When my daughter, Veronica, brings home a friend who is a boy, it usually means she likes him, which sort of makes sense. I mean why would she want us to meet someone she doesn’t like? But, if she really likes him, I have to wonder why she’d want him to meet US, unless she’s sure he won’t be scared off by our decidedly batty family.
Regardless, I know -- or at least I think I know-- that men look at the mother to see what the girlfriend will look like when she’s older. That’s a lot of pressure on the mom.
Today, the young man Veronica has been seeing came over. Only Veronica forgot to tell me he was coming over until I saw his car arrive in the driveway from the kitchen window. It wasn’t just that I was still in my pajamas, sitting at the kitchen table, slurping down Rice Krispies; it was that I hadn’t taken off my makeup from last night, or looked at myself in a mirror, or brushed my teeth. And, to make matters worse, just as he was walking up to the front door, one of the dogs, who had been sitting at my feet, farted.
Veronica must have seen his car from her bedroom window and descended the staircase to let him in. As she walked toward the front door, about to open it, I screamed, “DOG FART!” We went into major “dog fart”mode. “You let the dogs out,” I told her, “I’ll grab the grapefruit-scented counter cleaner.” “No,” she screamed, “I’ll get the Febreze!” “No, not the Febreze,” I said, “you spray so much of it that I need to spray something else to cover up the scent of the Febreze!” “Mother,” she said, “he’s almost at the door!”
“Ok, don’t panic,” I said, while panicking. It wasn’t just that the smell of dog fart permeated the kitchen and front hall; it was that my bowl of Rice Krispies was still sitting on the table in the direct waft of the dog fart. Hence, it would seem as though I had been the one who had dealt it.
I realized I had to act; and act fast. I turned on the kitchen ceiling fan, grabbed the grapefruit-scented counter cleaner, scrubbed the kitchen table, and shot a little of the spray toward the fan so it could disperse the grapefruit scent, in hopes of covering up the offensive fart smell. The fact that there wasn’t actual grapefruit on the table hadn’t occurred to me. I just hoped the house smelled fresh and clean, instead of like a puppy port-a-potty.
Once the aroma of the grapefruit had overpowered the scent of fart, I nodded to Veronica to open the door. At that exact moment, I ran upstairs to my bathroom to assess my hair and wash my face. Earlier this morning, Richard said my hair looked “Interesting; sort of like flames licking a burning building.” As I looked into the mirror, I realized he had been totally correct in his description. My morning hair is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get.
And then there was the matter of my face. Last night’s mascara and eyeliner had migrated down to my chin. The fact that Veronica hadn’t mentioned this to me when she saw me this morning was a little troublesome. Was this occurrence so “normal” for me that my family didn’t think it was necessary to give me a little heads up?
I grabbed my make-up remover, and then clipped my hair up loosely. “Not bad,” I thought to myself, but not exactly what I wanted to project as the future Veronica. I brushed my teeth, and put on a sweatshirt to add a little panache to my pajama ensem.
By the time I came back downstairs, Veronica and her new friend were watching a movie down in the family room. I peeked in and said hello. I realized at that moment that he didn’t care what I looked like, or what I smelled like. I swear that even though I may have smelt it, I hadn’t been the one who dealt it. Anyone who has dogs knows that no human is capable of creating the odiferous stench of the canine flatus.
But, just in case he stays for more than the 1 ½ hour movie, I’ll take a shower, put on fresh makeup and extinguish the flames from my hair.
Addendum:
Please don’t ask Veronica any questions about her new friend. She’ll absolutely be mortified that I went public with her private life. However, in the name of creative writing, and the fact that I’ve been suffering from an excruciatingly long period of writer’s block lately, I feel justified publishing this story. Plus, I promise to buy Veronica something pretty.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Smelt Fest
According to my records, which, in reality, are stories told to me by old-timers who have been smelting for decades, smelt used to be plentiful in the Great Lakes. Depending on which old-timer I spoke to, you’d just drop the net into the water, and using a pulley system, yank in hundreds, thousand, or even cruiseshipfuls of ‘em.
But, in the seven years or so I’ve been working Smelt Fest for the Park District, the total number of smelt I’ve seen caught rounds out to about eight. However, legend has it that the smelt ran in these here parts like, well, lots and lots of running smelt. I don’t know how they ran because they’re little silver fish without feet.
Speaking of legends, every year at Smelt Fest we have this salty guy who sings “shanties” (songs of the sea) throughout the night. But, as I listened to each song The Salty Guy sang, it occurred to me that every shanty ever written is basically a variation of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” by Gordon Lightfoot.
It also became apparent to me that The Sea has more attitude than all of The Real Housewives of New Jersey put together. The lyrics of each song The Salty Guy sang were more hateful than the last causing my mouth to drop open, and then slowly close, much like a smelt having an out of water experience.
To give you an example, one of the songs went like this: “Oh, the sailor went out, But he never came in, And he lost all his mates, And very sad were his kin.” The next song went something like this: “Oh, the children sleep well, But the orphans do not, For they live all alone, In their own little hell.”
