaded?”  Some things are better left behind closed doors. 

Swimsuit Shopping

Well it’s that most wonderful time of the year!  The purchase of this year’s swimsuit.

My self and my young shopper (three year old son) headed off. Oh

the choices……bikinis, thongs, tanks…or my usual favorite the skirted, where does a girl begin.  If you are like me, you grab a few in a size you were last year, and head off to

what you know will be painful….the fitting room.  This year they were carrying a little

number called “The Slim Suit”.  This little suit had special space age technology fabric guaranteed to take inches off your shape!  They also carried it in slimming black.  Well

Hello slim suit you have my name all over you!  The three of us headed behind the curtain.  What is it with those fluorescent lights, which make it painfully obvious that

besides missing a few aerobics classes, you’ve also scrimped on the personal grooming

this past winter. The lovely white pasty thighs, cellulite creep, and nether regions crying out for a Brazilian.  Sasquatch comes to mind.  I begin shimmying this garment up.

OH MY GOD, I feel like I am trussed  tighter then Dr Hannibal Lecter, in “Silence of the Lamb’s”, I can’t breathe, the fabric is cutting off my circulation, I pull it up another inch, I get it to my knees….And there it  is “A  Break for the Border!” My three year old son, has had enough, and has escaped through the bottom of the dressing room curtain.

What do I do? What do I do? Well we all know that motherhood trumps embarrassment

So off I go in hot pursuit.  Luckily I have managed to hike the straps partially up my arms (Kinda) and I am sprinting out of the dressing room.  You’ve heard of “Dead Man Walking”, think “Penguin Running.” My young associate thinks this is a game, he dashes under racks of clothes, all the while yelling “you can’t catch me, you can’t catch me!” You read about mothers imbued with superhuman strength when their offspring are threatened.  You would be amazed at how fast they can run too!  I charged through the store, dodging shopping carts, other moms   who glanced sympathetically, as they shielded there child’s eyes, and of course the fitting room lady, who wanted to know if I was taking the suit. After a tour of most of the areas in the store, (the men’s department was particularly delightful), I finally did catch him, and wrestled him back to the fitting room.  There I did notice that the claims of the “Slim Suit” were correct.  I had lost inches around my torso.   Unfortunately, like toothpaste in a tube, the inches had to go somewhere.  In this case I was now sporting what can best be described as a flesh colored inner tube around the top of the suit. I shed, “La Slim Suit” along with my dignity, while I played goalie: young son playing the part of the ball, and the escape route being the net.  As we slunk out of the store I realize how much I really liked last year’s suit.  It has the cutest skirt!

Lost in Translation

The migration begins in June when school lets out.  Moms accompanied by their offspring

head to the shore.  The Dads arrive on Friday nights, and head out Sunday , or early Monday morning.  The Moms try to bring to the beach house everything they need for the duration. This includes but is not limited to clothes, swimwear, goggles, towels, sunscreen, summer reading list books, prescriptions, DVDs, bikes, scooters, sunglasses, stamps, stationary, helmets, aspirin, any perishable food in the refrigerator, etc.........The van is packed to bursting, the children's faces usually mashed up against the window, oh did I mention pets?  Well I think you get the picture.

Invariably something will be forgotten.  I then get to play "What Language am I Speaking?" with my husband.  The  first week down this season, I realized I had forgotten to bring down my special summertime martini glass.  It is a very cute hand painted number  that I received from one of my LBI buddies. It was residing in the top shelf of the cabinet over the microwave.   I also left my deviled egg platter in the cupboard directly over the oven.  Additionally I failed to back up some files from my home computer  that I needed down here.  Now this is where the fun begins.  I know my husband will be coming here Friday.  I also know the biggest thing in his car will be a hefty trash bag of dirty clothes.  Why not have my beloved bring some of my missing items!  I called him during the week, and made my request. I included what I thought were pretty detailed  descriptions of said items, including  GPS coordinates.  So what did my dutiful spouse show up with?  A plastic juice tumbler, with a painted Disney motif, an empty egg carton, and  two floppy disks (my computer only takes CDs/DVDs). Trust me this is a big improvement over previous retrievals.  At least the objects he brought  for me had some,  tenuous relationship  to the items I had requested.  I have learned that he hears green when I say  blue,  I said tweezers, he heard screw driver, you want  your nice sun dress, be prepared for a wedding gown complete with veil.

I had often puzzled over this summer time break down in communications.  I believe I might have solved the translation issue.  Mind you, I said solved the translation  mystery, not solved the problem. I believe when my request was being made, I did not take into consideration some very important facts. I have a sneaking suspicion that my darling received my call as he was sitting with his feet up on the coffee table, having a beer, and eating a large bag of potato chips for dinner.  Compounding the problem, was  the grand slam that was hit as I was describing the articles I needed.   This action on TV caused a reaction, namely my husband sitting up straight, and thus knocking the beer and chips to the floor with his feet. Since he doesn't like to burden me with problems, he made an executive decision to keep this mishap to himself.  So to spare me he just said "sure thing, I'll bring them down on Friday night" as he was grabbing paper towels  and the dust buster, or not.   Later I'm sure it crossed his mind when he headed up to his un-made bed, dodging piles of dirty clothes and damp towels, or not.  It probably made a fleeting pass through his thoughts as he lay in bed watching slo-mo replays of the earlier grand slam on Sports center,  who was I kidding?  Friday morning as he was having his daily OJ  directly out of the carton, before loading his trash bag for the trek to LBI, a nagging at the back of his conscience reminded him of my request.  Since he will not admit  that he doesn't listen to half of what I say, he relied on the memory of our phone conversation. Hence the ensuing confusion.

