A few friends with young children recently experienced the most magical of all spring vacations: a trip to Disney World.
Oh, my absolute envy. If I could, I'd make a pilgrimage to that Mecca of the Mouse every single year. My own Disney trips with my children evoke such exciting, heartwarming memories. Except... honestly... even as my mind races to recall these vacations, I remember very little. Neither do my two grown sons.
The passing of time is only partly to blame. I think the real reason these memories are vague is because the trips were perfectly pleasant--and not blemished by any tiny disasters.
And seriously: What fun is perfection?
Of the twenty or so vacations my sons and I have taken together, the one we remember most fondly is the Spring Break from Hell.
My sister DC is to thank--or to fault--for this. (She's at fault for much in my life, including my Barbie's fall from grace to a pin-pricked voodoo doll.) A few years ago, DC craved a last-minute escape from the harsh spring of Ohio. She booked a trip with her daughter to the only southern destination available through her time-share trade. With no plans ourselves, my boys and I joined them.
None of us can name the tiny mid-state Alabama town where we landed. I doubt it even exists on a U.S. map. What we haven't forgotten is desperately biding our time by renting dozens of movies from a video store where the clerk told us the nearby Walmart was the hub--nay, the heart--of the entire county. (We spent the next day there, and she was spot-on. Everyone who isn't anyone was there.) What we also remember is eating Easter dinner at a barbecue buffet where shoes appeared optional. And as far as our escaping to the sunny south? One needed a parka, which none of us packed, to venture outside at all. (We did so anyway. But we did wear shoes. With socks.)
A freaking catastrophe of a trip. But looking back at it now? Best. Vacation. Ever.
That experience was much like my other favorite vacation memories.
Of all my college-era camping trips, just one clear memory remains: the weekend thwarted by such a downpour that we slept in our cars and spent our waking hours huddled under a dense stand of trees. (Yes, lightening struck all around us, but we were young; beer trumped common sense.) Ravenous, we eyed our rations: potato chips and a pack of hot dogs. My friend John (rest in peace, Mr. Burgermeister) pulled out a paperback he was reading. He speared it with a stick and lit it afire with his Zippo. We shielded ourselves from the storm and singed our hot dogs over the sputtering flames. "It wasn't a very good book anyway," he said with a shrug.
I remember nothing about another camping trip my sisters and I took to Assateague Island in the eighties, except the part where the wild ponies knocked down our tent as we slept inside.
On a recent trip to New York City, two friends and I dined at world-renowned restaurants and saw a terrific Broadway show. So what do we recall when we discuss this trip? We talk about the drive home through the mountains when one of us had the highly unfortunate experience of needing to go to the bathroom---pronto--without a rest stop or exit for miles. We laughed, she cried, she crossed her legs. Oh, what memories our sadistic potty humor made during that single half-hour (which seemed likely seemed a century to her).
These are the stories that stick in our lives. What we recall forever are seldom the most perfectly executed experiences. Our best memories tend to be those moments that catch us off-guard. The little calamities. The lamented misfortune that at the time makes us hang our heads and yet weeks, or even years later, prompts us to turn to each other, grin and say, "Oh my God, remember that?"
If we want to collect a lifetime of happy memories, maybe what we need is a little bad luck.
I'm hoping to get seriously lost on my next road trip. To face nightmarish weather that causes me to alter my carefully planned agenda. To experience some tiny disaster that turns the vacation of my dreams into the trip from hell.
Oh, the horror I'll endure!
And later, I'll inevitably smile and think, damn, was that fun.
Any vacation catastrophes to share? Low points in your life that somehow became high points? Want more details on how you, too, can spend your spring vacation at an Alabama Walmart?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Playing Truth or Dare
Our favorite game in junior high was Truth or Dare.
Nearly everyone at my Catholic school picked the Dare, even when playing the game in our most reckless venue of all--weekly Mass. (Years later, I've come to hope God possesses a good sense of humor. And a short memory.)
We believed choosing the Dare proved our confidence and our courage, two attributes that play heavily in a thirteen-year-old's popularity.
Even then though, I knew the Dare was the safer choice. Answering a difficult personal question with honesty? This required true bravery. At thirteen, we're far too guarded and insecure to open ourselves up to that transparency, vulnerability or potential peer disapproval. It's a self-defense mechanism which becomes even more ingrained as we grow older.
Hiding from the Truth is a game we play much of our lives.
When we confront difficult personal issues, we tend to evade. We conceal. We occasionally outright lie. Sometimes we're not honest with someone else. Sometimes we're not honest with ourselves. Denying certain Truths, especially troublesome ones, is always easier than acknowledging them.