Then there’s this little ditty: “Oh, she waited all night, By the shores of the sea, But the ship never came back, And neither did he. So she took her own life, But the children slept well, Except for the orphans, In their own little hell.” And, then there’s this one that illustrates just what a vindictive mistress the sea can be: “Oh, she waited all night, By the shores of the sea, But the ship never came back, And neither did he, So, she took her own life, But surprised she would be, Had she lived on to see, That he’d been on the other ship, And came back to his wife. (Ok. That one didn’t quite fit my rhyme scheme, but it proves the point.)
Yes, The Sea; She was angry this year during Smelt Fest, my friends. Well, actually, it was Lake Michigan, but “The Sea” sounds so much better. Anyway, “She” didn’t leave any widows or orphans at Smelt Fest, but she was quite choppy, and the wind was a-whippen.
I was one of the people helping pull in the nets off the pier. Over the years I have helped out at Smelt Fest in many capacities because I love being anywhere near or on Lake Michigan. I’ve fried ‘em, and I’ve served ‘em, but I won't eat 'em. I could maybe be coaxed into trying one if it were named “Rainbows and Glitterfish,” but smelt? I just can’t eat something called a smelt. It sounds like a Smurf with a communicable disease.
Now, for all of you Sea Fashionistas out there, I’ll give you the 411 on my Smelt-inspired outfit: I wore four pairs of mittens, five layers of assorted tops, a kicky little headband with super-cute yarn braids, and my fave bowler hat with an adorable wool rose on the side. I started off the night wearing the most fabu Isaac Mizrahi polka-dot rain boots, but as my feet began to get cold, I changed into my warm-as-toast black faux fur winter boots. I looked quite smashing, if I do say so myself. But, due to all of the layers of clothing, I looked like an overweight humpback whale.
But, back to the smelt at hand; the best thing about Smelt Fest, in my opinion, is how many old timers come back, year after year, and ask me the same exact thing: “How are the smelt runnin’?” I tell them they’re not runnin’ very well. I don’t say it’s because they’re fish and they don’t have feet, because that would just be rude. And even though they all say, “We used to come out here and pull in hundreds, or even thousands of ‘em,” I never get tired of hearing it. It’s as if they’re hoping that schools and schools of smelt will magically appear again.
So, in honor of all the old-timers who come back to Smelt Fest year after year, I wrote a little shanty myself, and it goes a little something like this: “Oh, the smelt used to run, But they don’t run no more, So we go out and get ‘em, From a Smelt-sellin' store. Then we bread ‘em and fry ‘em, And serve ‘em up hot, In a big pot of oil, On a Kenmore stovetop."
Maybe the smelt will start running again. Maybe they'll even have little feet. And maybe the Blackhawks and Bulls will win a title. We all have fish stories.
But, in the seven years or so I’ve been working Smelt Fest for the Park District, the total number of smelt I’ve seen caught rounds out to about eight. However, legend has it that the smelt ran in these here parts like, well, lots and lots of running smelt. I don’t know how they ran because they’re little silver fish without feet.
Speaking of legends, every year at Smelt Fest we have this salty guy who sings “shanties” (songs of the sea) throughout the night. But, as I listened to each song The Salty Guy sang, it occurred to me that every shanty ever written is basically a variation of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” by Gordon Lightfoot.
It also became apparent to me that The Sea has more attitude than all of The Real Housewives of New Jersey put together. The lyrics of each song The Salty Guy sang were more hateful than the last causing my mouth to drop open, and then slowly close, much like a smelt having an out of water experience.
To give you an example, one of the songs went like this: “Oh, the sailor went out, But he never came in, And he lost all his mates, And very sad were his kin.” The next song went something like this: “Oh, the children sleep well, But the orphans do not, For they live all alone, In their own little hell.”
Then there’s this little ditty: “Oh, she waited all night, By the shores of the sea, But the ship never came back, And neither did he. So she took her own life, But the children slept well, Except for the orphans, In their own little hell.” And, then there’s this one that illustrates just what a vindictive mistress the sea can be: “Oh, she waited all night, By the shores of the sea, But the ship never came back, And neither did he, So, she took her own life, But surprised she would be, Had she lived on to see, That he’d been on the other ship, And came back to his wife. (Ok. That one didn’t quite fit my rhyme scheme, but it proves the point.)
Yes, The Sea; She was angry this year during Smelt Fest, my friends. Well, actually, it was Lake Michigan, but “The Sea” sounds so much better. Anyway, “She” didn’t leave any widows or orphans at Smelt Fest, but she was quite choppy, and the wind was a-whippen.
I was one of the people helping pull in the nets off the pier. Over the years I have helped out at Smelt Fest in many capacities because I love being anywhere near or on Lake Michigan. I’ve fried ‘em, and I’ve served ‘em, but I won't eat 'em. I could maybe be coaxed into trying one if it were named “Rainbows and Glitterfish,” but smelt? I just can’t eat something called a smelt. It sounds like a Smurf with a communicable disease.
Now, for all of you Sea Fashionistas out there, I’ll give you the 411 on my Smelt-inspired outfit: I wore four pairs of mittens, five layers of assorted tops, a kicky little headband with super-cute yarn braids, and my fave bowler hat with an adorable wool rose on the side. I started off the night wearing the most fabu Isaac Mizrahi polka-dot rain boots, but as my feet began to get cold, I changed into my warm-as-toast black faux fur winter boots. I looked quite smashing, if I do say so myself. But, due to all of the layers of clothing, I looked like an overweight humpback whale.