I have rolled around some ideas on how to remedy this situation. I believe I have a workable idea. All I need to do is take out an ad on the jumbo-tron.  Instead of" Mary will you marry me? " My message will be: Please bring down my red flip flops, not to be confused with the LL Bean duck boot. In the meantime you may see me around town, I'll be the one in the wedding dress and bedroom slippers.

A Matter of Trust

I really thought I could trust him.  Home alone Monday through Friday all summer , while  myself

and the kids were  tucked away on the corner of "Easy Street" and "You got It Made Boulevard" in LBI. 

(Thanks for  the reference, Ruth)  I remained on the Island the entire summer in 2009.  No treks back

for Doctor's visits, no pressing appointments that couldn't wait till September, just LBI for ten weeks

straight.  Then I went home...........I've learned my lesson. My husband cannot be trusted with the house.

My first clue was the dead lawn in front of our home.  When I  last glimpsed it in my rear view mirror in

June, it was a lush green carpet, brimming with vitality.  No resemblance  to the parched weedy  patch

of dirt my house  sat upon.  I feared my house plants had suffered a similar fate.  I  was right. Inside my

home, every appliance and electronic device winked  and texted PF, PF, PF (power failure...OMG!) In

other words a power outage had occurred sometime over the preceding  ten weeks, and nothing had

been re-set.  The mystery of the neglected lawn was solved!  The GFI switch for the sprinkler system had

been tripped during the outage.  Judging by the lawn condition, I would put the outage at approximately

8 hours after I pulled out of town. 

 I made a brief reconnaissance of the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry. In the freezer I found my carefully

wrapped "just heat it up" dinners, under a two inch protective layer of permafrost.  Well at least dinner

for our first night home was taken care of.   The refrigerator looked mighty empty, except for a gallon

jug of juice, with a 1/8 of an inch left, assorted condiments,   4 or 5 items that had overstayed their

welcome, and fishing bait.  The real   treat was behind door number one, the pantry. When a potato

goes bad, it goes real bad!  I won't traumatize you with any descriptions, let's just say open windows,

fans, and a multitude of sanitizers were put into play. Unfortunately there was a high percentage of

collateral damage to adjacent items .  Let me tell you, there is no such thing as a non-perishable  when a

potato has gone to the dark side.

Next stop, bathrooms.  All in all, reasonably clean much better then what I had  anticipated.  Sadly

I am still the only member of our household that possesses  the skill set needed to change the toilet

paper  rolls.  In every bathroom, a single sheet clung to the tube, waving in the breeze, while new rolls

perched  jauntily on the tank.  Every seat was in its upright position, ready for takeoff.

Later, I was called upon to print out some forms for school .  The grinding sound

emanating from the printer did not bode well.  A massive paper jam, one that required tools and the

removal of a  back panel .  Apparently someone that   shall not be named, must have added a huge

sheaf of paper, while printing was in progress.  When the crinkled mess was removed , I noticed the date

on the jammed page. This  jam had been committed  the day after The children and I headed south. Oh,

and by the way, the printer was out of ink.

I slowly worked my way through the house, making minor repairs, replacing burnt out bulbs, putting

dishes in their rightful places, knowing I only had my naive trusting self to blame.   Later that night, 

when I thought my work was done, I turned  on the bedroom TV, and ole!  The shows were all being

televised in Spanish.  El senor of the house had somehow managed to change our TV from English to

Spanish, but  wasn't quite sure how to reverse the process.  I now grasped the significance of His

greeting " Hola, Senora,"  welcome home.

School Daze

I have been the mother of elementary school children for over 12 years now. (I believe

they only allow the president to serve 8 consecutive years hmmmm) In these dozen or

so years I have skillfully evaded being the “Class Mom”, a thankless job, with no pay,

and even less benefits. From time to time I have been guilt tripped into coming in to school to help out.  Usually this is to aid in the throwing of a Holiday extravaganza!

I was the helper mom at one first grade Thanksgiving party. A word to the wise…glue sticks just don’t have the holding power when it comes to attaching feathers to brown

paper vests. I spent the morning cutting, gluing, and stapling, for 24 designer divas.

I never knew that glitter was a popular Puritan embellishment.  I now stand corrected!

I helped with numerous “Hand Turkeys”, which seem to never go out of style, and

Candy Corn name collages. The buffet style meal of apple cider, and popcorn just

couldn’t be beat.

I thought the whole thing had gone off rather well!  True I was covered with gold

glitter, and the apple cider had given me a touch of indigestion, but all in all a good day.

My guilt effectively banished.

Later that afternoon, when my young son came off the bus, he couldn’t wait to

rehash the day.  “You know everyone asked me, if you were my mom,” he said.

“Yes, she is,” he related proudly.  My heart was swelling with pride, and

I made a mental note to volunteer more often. “And then they said, “Shes’

huge!”  “And I said, I know!” He happily recalled. “I told them that you are probably

the biggest mom in the WHOLE first grade!” “Isn’t that great mom?  “When are

you coming back in ?”

 “Oh maybe in about 35 pounds or so,” I replied.