On a night out a few years ago with a group of girlfriends, someone suggested a grown-up game of Truth or Dare. We quickly dismissed the option of Dare. What are we, kids? No, we most certainly are not. We laughed. Just as friends don't let friends drive drunk, middle-aged friends don't let middle-aged friends run outdoors in their skivvies.
The rules were simple: Each woman in the group would ask one question, and everyone had to answer. We agreed the questions should be thought-provoking yet benign. After all, we were out that night to relieve our stress, not to magnify it.
Choice of plastic surgery? Nose, boobs and all the usual suspects.
Biggest fear? We toyed with the common themes of flying, of tornadoes, of heights. But every one of us with children eventually gave the same answer.
Number of men with whom you've slept? Ah, maybe not such a benign query, this one! Of all the questions, it caused the most consternation and cringing. We tried to veil our surprise at the woman who answered "just one" as well as the woman who said she'd long ago lost count.
Then we came to my--seemingly mild--question:
If you could succeed at being anything in life (actual talent not a factor), what would you be?
We nodded and smiled at the responses: Broadway actress, singer/songwriter, president of the United States. We turned to the last friend in the circle, awaiting her answer.
"My dreams aren't as exciting as all of yours." She hesitated. "Because honestly, if I could choose to be anything, I'd still choose to be a housewife." She looked away, then added in a near whisper, "But I would want to be a happy one."
The table fell silent. None of us would ever have guessed her wish. Because most of us had no knowledge of her reality.
We weren't able to provide a solution to her situation. What we offered her that night was a roundtable of empathy and sympathy, and a bit of friendship-inspired therapy.
I can't be sure she's found peace even now, but just maybe she feels less burdened and less alone in facing the Truth. Maybe she's succeeded at the first crucial step which will allow her to face the next step, whatever that might be.
Truth or Dare is a tough game at any age.
But by daring ourselves to acknowledge one key Truth, maybe we can find answers to other important questions in the bigger game of life.
Have you ever lied to yourself? What's the most frightening or embarrassing Dare you ever accepted? If you could be anything, without the possibility of failure, what would you be?
Nearly everyone at my Catholic school picked the Dare, even when playing the game in our most reckless venue of all--weekly Mass. (Years later, I've come to hope God possesses a good sense of humor. And a short memory.)
We believed choosing the Dare proved our confidence and our courage, two attributes that play heavily in a thirteen-year-old's popularity.
Even then though, I knew the Dare was the safer choice. Answering a difficult personal question with honesty? This required true bravery. At thirteen, we're far too guarded and insecure to open ourselves up to that transparency, vulnerability or potential peer disapproval. It's a self-defense mechanism which becomes even more ingrained as we grow older.
Hiding from the Truth is a game we play much of our lives.
When we confront difficult personal issues, we tend to evade. We conceal. We occasionally outright lie. Sometimes we're not honest with someone else. Sometimes we're not honest with ourselves. Denying certain Truths, especially troublesome ones, is always easier than acknowledging them.
On a night out a few years ago with a group of girlfriends, someone suggested a grown-up game of Truth or Dare. We quickly dismissed the option of Dare. What are we, kids? No, we most certainly are not. We laughed. Just as friends don't let friends drive drunk, middle-aged friends don't let middle-aged friends run outdoors in their skivvies.
The rules were simple: Each woman in the group would ask one question, and everyone had to answer. We agreed the questions should be thought-provoking yet benign. After all, we were out that night to relieve our stress, not to magnify it.
Choice of plastic surgery? Nose, boobs and all the usual suspects.
Biggest fear? We toyed with the common themes of flying, of tornadoes, of heights. But every one of us with children eventually gave the same answer.
Number of men with whom you've slept? Ah, maybe not such a benign query, this one! Of all the questions, it caused the most consternation and cringing. We tried to veil our surprise at the woman who answered "just one" as well as the woman who said she'd long ago lost count.
Then we came to my--seemingly mild--question:
If you could succeed at being anything in life (actual talent not a factor), what would you be?
We nodded and smiled at the responses: Broadway actress, singer/songwriter, president of the United States. We turned to the last friend in the circle, awaiting her answer.
"My dreams aren't as exciting as all of yours." She hesitated. "Because honestly, if I could choose to be anything, I'd still choose to be a housewife." She looked away, then added in a near whisper, "But I would want to be a happy one."
The table fell silent. None of us would ever have guessed her wish. Because most of us had no knowledge of her reality.
We weren't able to provide a solution to her situation. What we offered her that night was a roundtable of empathy and sympathy, and a bit of friendship-inspired therapy.
I can't be sure she's found peace even now, but just maybe she feels less burdened and less alone in facing the Truth. Maybe she's succeeded at the first crucial step which will allow her to face the next step, whatever that might be.