But, back to the smelt at hand; the best thing about Smelt Fest, in my opinion, is how many old timers come back, year after year, and ask me the same exact thing: “How are the smelt runnin’?” I tell them they’re not runnin’ very well. I don’t say it’s because they’re fish and they don’t have feet, because that would just be rude. And even though they all say, “We used to come out here and pull in hundreds, or even thousands of ‘em,” I never get tired of hearing it. It’s as if they’re hoping that schools and schools of smelt will magically appear again.
So, in honor of all the old-timers who come back to Smelt Fest year after year, I wrote a little shanty myself, and it goes a little something like this: “Oh, the smelt used to run, But they don’t run no more, So we go out and get ‘em, From a Smelt-sellin' store. Then we bread ‘em and fry ‘em, And serve ‘em up hot, In a big pot of oil, On a Kenmore stovetop."
Maybe the smelt will start running again. Maybe they'll even have little feet. And maybe the Blackhawks and Bulls will win a title. We all have fish stories.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Desperately Seeking Tracy
It would have been impossible for me not to have noticed him. He was attractive, but not in a conventional way. Like an alluring fragrance, his presence subtly drew me to him. His most marked characteristic was thick, shoulder-length, wavy, silver hair that actually looked good on a man about my age.
We passed each other briefly as I was walking into the drugstore, and he was walking out. I turned to catch another glimpse of his hair, and was surprised to see him turn around to look back at me. With desperate, hopeful eyes, he said, “Tracy?” as if I was someone he had lost many years ago and would have given anything to see again. Gently, I told him that I was not she. He apologized, but I told him there was no need. He smiled as he slowly lowered his head, and left.
As if I could somehow help him, or at least try to understand who he was looking for, I scanned my brain for any “Tracys” I might know. My friend Nancy has a daughter named Tracy, but surely he wasn’t confusing me with a Bat Mitzvah-aged pre-teen. The only other Tracy I could think of was someone I went to high school with who also lives in this area, but I don’t think we bear any resemblance. And, because I’m a girl, I thought to myself, “I hope this Tracy person is pretty, or at least nice, if he thinks I look like her.”
Had this been a Robert Redford indie-type film, I might have been Tracy, and the story would begin, or, maybe, continue from where silver-hair-guy and I had left off. Had it been a porn movie (and I’m just guessing here, because my exposure -- so to speak -- to porn consists of “Deep Throat,” like every other college students’ in the early ‘80’s) I’d say, “I’ll be Tracy if you want me to be,” and we’d end up rolling around in the lotion aisle.
I have always had a thing for guys with great hair. Hair was one of the things that attracted me to Richard. It certainly wasn’t his personality. But, I jest. When we met in Sunday School, his hair was longer than mine. It was wavy and thick. Mine was frizzy and big. Now, Richard’s hair is still thick and wavy, yet cropped close to his head. Mine is shorter, too, yet, still frizzy and big.
But, back to this Tracy person. As I walked around the store, looking for Zicam nasal decongestant spray, I kept thinking about my brief encounter with silver-hair-guy. And, because I believe things happen for a reason-- that there are no coincidences in life-- I felt as though he and I had connected with each other for that brief moment on purpose. I was walking in as he was walking out. Each of us was on a journey and needed to meet the other one for some cosmic reason at that precise moment. But what was the reason? Why was he searching for Tracy while I was searching for a product to unclog my nasal passages? I will probably never know.
For some reason (coincidence? I think not!), the “coincidence” vs. “things happen for a reason” discussion has come up a lot in conversations I’ve had with friends, recently. And, in my totally non-scientific experiences, I have found that some people are total “coincidence” people, while others are total “things happen for a reason” people, and, each person is very adamant about his or her position on the subject.
To me, the “coincidence” believers seem to be almost aggressive about the idea that we “things happen for a reason” people are, well, dope-smoking hippies, which I am, minus the dope-smoking part. The discussions I’ve had about “coincidence” vs. “things happen for a reason” have become as heated as discussions about evolution vs. creationism. And, let me say here, with no disrespect to you creationism people, “Darwin! Darwin! Darwin!”
Knowing I would probably never see silver-hair-guy again, and never find out who “Tracy” was, I had to let it go and continue my search for Zicam. Just as I gave up my search for a product that particular store didn’t have, I realized that neither silver-hair-guy or I found what we were looking for in that store that day.
We passed each other briefly as I was walking into the drugstore, and he was walking out. I turned to catch another glimpse of his hair, and was surprised to see him turn around to look back at me. With desperate, hopeful eyes, he said, “Tracy?” as if I was someone he had lost many years ago and would have given anything to see again. Gently, I told him that I was not she. He apologized, but I told him there was no need. He smiled as he slowly lowered his head, and left.
As if I could somehow help him, or at least try to understand who he was looking for, I scanned my brain for any “Tracys” I might know. My friend Nancy has a daughter named Tracy, but surely he wasn’t confusing me with a Bat Mitzvah-aged pre-teen. The only other Tracy I could think of was someone I went to high school with who also lives in this area, but I don’t think we bear any resemblance. And, because I’m a girl, I thought to myself, “I hope this Tracy person is pretty, or at least nice, if he thinks I look like her.”
