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!