Truth or Dare is a tough game at any age.
But by daring ourselves to acknowledge one key Truth, maybe we can find answers to other important questions in the bigger game of life.
Have you ever lied to yourself? What's the most frightening or embarrassing Dare you ever accepted? If you could be anything, without the possibility of failure, what would you be?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Mercury in Retrograde
We interrupt our normally scheduled blog programming to vent and rant and moan and bitch.
These are the events of our last few days:
We pay the $143 traffic ticket for the car accident which was *apparently* our fault.
We also pay the carpet cleaning company (we choose not to read the exact amount on the credit card receipt) for steam-cleaning the one-year-old carpet which they cleaned just two months ago but which has now suffered the wrath of an exploding jar of salsa brought about by an unnamed individual whom we may--or we may not--allow to live.
We venture to the post office to sign for a certified letter from our insurance company that is written in such horrifically standard legalize that we read it three times before finally comprehending the meaning, which is that they may--or they may not--cover the estimated $2,000 damage to the other car in the aforementioned accident, because we may--or we may not--have reinstated our coverage for the winter-stored vehicle we were driving.
We dwell on this possibility from approximately 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., finally concluding that if indeed we are responsible for these damages, we can pay for them by scraping the bottom of our savings account barrel which we had planned to use to replace the huge arched window that somehow managed to simply drop out of its second-story socket and crash to the ground.
We experience a fleeting glimmer of hope that perhaps a portion of one of these costs can be covered by our 2010 tax return, about which we are awaiting word from the accountant who is currently mulling over our likely incomplete paperwork.
We receive a Fed Ex package from our accountant, THIS VERY SAME DAY, indicating that not only will we not be getting a tax return but we actually owe $1,500.
Finally, we discover our happy little goldfish has chosen today to float belly-up.
Is Mercury in retrograde? Did a black cat (which we unwittingly neglected to adopt and add to our residential petting zoo) cross our path? Are we being penalized by some higher power for that incident back in third-grade when we reached under the bathroom stall and stole our classmate's loafer that was dangling from her foot?
Sigh. That is all.
Stay tuned next week for our regularly scheduled program.
And now you expect some sort of inspirational and idea-provoking questions? Nah. I got nothing. You may--or you may not--choose to leave a comment.
These are the events of our last few days:
We pay the $143 traffic ticket for the car accident which was *apparently* our fault.
We also pay the carpet cleaning company (we choose not to read the exact amount on the credit card receipt) for steam-cleaning the one-year-old carpet which they cleaned just two months ago but which has now suffered the wrath of an exploding jar of salsa brought about by an unnamed individual whom we may--or we may not--allow to live.
We venture to the post office to sign for a certified letter from our insurance company that is written in such horrifically standard legalize that we read it three times before finally comprehending the meaning, which is that they may--or they may not--cover the estimated $2,000 damage to the other car in the aforementioned accident, because we may--or we may not--have reinstated our coverage for the winter-stored vehicle we were driving.
We dwell on this possibility from approximately 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., finally concluding that if indeed we are responsible for these damages, we can pay for them by scraping the bottom of our savings account barrel which we had planned to use to replace the huge arched window that somehow managed to simply drop out of its second-story socket and crash to the ground.
We experience a fleeting glimmer of hope that perhaps a portion of one of these costs can be covered by our 2010 tax return, about which we are awaiting word from the accountant who is currently mulling over our likely incomplete paperwork.
We receive a Fed Ex package from our accountant, THIS VERY SAME DAY, indicating that not only will we not be getting a tax return but we actually owe $1,500.
Finally, we discover our happy little goldfish has chosen today to float belly-up.
Is Mercury in retrograde? Did a black cat (which we unwittingly neglected to adopt and add to our residential petting zoo) cross our path? Are we being penalized by some higher power for that incident back in third-grade when we reached under the bathroom stall and stole our classmate's loafer that was dangling from her foot?
Sigh. That is all.
Stay tuned next week for our regularly scheduled program.
And now you expect some sort of inspirational and idea-provoking questions? Nah. I got nothing. You may--or you may not--choose to leave a comment.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Recipe for Disaster
Here's a fun little recipe I recently concocted. Feel free to try it!
Ingredients:
Combine all the humiliating stories, being sure to include such tales as:
Meanwhile, prepare a huge pot of chili. Make a big enough batch to share, because people will fall all over themselves in gratitude for your culinary prowess.
The rest of this process is complicated, so be sure to follow these directions carefully:
Brown a couple pounds of ground beef. Add a few cans of Brooks Hot Chili Beans. Peel and chop a half-dozen tomatoes and dice a couple onions. Pull an assortment of peppers from the freezer: Add a couple bell peppers and a few jalapenos. Remove the seeds from the jalapenos, because not everyone can handle the heat like you can.