Had this been a Robert Redford indie-type film, I might have been Tracy, and the story would begin, or, maybe, continue from where silver-hair-guy and I had left off. Had it been a porn movie (and I’m just guessing here, because my exposure -- so to speak -- to porn consists of “Deep Throat,” like every other college students’ in the early ‘80’s) I’d say, “I’ll be Tracy if you want me to be,” and we’d end up rolling around in the lotion aisle.
I have always had a thing for guys with great hair. Hair was one of the things that attracted me to Richard. It certainly wasn’t his personality. But, I jest. When we met in Sunday School, his hair was longer than mine. It was wavy and thick. Mine was frizzy and big. Now, Richard’s hair is still thick and wavy, yet cropped close to his head. Mine is shorter, too, yet, still frizzy and big.
But, back to this Tracy person. As I walked around the store, looking for Zicam nasal decongestant spray, I kept thinking about my brief encounter with silver-hair-guy. And, because I believe things happen for a reason-- that there are no coincidences in life-- I felt as though he and I had connected with each other for that brief moment on purpose. I was walking in as he was walking out. Each of us was on a journey and needed to meet the other one for some cosmic reason at that precise moment. But what was the reason? Why was he searching for Tracy while I was searching for a product to unclog my nasal passages? I will probably never know.
For some reason (coincidence? I think not!), the “coincidence” vs. “things happen for a reason” discussion has come up a lot in conversations I’ve had with friends, recently. And, in my totally non-scientific experiences, I have found that some people are total “coincidence” people, while others are total “things happen for a reason” people, and, each person is very adamant about his or her position on the subject.
To me, the “coincidence” believers seem to be almost aggressive about the idea that we “things happen for a reason” people are, well, dope-smoking hippies, which I am, minus the dope-smoking part. The discussions I’ve had about “coincidence” vs. “things happen for a reason” have become as heated as discussions about evolution vs. creationism. And, let me say here, with no disrespect to you creationism people, “Darwin! Darwin! Darwin!”
Knowing I would probably never see silver-hair-guy again, and never find out who “Tracy” was, I had to let it go and continue my search for Zicam. Just as I gave up my search for a product that particular store didn’t have, I realized that neither silver-hair-guy or I found what we were looking for in that store that day.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
“Girls” Gone Wild
It was a very strange feeling. I knew something was amiss as I walked on the treadmill at the gym because “the girls” were not as harnessed in, close to my bosom, as I like them to be. I like them securely ensconced in a sports bra
-- especially when working out-- so I don’t accidentally receive a black eye, should I decide to increase my speed.
But, I walked for half an hour anyway, because if I had stopped to see where they were, I probably wouldn’t have gotten back on the treadmill. I know myself pretty well. I’ll use just about any excuse not to exercise. But, because the machine I was on was facing a second story window and not toward the gym, my bouncing bazoongas wouldn’t be encroaching upon anyone else’s space-- or creating a boob-ha-ha – so there wasn’t a good reason to cut my workout short.
Unlike men, who insist that they are “adjusting” themselves when caught with their hands down their pants, most women don’t publicly shove their hands into their bras to boldly put the boulders back where their boulders had gone before. So, I felt that tugging on my bra once or twice was acceptable gym etiquette. Anything more than that and I might have been asked to leave the premises and not return, which, by the way, would have been fine with me since, as stated previously, I don’t like to exercise. But, I didn’t want to be thrown out of the gym for a reason like that. I mean, who wants to be that person?
After I completed my workout, I dismounted the treadmill and went into a bathroom stall in the locker room to investigate. It was official: I had an honest to goodness wardrobe malfunction. “The girls” had busted out. Or, as I have heard Oprah say, “my Pointers had become Setters.”
Apparently, my sports bra had managed to creep up over Lucy and Ethel, leaving them swinging in the breeze underneath my t-shirt. The unlikely event of turbulence, eg: exercise, caused a change in cabin pressure, so they had fallen out like oxygen masks on a plane. But, like Victoria, this was my little secret. I was the only one who knew what had happened, so it wasn’t as if I had to walk with my head between my boobs out of the place. I was just thankful that they hadn't dropped so far as to hit the control panel of the treadmill, causing me to unwittingly spring into a trot by changing the speed.
So, “the girls” had been Hanging Around. Big deals. I heaved them back into the sports bra, went home, and immediately washed my workout clothes, taking special care to throw the offending sports bra into the dryer so it would shrink back into shape.
I am very careful now when I get dressed to go to the gym. I wrap those puppies up so tightly they’d have to sprout teeth to chew through my clothes like a chain-link fence.
No, I wear them close to the chest, now. They’re not always very happy about that, but it just makes sense to make sure my convicts don’t escape. As Janis Joplin once sang, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” but I don’t think she even wore a bra.
-- especially when working out-- so I don’t accidentally receive a black eye, should I decide to increase my speed.