Next, ponder the freezer bag of quarter-sized orange peppers which came from an unidentified plant in an assorted nursery pack. Although you never tasted one, they are tiny--and you have a big kettle to fill. Cut up seven or eight and toss them into the pot.
Within a half-hour, you should nearly collapse from the excruciating pain of your burning hands. You will know the pain has fully set when you feel you'd prefer to have a root canal without Novocaine. This signals it is time to Google a cure, as we know is the M.O. of any proper homemaker.
You will find 154,000 hits for "hot peppers burned hands." This will not immediately relieve your physical pain, but it will ease your mental anguish to know that more than a hundred thousand people were as stupid as you.
Be sure to attempt every listed cure: Wash your hands until you are qualified to write a memoir about OCD. Lather them in aloe. Soak them in rubbing alcohol. Pop potentially lethal quantities of Tylenol and antihistamines.
Finally, plunge your hands in bowls of ice water. Be certain to sigh with the ecstasy of immediate relief. Use up every available ice cube in your freezer. Within a few hours, the pain should subside enough for you to face the next step.
Eye your pot of chili. By now it should be bubbling much like a witch's cauldron: one eye of newt, two dragon teeth, and eight devil peppers.
Sample a spoonful. You will immediately forget the pain in your hands--because now your tongue and mouth will be on fire.
Rush back to Dr. Google. Ignore the first noted cure, which is drinking milk. Also disregard Cure #2: sugar water. Proceed promptly to Cure #3: alcohol.
Consume several cold beers.
Next, return to the still brewing pot of Demon Soup. Recall, in your half-plastered stupor, that sugar is supposed to neutralize heat. Pour in a bit of sugar and stir well. Swallow a big spoonful.
Cry, "Holy Mother of God!" Dump in the rest of the bag of sugar. Drink another beer.
The next day, recall that you made soup while you got stewed. Sample your pot of Candied Chili. Cringe. Dump the entire thing in the garbage.
Now, return to your original recipe for a humiliating blog post about your loved ones' pathetic cooking catastrophes.
Toss that too.
Eat crow instead.
Any kitchen disasters you care to share? Has Bad Karma bit you in the ass lately?
Ingredients:
- Several stories of cooking catastrophes suffered by family and friends who probably prefer not to be publicly ridiculed
- A dash of smugness about your own impeccable kitchen record
- A cup of bad karma
Combine all the humiliating stories, being sure to include such tales as:
- The woman who prepared her first bowl of potato salad for a group picnic but lacked the listed finishing touch of paprika, so she covered the salad with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon.
- The newlywed who excitedly prepared a pan of lasagna but was confused by the terminology and used not just a single clove of garlic but an entire bulb.
- The grandmother who baked her three-year-old grandson his much coveted Elmo birthday cake, and then frosted it with an icing which melted and dripped in such a ghastly fashion that the cake resembled Elmo-On-Acid and prompted the horrified child to scream, "I don't like this kind of cake!"
Meanwhile, prepare a huge pot of chili. Make a big enough batch to share, because people will fall all over themselves in gratitude for your culinary prowess.
The rest of this process is complicated, so be sure to follow these directions carefully:
Brown a couple pounds of ground beef. Add a few cans of Brooks Hot Chili Beans. Peel and chop a half-dozen tomatoes and dice a couple onions. Pull an assortment of peppers from the freezer: Add a couple bell peppers and a few jalapenos. Remove the seeds from the jalapenos, because not everyone can handle the heat like you can.
Next, ponder the freezer bag of quarter-sized orange peppers which came from an unidentified plant in an assorted nursery pack. Although you never tasted one, they are tiny--and you have a big kettle to fill. Cut up seven or eight and toss them into the pot.
Within a half-hour, you should nearly collapse from the excruciating pain of your burning hands. You will know the pain has fully set when you feel you'd prefer to have a root canal without Novocaine. This signals it is time to Google a cure, as we know is the M.O. of any proper homemaker.
You will find 154,000 hits for "hot peppers burned hands." This will not immediately relieve your physical pain, but it will ease your mental anguish to know that more than a hundred thousand people were as stupid as you.
Be sure to attempt every listed cure: Wash your hands until you are qualified to write a memoir about OCD. Lather them in aloe. Soak them in rubbing alcohol. Pop potentially lethal quantities of Tylenol and antihistamines.
Finally, plunge your hands in bowls of ice water. Be certain to sigh with the ecstasy of immediate relief. Use up every available ice cube in your freezer. Within a few hours, the pain should subside enough for you to face the next step.
Eye your pot of chili. By now it should be bubbling much like a witch's cauldron: one eye of newt, two dragon teeth, and eight devil peppers.
Sample a spoonful. You will immediately forget the pain in your hands--because now your tongue and mouth will be on fire.
Rush back to Dr. Google. Ignore the first noted cure, which is drinking milk. Also disregard Cure #2: sugar water. Proceed promptly to Cure #3: alcohol.
Consume several cold beers.
Next, return to the still brewing pot of Demon Soup. Recall, in your half-plastered stupor, that sugar is supposed to neutralize heat. Pour in a bit of sugar and stir well. Swallow a big spoonful.
Cry, "Holy Mother of God!" Dump in the rest of the bag of sugar. Drink another beer.
The next day, recall that you made soup while you got stewed. Sample your pot of Candied Chili. Cringe. Dump the entire thing in the garbage.
Now, return to your original recipe for a humiliating blog post about your loved ones' pathetic cooking catastrophes.
Toss that too.
Eat crow instead.
Any kitchen disasters you care to share? Has Bad Karma bit you in the ass lately?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
It Only Takes a Moment
The law says we become adults at the age of eighteen. Yet no one turns into a grownup at that particular midnight hour. No magical hour or legally defined day determines when we truly cross over from child to adult.
There are simply a handful of tiny defining moments.
We all experience single instances which cause us to pause and think, Damn. I guess I'm an adult now.
Many of us feel initiated into adulthood the first time we flash a legal driver's license to buy beer. (Years later, when a store clerk glances at our face and doesn't bother asking for an ID, we experience yet another defining moment.)
We know we're adults when we first feel the freedom of making our own decisions and choices: the first time we buy a painting and decide where to hang it, in our very own home. Or bring home a stray animal--without needing anyone's permission to keep it.
The epiphany of adulthood often surfaces when that new-found freedom is accompanied by responsibility: paying our own rent or buying groceries from our own paycheck. Applying for our first credit card, mortgage or life insurance policy. (Only adults even consider the long-term need for life insurance.) Or glancing around our trashed apartment and realizing our mother won't simply get fed up and clean it for us. Yes, we grow up quickly the first time we have to unplug a clogged toilet.
We seem to transform into adults the very moment we first mark the "married" box on a doctor's office form. Many of us experience a similar but more sobering feeling the first time we're forced to check the box "divorced."
And some of us feel we're forced to grow up overnight when one of our parents is suddenly gone forever.
Not all the defining moments of adulthood are easy ones. We know we're adults in the instant we accept that life changes and that the most well-adjusted adults are those who learn they must keep moving on.
Perhaps nothing initiates us more into the world of adulthood than becoming a parent. We realize we've crossed the threshold that very first time we carefully lay our newborn baby in his crib and think, I brought this child into the world, and my life has changed forever because of it. Every tiny step that child takes throughout his own life is another defining moment: his first day of school, first soccer game, first driving lesson.
And when that child begins experiencing his own defining moments? There is no question then. The parent of an adult clearly must be an adult herself.
Strange how we sometimes feel sixteen still in our heart.
But as I knock cautiously at the door of age fifty, I know a lifetime compilation of such moments signals--undeniably--that I am an adult. Each of those moments defined not only what I am but who I've become: a grownup with my own set of strengths and faults, successes and failures, disappointments and dreams.
And I wonder: Does being grown-up mean we've fully finished growing? Or is growing up simply an endless stairway we climb for all of our lives?
Perhaps it's a journey, and not a final destination.
Maybe the defining moments never end.
When did you first feel like an adult? What were your defining moments? How do you still hope to grow?
(And a note to my regular readers: Writers are fickle. I am now blogging on Thursdays. Look for me then--barring, as my bio reads, any emergencies or extreme laziness.)
There are simply a handful of tiny defining moments.
We all experience single instances which cause us to pause and think, Damn. I guess I'm an adult now.
Many of us feel initiated into adulthood the first time we flash a legal driver's license to buy beer. (Years later, when a store clerk glances at our face and doesn't bother asking for an ID, we experience yet another defining moment.)
We know we're adults when we first feel the freedom of making our own decisions and choices: the first time we buy a painting and decide where to hang it, in our very own home. Or bring home a stray animal--without needing anyone's permission to keep it.
The epiphany of adulthood often surfaces when that new-found freedom is accompanied by responsibility: paying our own rent or buying groceries from our own paycheck. Applying for our first credit card, mortgage or life insurance policy. (Only adults even consider the long-term need for life insurance.) Or glancing around our trashed apartment and realizing our mother won't simply get fed up and clean it for us. Yes, we grow up quickly the first time we have to unplug a clogged toilet.