But, I walked for half an hour anyway, because if I had stopped to see where they were, I probably wouldn’t have gotten back on the treadmill. I know myself pretty well. I’ll use just about any excuse not to exercise. But, because the machine I was on was facing a second story window and not toward the gym, my bouncing bazoongas wouldn’t be encroaching upon anyone else’s space-- or creating a boob-ha-ha – so there wasn’t a good reason to cut my workout short.
Unlike men, who insist that they are “adjusting” themselves when caught with their hands down their pants, most women don’t publicly shove their hands into their bras to boldly put the boulders back where their boulders had gone before. So, I felt that tugging on my bra once or twice was acceptable gym etiquette. Anything more than that and I might have been asked to leave the premises and not return, which, by the way, would have been fine with me since, as stated previously, I don’t like to exercise. But, I didn’t want to be thrown out of the gym for a reason like that. I mean, who wants to be that person?
After I completed my workout, I dismounted the treadmill and went into a bathroom stall in the locker room to investigate. It was official: I had an honest to goodness wardrobe malfunction. “The girls” had busted out. Or, as I have heard Oprah say, “my Pointers had become Setters.”
Apparently, my sports bra had managed to creep up over Lucy and Ethel, leaving them swinging in the breeze underneath my t-shirt. The unlikely event of turbulence, eg: exercise, caused a change in cabin pressure, so they had fallen out like oxygen masks on a plane. But, like Victoria, this was my little secret. I was the only one who knew what had happened, so it wasn’t as if I had to walk with my head between my boobs out of the place. I was just thankful that they hadn't dropped so far as to hit the control panel of the treadmill, causing me to unwittingly spring into a trot by changing the speed.
So, “the girls” had been Hanging Around. Big deals. I heaved them back into the sports bra, went home, and immediately washed my workout clothes, taking special care to throw the offending sports bra into the dryer so it would shrink back into shape.
I am very careful now when I get dressed to go to the gym. I wrap those puppies up so tightly they’d have to sprout teeth to chew through my clothes like a chain-link fence.
No, I wear them close to the chest, now. They’re not always very happy about that, but it just makes sense to make sure my convicts don’t escape. As Janis Joplin once sang, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” but I don’t think she even wore a bra.
Monday, October 18, 2010
My Daughter’s First Boyfriend
"There’s this boy in my class named David,” my daughter Veronica, who was five years old at the time, said one day while I was peeling potatoes.
“Oh?” I said.
“He kissed me.”
“Oh?” I said, putting down the vegetable peeler, this time paying a monumental amount of attention. “And, what did you do when he kissed you?” I asked.
“I kissed him back,” she declared.
“Oh,” I said, trying not to laugh, act shocked, or faint.
“I want to tell Dad about it,” she said, as she picked up the phone and began dialing his number at work. I wasn’t sure how he’d take it, and had wanted to at least brace him and tell him not to overreact before she told him about her first kiss, but she beat me to the phone.
I don’t really know what he was saying on his end, but I kind of got the gist of it from what she was saying on hers.
“But, Dad,” she said. “What do you mean you want to meet him?” she said loudly.
A very long minute passed during which her face became a very big, long scowl. Then, she let him have it. “Look, Dad,” she began, “It’s my life. I’m a girl and it’s my job to kiss him back. You’re being selfish. Good-bye!” With that, she briskly hung up the phone and went to play with the Barbies in her room.
I called Richard. “Nice going,” I said. “I’m so glad you stayed calm.”
“Look,” he said. “All I said is that I’d like to meet this David before she goes and kisses him again.”
“Richard,” I began, “may I remind you that she is only five years old? If you make a big deal out of this, she’ll never want to tell us anything.”
“I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it at all.”
A few days later, after “the kiss” had pretty much blown over, the phone rang during dinner. I answered it.
“Hello,” a small voice said. “This is David. Is Veronica there?”
“It’s for you,” I told Veronica. “It’s David.”
Lucas, our one-year old, was spreading strained peas on his cheeks.
Richard dropped his napkin and fork on the floor, bumping his head on the table as he sat back up after retrieving them.
Veronica got all girly and goofy when she heard that David was on the phone. She took the phone from me and breathlessly said, “Hi, David.” They chatted for a moment while I got an icepack out of the freezer to put on Richard’s head. She took the phone away from her mouth and asked me, “Should I go?”
“Go where?” I asked.
“To his house on Saturday.”
Since we already had family plans that night, I suggested they make it for another night. I took the phone to speak to David’s mother. She and I were happy to finally “meet,” even if it was over the phone. We talked about setting up another time for them to get together, since we’d probably be planning a wedding together in July of 2015. While we were making plans to get the kids together, Veronica offered a suggestion: “I know! How about a sleep-over?”
David’s mom heard this through the phone and we both shrieked “NO!” at the same time.
Richard fell off his chair.
Lucas, sputtering strained beets, said, "dadada," and then giggled.
A few days later, David called again. Richard never comes home early from work, but, as luck would have it, he always managed to be home when David called.
I called Veronica to the phone to talk to David. She got all girly and goofy again, took the phone and sprawled herself out on the sofa like a pint-sized Cleopatra. “Hi, David,” she sang coyly into the phone.
After she was through with her phone call, she rolled around on the sofa and then kissed the phone.
Enter Richard.
“So, David called again,” he began, trying to stay cool.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“What did he have to say? Exactly.”
“I forgot,” she said.