We seem to transform into adults the very moment we first mark the "married" box on a doctor's office form. Many of us experience a similar but more sobering feeling the first time we're forced to check the box "divorced."
And some of us feel we're forced to grow up overnight when one of our parents is suddenly gone forever.
Not all the defining moments of adulthood are easy ones. We know we're adults in the instant we accept that life changes and that the most well-adjusted adults are those who learn they must keep moving on.
Perhaps nothing initiates us more into the world of adulthood than becoming a parent. We realize we've crossed the threshold that very first time we carefully lay our newborn baby in his crib and think, I brought this child into the world, and my life has changed forever because of it. Every tiny step that child takes throughout his own life is another defining moment: his first day of school, first soccer game, first driving lesson.
And when that child begins experiencing his own defining moments? There is no question then. The parent of an adult clearly must be an adult herself.
Strange how we sometimes feel sixteen still in our heart.
But as I knock cautiously at the door of age fifty, I know a lifetime compilation of such moments signals--undeniably--that I am an adult. Each of those moments defined not only what I am but who I've become: a grownup with my own set of strengths and faults, successes and failures, disappointments and dreams.
And I wonder: Does being grown-up mean we've fully finished growing? Or is growing up simply an endless stairway we climb for all of our lives?
Perhaps it's a journey, and not a final destination.
Maybe the defining moments never end.
When did you first feel like an adult? What were your defining moments? How do you still hope to grow?
(And a note to my regular readers: Writers are fickle. I am now blogging on Thursdays. Look for me then--barring, as my bio reads, any emergencies or extreme laziness.)
Monday, March 21, 2011
Pet Peeves: Grading the New Kid in the Class
FINAL REPORT CARD FOR LENNON 'DEMON KITTEN' STANLEY
Grading Period: What Felt Like Freaking Forever
Geography: B+
Improvement shown. Has finally grasped knowledge that the entire indoor world is not a litter box.
Foreign Language: C-
Able to speak fluent Squeakish but still fails to translate into standard Meowese.
Science: A+
Has mastered the biology and chemistry of hairball production.
English Literature: D
Seems to believe the newspaper is intended solely for chewing into pieces to be spit upon the carpet. Extra credit given since our paper is The Toledo Blade.
Math: F
Has difficulty solving basic story problems such as this: Sherry has three cats. In a moment of weakness, she adopts one more. If "Y" equals the amount of work each original cat required, what is the algebraic equation for her total amount of work adding the new cat? (a) 3Y+1 (b) 3Y+Y (c) Who the hell knows, since Sherry flunked high school algebra (d) an infinite amount of work, multiplied by many sleepless nights (e) both c and d.
Art: A-
Demonstrates creativity with use of materials, particularly shredded rolls of toilet paper.
Home Economics: D
Fails to understand basic meal planning, such as cat chow is provided for cats and dog kibble for dogs.
Health Education: D
Doesn't grasp standard grooming techniques. Efforts at hygienic success are hindered by shedding copious amounts of hair and by delighting in chomping chunks of fur out of others.
Gym: A+
Climbs exceedingly well on counter tops. Excels at the 100-yard dash, especially when chased with a spray bottle.
Final Comments: Doesn't respect personal property or play well with others. Deficiencies are somewhat overcome by ability to appear sweet, through innocent wide eyes. Purrs adorably when treading one's chest at 4 a.m.
Student is graduating against teacher's better judgment.
Your turn to grade Sherry: "B" for Benevolent or for Brainless? Any stories about your own Pets from Hell? Anyone wish to adopt an adorable renegade cat?
Monday, March 14, 2011
Breaking-In Middle Age
Wild woman that I am, I just returned from my spring vacation to Florida. Not much has changed since my college spring break days. OK, so maybe just a few things:
Packing List
At Age 19: Cute new bikini, short-shorts, sundresses, Tylenol (for possible hangovers), Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil.
At Age 49: Whatever bathing suit appeared least repulsive in the bedroom mirror, capris or shorts that FULLY cover ballooning thighs, sweaters, Aleve (for medley of body aches), 30 SPF sunblock.
Transportation
At 19: Straight 20-hour drive through the night; totally awesome if parents offer their car.
At 49: Direct flight; lovely if credit card points are available.
Accommodations
At 19: Cheap motel room, as close to the Strip as possible. Two to three people squeezed into each bed. (Several more can crash on the floor, if necessary.)
At 49: Quiet, nicely equipped condo. Preferably one bedroom per single person or couple. (Pack snore strips and earplugs, if necessary.)
Beach Day
At 19: Body-surfing, parasailing over the ocean.
At 49: Wading in the water up to the ankles, shrieking at the undertow and the frigidity of the ocean.
Dinner
At 19: Beer or Tequila Sunrises, followed by a few shots.