“No, really? What did he say?”
“How was your day at work, Dad?” she asked.
Score one for the five-year-old.
Over the next few days, all Veronica did was talk about David. She drew pictures of David, and talked about how much she loved him and how they were going to get married one day.
But, then, a few days went by and there was no talk of David. I had to investigate.
“So, Honey,” I began, “how’s David?” I wanted it to sound like I was just making conversation; not as if I were on a recon mission.
“Fine,” she said. “But he likes Alyssa, now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, totally empathizing with the feeling of being dumped. “I know how bad you must feel right now, but there are lots of other boys in your class, and ‘Mr. Right’ will come along soon.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” she said.
I was impressed by her stoicism.
Then she said, “He’ll be back.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just that. He’ll get tired of Alyssa and come back to me. Don’t worry, Mom.”
I looked in the dictionary and her picture was right next to the definition of the word “moxie.”
But, she was right. A few days later, David was back on the phone, calling our house again. Again, Richard was home. I began to think that if I wanted Richard home, all I had to do was arrange to have David call.
Richard approached Veronica later that night. “So, Honey, how’s David?”
“Dad!” she said annoyed.
“Look,” he began, “I’m just asking. How are you two getting along?”
“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Not getting anywhere, are you?” I whispered into his ear as I walked past him in the hallway. “What’s your problem, anyway?”
He didn’t answer, but I finally figured it out. He was afraid she’d end up with someone just like him—a charmer—the kind of guy your parents trusted; the morons.
It all came rushing back to me. When we were dating, one night after seeing a movie, Richard asked me if my parents were still out of town.
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Let’s go back to your house.”
“Excuse me?” I said in disbelief. “I thought we were going to get ice cream after the movie.” I was not about to give up dessert. (This was before I realized I was lactose intolerant.)
“Listen,” he began, (and I am not making this up. You can ask him. I remember this as if it were yesterday and I never let him forget it.) “I am a healthy, red-blooded American male, and I have my needs.”
See, Mom? I told you he wasn’t the angel you thought he was.
We went out for ice cream.
I was sure that Richard was afraid that his only daughter would be dealt a line like that someday from David, or some other “healthy, red-blooded American male.” And, while I thought about that, too, I figured we had a lot of time to worry about it.
I managed to explain to Richard that when healthy red-blooded American five-year-olds came over to play with our daughter, they watched Nickelodeon, or played Chinese checkers. They weren’t diabolical demons. Not yet, anyway.
As Veronica has gotten older, I’ve been keeping my eye on David, and other suitors she’s had, and I’ve been able to teach her about red flags and warning signs given off by the “charming,” “polite,” and “trustworthy” types. They may seem innocent, but they’re always the ones who will ask her if her parents are still out of town.
“Oh?” I said.
“He kissed me.”
“Oh?” I said, putting down the vegetable peeler, this time paying a monumental amount of attention. “And, what did you do when he kissed you?” I asked.
“I kissed him back,” she declared.
“Oh,” I said, trying not to laugh, act shocked, or faint.
“I want to tell Dad about it,” she said, as she picked up the phone and began dialing his number at work. I wasn’t sure how he’d take it, and had wanted to at least brace him and tell him not to overreact before she told him about her first kiss, but she beat me to the phone.
I don’t really know what he was saying on his end, but I kind of got the gist of it from what she was saying on hers.
“But, Dad,” she said. “What do you mean you want to meet him?” she said loudly.
A very long minute passed during which her face became a very big, long scowl. Then, she let him have it. “Look, Dad,” she began, “It’s my life. I’m a girl and it’s my job to kiss him back. You’re being selfish. Good-bye!” With that, she briskly hung up the phone and went to play with the Barbies in her room.
I called Richard. “Nice going,” I said. “I’m so glad you stayed calm.”
“Look,” he said. “All I said is that I’d like to meet this David before she goes and kisses him again.”
“Richard,” I began, “may I remind you that she is only five years old? If you make a big deal out of this, she’ll never want to tell us anything.”
“I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it at all.”
A few days later, after “the kiss” had pretty much blown over, the phone rang during dinner. I answered it.
“Hello,” a small voice said. “This is David. Is Veronica there?”
“It’s for you,” I told Veronica. “It’s David.”
Lucas, our one-year old, was spreading strained peas on his cheeks.
Richard dropped his napkin and fork on the floor, bumping his head on the table as he sat back up after retrieving them.
Veronica got all girly and goofy when she heard that David was on the phone. She took the phone from me and breathlessly said, “Hi, David.” They chatted for a moment while I got an icepack out of the freezer to put on Richard’s head. She took the phone away from her mouth and asked me, “Should I go?”
“Go where?” I asked.
“To his house on Saturday.”
Since we already had family plans that night, I suggested they make it for another night. I took the phone to speak to David’s mother. She and I were happy to finally “meet,” even if it was over the phone. We talked about setting up another time for them to get together, since we’d probably be planning a wedding together in July of 2015. While we were making plans to get the kids together, Veronica offered a suggestion: “I know! How about a sleep-over?”
David’s mom heard this through the phone and we both shrieked “NO!” at the same time.
Richard fell off his chair.
Lucas, sputtering strained beets, said, "dadada," and then giggled.
A few days later, David called again. Richard never comes home early from work, but, as luck would have it, he always managed to be home when David called.
I called Veronica to the phone to talk to David. She got all girly and goofy again, took the phone and sprawled herself out on the sofa like a pint-sized Cleopatra. “Hi, David,” she sang coyly into the phone.
After she was through with her phone call, she rolled around on the sofa and then kissed the phone.
Enter Richard.
“So, David called again,” he began, trying to stay cool.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“What did he have to say? Exactly.”
“I forgot,” she said.
“No, really? What did he say?”
“How was your day at work, Dad?” she asked.
Score one for the five-year-old.
Over the next few days, all Veronica did was talk about David. She drew pictures of David, and talked about how much she loved him and how they were going to get married one day.
But, then, a few days went by and there was no talk of David. I had to investigate.
“So, Honey,” I began, “how’s David?” I wanted it to sound like I was just making conversation; not as if I were on a recon mission.
“Fine,” she said. “But he likes Alyssa, now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, totally empathizing with the feeling of being dumped. “I know how bad you must feel right now, but there are lots of other boys in your class, and ‘Mr. Right’ will come along soon.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” she said.
I was impressed by her stoicism.
Then she said, “He’ll be back.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just that. He’ll get tired of Alyssa and come back to me. Don’t worry, Mom.”
I looked in the dictionary and her picture was right next to the definition of the word “moxie.”
But, she was right. A few days later, David was back on the phone, calling our house again. Again, Richard was home. I began to think that if I wanted Richard home, all I had to do was arrange to have David call.
Richard approached Veronica later that night. “So, Honey, how’s David?”
“Dad!” she said annoyed.
“Look,” he began, “I’m just asking. How are you two getting along?”
“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Not getting anywhere, are you?” I whispered into his ear as I walked past him in the hallway. “What’s your problem, anyway?”
He didn’t answer, but I finally figured it out. He was afraid she’d end up with someone just like him—a charmer—the kind of guy your parents trusted; the morons.
It all came rushing back to me. When we were dating, one night after seeing a movie, Richard asked me if my parents were still out of town.
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Let’s go back to your house.”
“Excuse me?” I said in disbelief. “I thought we were going to get ice cream after the movie.” I was not about to give up dessert. (This was before I realized I was lactose intolerant.)
“Listen,” he began, (and I am not making this up. You can ask him. I remember this as if it were yesterday and I never let him forget it.) “I am a healthy, red-blooded American male, and I have my needs.”
See, Mom? I told you he wasn’t the angel you thought he was.
We went out for ice cream.
I was sure that Richard was afraid that his only daughter would be dealt a line like that someday from David, or some other “healthy, red-blooded American male.” And, while I thought about that, too, I figured we had a lot of time to worry about it.
I managed to explain to Richard that when healthy red-blooded American five-year-olds came over to play with our daughter, they watched Nickelodeon, or played Chinese checkers. They weren’t diabolical demons. Not yet, anyway.
As Veronica has gotten older, I’ve been keeping my eye on David, and other suitors she’s had, and I’ve been able to teach her about red flags and warning signs given off by the “charming,” “polite,” and “trustworthy” types. They may seem innocent, but they’re always the ones who will ask her if her parents are still out of town.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Fear of Flying Houses
I grew up fearing the crackly sound of our transistor radio. In my house, it signaled danger and mayhem because it was only turned on when a thunderstorm was a brewin’. Apparently, our radio had only two settings: LOUD, and EXTREMELY LOUD. And its static only meant one thing: my sister, brother, the dog, and I would be scuttled down to the basement by my parents until the crackling radio sounded the “all clear.”
Granted; we did occasionally have some pretty bad thunderstorms in the Chicago area, causing us to lose power from time to time. But it felt like we spent more time in the basement than in the living room. Well, we weren’t allowed in the living room. Anyway, with Metamucil-like regularity, my parents rushed us down to the basement in the dark with flashlights, blankets, and that damned radio.
The minute the skies began to turn a little greenish, sort of like symptomatic snot, my parents declared that we had better take shelter immediately. They feared the “Surrender Dorothy”- type winds, capable of dislodging a 1972 Buick Electra 225 from the garage, would gnarl off the roof of the house.
It got to the point where dark storm clouds instilled as much dread in us kids as teenage acne.
I guess it was good for us to learn to respect Mother Nature, but I also inherited far more fear than was probably ever necessary. Since our electricity went out a lot, I began to suspect that we had faulty wiring, or something. Sometimes, when we lost power, it wasn’t even raining. Sometimes it was darn-right sunny.
So, after I got married and had kids, I vowed not to overreact to things, especially thunderstorms (if I could help it), so that my kids wouldn’t have an irrational fear of flying monkeys.
My friend, Leora, who had spent most of her life being an adventuresome person -- meaning that she went well beyond the neighboring suburbs on a regular basis -- came over to our house one dark and stormy day when my kids were little. Leora had not only been to other suburbs; she had lived in remote jungle areas in OTHER COUNTRIES. She had always been fearless, so, by now, I figured, there was nothing that could frighten her.