At 49: Steak or seafood, followed by a few minutes of gazing at the dessert menu, saying, "Oh, I really shouldn't, but..."
Nightly Entertainment
At 19: Drinking games, dancing, passing out in bed at sunrise.
At 49: A game of Yahtzee, watching television, collapsing in bed at 11:30.
Yep, nothing like a spring break at 19 to make you feel like you're truly an adult. And at 49? Well, apparently I'm ready for that AARP card now.
I hear the Cracker Barrel right off the Strip is a pretty crazy place.
How did you spend your spring vacation? Want to 'fess up about your college spring breaks? Or is it getting hard to remember that long ago?
Packing List
At Age 19: Cute new bikini, short-shorts, sundresses, Tylenol (for possible hangovers), Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil.
At Age 49: Whatever bathing suit appeared least repulsive in the bedroom mirror, capris or shorts that FULLY cover ballooning thighs, sweaters, Aleve (for medley of body aches), 30 SPF sunblock.
Transportation
At 19: Straight 20-hour drive through the night; totally awesome if parents offer their car.
At 49: Direct flight; lovely if credit card points are available.
Accommodations
At 19: Cheap motel room, as close to the Strip as possible. Two to three people squeezed into each bed. (Several more can crash on the floor, if necessary.)
At 49: Quiet, nicely equipped condo. Preferably one bedroom per single person or couple. (Pack snore strips and earplugs, if necessary.)
Beach Day
At 19: Body-surfing, parasailing over the ocean.
At 49: Wading in the water up to the ankles, shrieking at the undertow and the frigidity of the ocean.
Dinner
At 19: Beer or Tequila Sunrises, followed by a few shots.
At 49: Steak or seafood, followed by a few minutes of gazing at the dessert menu, saying, "Oh, I really shouldn't, but..."
Nightly Entertainment
At 19: Drinking games, dancing, passing out in bed at sunrise.
At 49: A game of Yahtzee, watching television, collapsing in bed at 11:30.
Yep, nothing like a spring break at 19 to make you feel like you're truly an adult. And at 49? Well, apparently I'm ready for that AARP card now.
I hear the Cracker Barrel right off the Strip is a pretty crazy place.
How did you spend your spring vacation? Want to 'fess up about your college spring breaks? Or is it getting hard to remember that long ago?
Monday, March 7, 2011
Only a Moment Ago
We remember the moments in tiny flashes, usually triggered unexpectedly. Pieced together, they take us back to another time: to a world filled with sounds and smells and sights once a taken-for-granted part of our everyday life.
Last week, I returned to the fall of 1970.
I'm getting ready for school. I yank the pink sponge curlers from my hair and brush out the tangled curls. I pull on the brown leather jumper my mother has laid out on my dresser. My stretched-out knee socks fall to my shins, and I secure a rubber band around the top of each, to hold them into place.
Scanning what remains in the Kellogg's Snack Pack in the cupboard, I select a box of Sugar Smacks. I carefully slice it open on the dotted lines. I pour in the milk and eat the cereal straight from the tiny box.
I thumb through the pink Melmac bowl filled with plastic bus tokens, avoiding the toothmark-riddled ones apparently once gnawed by some nasty boy at my school. I grab my metal Monkees lunch box, containing a wax-paper wrapped bologna sandwich, apple and a Snick-Snack bar from my pillowcase of Halloween candy.
It's an okey-doke school day.Yes, we have to suffer through an hour of Mass, but I stay entertained by staring at the older boy I adore from afar who is serving as an Altar Boy. I sigh, watching him lighting the candles, in his black and white robe. Too bad there is no such thing as Altar Girls; I would surely become one.
It's a warm November day, and after school I grab my roller skates. I slide the metal soles across the bottom of my tennis shoes until they fit snugly. I turn the key, locking them into place. My best friend Joyce and I take a break from skating in the street to jump in the pile of newly raked leaves at her curb. Her father shoos us away. He bends down, lighting the pile afire with his metal Zippo lighter. We watch the flames spark and enjoy the smell of burning leaves before our mothers call us in for dinner.
It's Friday night. Dad's bowling tonight and my two older sisters are at sleep-overs, so Mom and I get a treat: TV dinners. I help Mom pull the two metal trays from the oven and we carefully carry them to the living room where we place them each on a folding TV table. I peel away the foil on top, as Mom turns on the television set.
The TV warms up, a tiny ball of light in the center of the screen glowing and then expanding into a full color picture. We just got the new color TV last year, and I'm still excited every time we turn it on.
We have a choice of five stations. I watch the news with mixed interest until my favorite line-up of shows starts at 7:30: The Brady Bunch, Nanny and the Professor, and The Partridge Family.