So, when the sky began turning fluish green, she suggested we go to the basement. Wait. Leora suggested we go to the basement? I didn’t know what to do. I was trying hard not to panic and worry that the house was going to begin twitching and pitching. But Leora said we needed to go to the basement. Had she lost her fearlessness over the years, or was she just being logical? After all, even though I had a good understanding of thunderstorms after spending years surviving them on one of the under-stuffed, flower-print sofa-beds in my parents’ basement, I had never seen the wind blowing trees sideways before.
So, I nonchalantly told the kids that we were going into the playroom in the basement because of the storm. After five minutes, I braved myself into going back upstairs, just to check things out. I wanted to show Leora that I wasn’t afraid of a little storm. I got to the top of the stairs only to hear her scream, “Get back downstairs!”
I didn’t realize she had followed me. Our “basement” was actually only a few steps down from the living room because we lived in a split-level house, so the playroom was as far down as we could go. But, when Leora sounded the alarm to go below again, I took one look outside and thoughts of lions, and tigers, and bears came to mind. This storm was a bad witch.
An hour later, we all tiptoed upstairs. The sun was shining. Everything was in color! No more black and white. Leora had been right. We ventured outside to survey the area. One hundred-year-old trees had been uprooted, blocking the street. Trees were leaning on houses. Branches the size of, well, trees, littered the neighborhood. Although the storm was later referred to as a “micro-burst”, it sure looked like a tornado had eaten its way down our street. Maybe our roof hadn’t blown off, but I sure was happy I had listened to Leora, just in case it had.
We have only gone into the basement of our current house once or twice. Again, I’m using the term “basement” rather loosely, since we live in another split-level house. Technology is so sophisticated now that storm-tracking devices actually know where a tornado will be at a certain time. That way, if one’s headed toward our street address, we’ll have at least a few minutes to seek shelter, relieving us from unnecessary trips to the sub-basement --and listening to our own damned, crackly AM radio.
Granted; we did occasionally have some pretty bad thunderstorms in the Chicago area, causing us to lose power from time to time. But it felt like we spent more time in the basement than in the living room. Well, we weren’t allowed in the living room. Anyway, with Metamucil-like regularity, my parents rushed us down to the basement in the dark with flashlights, blankets, and that damned radio.
The minute the skies began to turn a little greenish, sort of like symptomatic snot, my parents declared that we had better take shelter immediately. They feared the “Surrender Dorothy”- type winds, capable of dislodging a 1972 Buick Electra 225 from the garage, would gnarl off the roof of the house.
It got to the point where dark storm clouds instilled as much dread in us kids as teenage acne.
I guess it was good for us to learn to respect Mother Nature, but I also inherited far more fear than was probably ever necessary. Since our electricity went out a lot, I began to suspect that we had faulty wiring, or something. Sometimes, when we lost power, it wasn’t even raining. Sometimes it was darn-right sunny.
So, after I got married and had kids, I vowed not to overreact to things, especially thunderstorms (if I could help it), so that my kids wouldn’t have an irrational fear of flying monkeys.
My friend, Leora, who had spent most of her life being an adventuresome person -- meaning that she went well beyond the neighboring suburbs on a regular basis -- came over to our house one dark and stormy day when my kids were little. Leora had not only been to other suburbs; she had lived in remote jungle areas in OTHER COUNTRIES. She had always been fearless, so, by now, I figured, there was nothing that could frighten her.
So, when the sky began turning fluish green, she suggested we go to the basement. Wait. Leora suggested we go to the basement? I didn’t know what to do. I was trying hard not to panic and worry that the house was going to begin twitching and pitching. But Leora said we needed to go to the basement. Had she lost her fearlessness over the years, or was she just being logical? After all, even though I had a good understanding of thunderstorms after spending years surviving them on one of the under-stuffed, flower-print sofa-beds in my parents’ basement, I had never seen the wind blowing trees sideways before.
So, I nonchalantly told the kids that we were going into the playroom in the basement because of the storm. After five minutes, I braved myself into going back upstairs, just to check things out. I wanted to show Leora that I wasn’t afraid of a little storm. I got to the top of the stairs only to hear her scream, “Get back downstairs!”
I didn’t realize she had followed me. Our “basement” was actually only a few steps down from the living room because we lived in a split-level house, so the playroom was as far down as we could go. But, when Leora sounded the alarm to go below again, I took one look outside and thoughts of lions, and tigers, and bears came to mind. This storm was a bad witch.
An hour later, we all tiptoed upstairs. The sun was shining. Everything was in color! No more black and white. Leora had been right. We ventured outside to survey the area. One hundred-year-old trees had been uprooted, blocking the street. Trees were leaning on houses. Branches the size of, well, trees, littered the neighborhood. Although the storm was later referred to as a “micro-burst”, it sure looked like a tornado had eaten its way down our street. Maybe our roof hadn’t blown off, but I sure was happy I had listened to Leora, just in case it had.
We have only gone into the basement of our current house once or twice. Again, I’m using the term “basement” rather loosely, since we live in another split-level house. Technology is so sophisticated now that storm-tracking devices actually know where a tornado will be at a certain time. That way, if one’s headed toward our street address, we’ll have at least a few minutes to seek shelter, relieving us from unnecessary trips to the sub-basement --and listening to our own damned, crackly AM radio.
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