We take a quick break to make a snack. Mom heats some oil in our biggest iron skillet and pours in a bit of popcorn. I need both hands to shake the covered pan, listening until the kernels stop bursting before emptying the popcorn into a green Tupperware bowl. I grab a large tin can of Hawaiian Punch from the cupboard. I listen to the air hiss out as I punch it open with a can opener. I struggle with the metal ice tray, and Mom takes over. She succeeds in pulling the lever hard enough to loosen the cubes and drops a few in my pink aluminum glass.
Before I head to bed at 9:00, she reminds me to call my grandmother to thank her for my birthday card and the $10 bill slipped inside. I pull the heavy plastic receiver from our phone which hangs on the kitchen wall. The cord is tangled, so I let it dangle for a moment, watching as the receiver twirls from the unraveling cord. My index finger pulls the dial clockwise for each number, and I wait as it slowly ticks backward before I continue dialing.
Grandma is pleased to hear from me. I eagerly tell her everything I bought with the $10 she sent: the Partridge Family record album, a Nancy Drew book, and a Twist N Turn Barbie doll.
Lying in bed, I listen to my new album, singing along from the lyrics on the record sleeve.
I can't imagine a much more perfect day.
I wonder what tomorrow might bring.
What do you remember?
Last week, I returned to the fall of 1970.
I'm getting ready for school. I yank the pink sponge curlers from my hair and brush out the tangled curls. I pull on the brown leather jumper my mother has laid out on my dresser. My stretched-out knee socks fall to my shins, and I secure a rubber band around the top of each, to hold them into place.
Scanning what remains in the Kellogg's Snack Pack in the cupboard, I select a box of Sugar Smacks. I carefully slice it open on the dotted lines. I pour in the milk and eat the cereal straight from the tiny box.
I thumb through the pink Melmac bowl filled with plastic bus tokens, avoiding the toothmark-riddled ones apparently once gnawed by some nasty boy at my school. I grab my metal Monkees lunch box, containing a wax-paper wrapped bologna sandwich, apple and a Snick-Snack bar from my pillowcase of Halloween candy.
It's an okey-doke school day.Yes, we have to suffer through an hour of Mass, but I stay entertained by staring at the older boy I adore from afar who is serving as an Altar Boy. I sigh, watching him lighting the candles, in his black and white robe. Too bad there is no such thing as Altar Girls; I would surely become one.
It's a warm November day, and after school I grab my roller skates. I slide the metal soles across the bottom of my tennis shoes until they fit snugly. I turn the key, locking them into place. My best friend Joyce and I take a break from skating in the street to jump in the pile of newly raked leaves at her curb. Her father shoos us away. He bends down, lighting the pile afire with his metal Zippo lighter. We watch the flames spark and enjoy the smell of burning leaves before our mothers call us in for dinner.
It's Friday night. Dad's bowling tonight and my two older sisters are at sleep-overs, so Mom and I get a treat: TV dinners. I help Mom pull the two metal trays from the oven and we carefully carry them to the living room where we place them each on a folding TV table. I peel away the foil on top, as Mom turns on the television set.
The TV warms up, a tiny ball of light in the center of the screen glowing and then expanding into a full color picture. We just got the new color TV last year, and I'm still excited every time we turn it on.
We have a choice of five stations. I watch the news with mixed interest until my favorite line-up of shows starts at 7:30: The Brady Bunch, Nanny and the Professor, and The Partridge Family.
We take a quick break to make a snack. Mom heats some oil in our biggest iron skillet and pours in a bit of popcorn. I need both hands to shake the covered pan, listening until the kernels stop bursting before emptying the popcorn into a green Tupperware bowl. I grab a large tin can of Hawaiian Punch from the cupboard. I listen to the air hiss out as I punch it open with a can opener. I struggle with the metal ice tray, and Mom takes over. She succeeds in pulling the lever hard enough to loosen the cubes and drops a few in my pink aluminum glass.
Before I head to bed at 9:00, she reminds me to call my grandmother to thank her for my birthday card and the $10 bill slipped inside. I pull the heavy plastic receiver from our phone which hangs on the kitchen wall. The cord is tangled, so I let it dangle for a moment, watching as the receiver twirls from the unraveling cord. My index finger pulls the dial clockwise for each number, and I wait as it slowly ticks backward before I continue dialing.
Grandma is pleased to hear from me. I eagerly tell her everything I bought with the $10 she sent: the Partridge Family record album, a Nancy Drew book, and a Twist N Turn Barbie doll.
Lying in bed, I listen to my new album, singing along from the lyrics on the record sleeve.
I can't imagine a much more perfect day.
I wonder what tomorrow might bring.
What do you remember?
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