Bus Stop Underwear

Today I just had to write about how much I don't know.  

Why is it, that when I'm freezing my butt off with the heat cranked up in my house, my thirteen-year-old tries to go out with just a thin sweatshirt?  We live in Connecticut, for heaven's sake--it's a million below out there!  

This year, I even relented and bought her a way-overpriced coat from the way-overpriced-shoddy-quality mall store that she loves.  And does she wear it?  It looks really nice on the floor of her bedroom and it matches quite nicely with the arm of our living room couch.  

My friend, Monique has figured it out, though.  She has four kids and she's got it down pat.  Her husband will rush out to the bus stop in his boxers, yelling, "you forgot your coat!!!"  I'm pretty sure their kids wear their coats to bed now. 

I need to go do a load of laundry.  I have to make sure my husband's underwear doesn't have any holes in it.

First Grade Advice for President Obama

Today has been full of hope, excitement, advice and anticipation.  So many offered their predictions for our future.  But no one amidst any of the television or radio coverage of the inauguration offered the solid, practical advice of my first graders.  

 I picked them up early from lunch so they could see the history unfold before their 6-year-old eyes.  President Obama had their complete attention.

"Where is he now?"  someone asked.  

They all leaned forward in their desks, trying to spot him doing something presidential.

One boy said, "I think he's taking a tour.  He has to start work tomorrow so he has to find the front of the building and his office."  

Someone else nodded.  "He's probably finding the lunch room--and the bathroom."

"Yeah, the bathroom."

"Then he's going to that thing like Cinderella's ball."

One of the boys stared really hard at the president and said, "If I was him, I'd go eat in my office."  (Duh!)  Snacks are a big part of a six-year-old's day.  Someone else added, "I'd eat a hot dog and do my job."

Truly, nobody filters out the excess garbage and sums things up like a first grader.  One girl said, "I'd change the rules, eat cake and help the country."  

How old am I, anyway?

When did Molly Ringwald become a TV mom?  It's absolutely impossible.  My daughter was watching The Secret Life of the American Teenager and I saw a very familiar-looking woman playing the mom of one of the main characters.  Her voice was a little lower than I remembered it (more mom-like, I guess).  

I had a brain scramble going on, because Molly needed to be the one playing the main character! (How old was I, anyway??)  Molly is the perpetual angst-ridden, but cute and quirky high school student.  Everyone knows that!  Someone get Andrew McCarthy off of Lipstick Jungle so he can star in the show with her.  

And why is it that so many of the TV moms look like they are my age?  Do I have to stop wearing my Converse hightops?

Maybe I should just get out my old Tiger Beats.  (And yes, Penny, I still have them!)  They arrived in a cardboard box when my dad and stepmother sold our old house.  I'll feel better if I go back in time.  By the way, Tim...I know you have my old Partridge Family albums (along with my Boston.)  Because who else would dare to take them? (and play them...)

  

Killer Playdough

"Playdough can kill you."  She said it calmly, but with a definite air of authority.  "I learned it on the Internet."  That back-up sentence definitely sealed the deal, because the other five-year-olds around her immediately stopped their squashing and shaping.  One boy, in particular, was very alarmed by this new piece of information, because he stopped his little wooden rolling pin mid-roll and moved over to the action figure mat. 

 

I have never understood the gullibility of some people.  Maybe that's why lawyers are rarely out of a job.  My sister-in-law, Terri, says if you say anything with authority, people will automatically believe you.  I hate to get all political, but case-in-point:  the G.W. administration...

When I was a kid, we had a neighbor who got all her news and current event information from a couple of tabloid "newspapers".  She believed these "facts" because they were in print and readily available to the public.  But really, when you think about it, who doesn't want to believe that an 83-year-old man just had triplets or that a cat in a far-away unnamed country can speak fluent French?

Truth is stranger than fiction, right?  (I saw that written somewhere, so it must be true.)  Maybe that's another reason that I write fiction.  I guess I just prefer the mundane...

I'm Just Saying

"I'm just saying..."  It's like the universal get-out-of-jail-free card.  Clip it onto the end of an insult, rude comment, or mean-spirited observation and you have relinquished all responsibility for what just came out of your mouth.

That color you're wearing really washes you out--I'm just saying...

Your son has never amounted to anything in all of his thirty years--I'm just saying...

A certain person from my way-distant past (okay, it's my ex-husband's mother) wins the prize for best usage.  She sprinkled it liberally throughout her conversations.  Your butt sure does look wide in that outfit--I'm just saying...  You're going to cook a Thanksgiving turkey??  You??--I'm just saying...

It can also be tacked on to a nice little bit of gossip.  But that only works if:

1)  the gossip might not be true, but it's too good not to share.

2) the gossip is about someone in your circle of friends/acquaintances.

That way the conversation becomes so much more interesting.  She looks like the type that would cheat on her husband then becomes I think she cheats on her husband--I'm just saying...

Or (another nice possibility):  She looks like she could have had some plastic surgery can then become she probably had a (insert type of plastic surgery here) job--I'm just saying...

My husband pointed out to me that in the Navy, there was a handy little phrase often used.  If you prefaced an insult with with all due respect, you were allowed to say pretty much anything.

Armed with those two all-purpose phrases, everyone can respectfully skate into the new year guilt-free...I'm just saying...

Grown-up Geeks

My friend, Margaret, and I are nerds--dorks, if you may.  We always have been. We grew up three thousand miles away from each other, on opposite coasts, but we didn't need to go to junior high school together, to know what each other's childhoods were like.  I was never a popular kid.  I got to be a cheerleader for a few months, because they made a special rule that year that you couldn't try out if you played any sports.  So they were basically left with me--along with a few others.  But then the other cheerleaders, who were much better versed in popular-mean-girlism, were horrible to me, and I could never crack their secret code, so I quit.  I did get to be the Christmas dance queen, because my calculus class (the only 13 kids of my high school that still took advanced level math) nominated me.

So back to Margaret and me.  What do adult geeks do?  Do they still enjoy solving math problems? (okay, yes...)  Adult nerds still want to be daring.  They still crave that devil-may-care attitude of the popular kid.  Margaret and I would never actually do anything daring, because we might get in trouble.  There's that extra-strong, automatic damper we put on ourselves.  We can't help it.  It's built in.  

But then there's this scary thing that happens when two adult geeks become friends.  They dare each other to do risky things.  Margaret and I like to explore old houses.  I can't tell you where, of course.  Because we could get in trouble.....Margaret and I both love anything old or used--abandoned things have so much character.  She's got a really good eye, too.  She's the one that discovered that the basement door hatch for the abandoned house (slated for demolition) was unlocked.  I'd like to tell you that she went down the stairs first--but I can't--because we might get in trouble.

At the top is a picture of the cup that Margaret found.  She took it home and boiled the decades of dirt and grime off of it, and then she gave it to me.  It's your muse, she said.  That's how the real daring part gets to come out.  Margaret is a writer, too.  We get to make things up.  That's how we are allowed reprieve from our geekdom.  Who doesn't love some good fiction? 

I'll Be Home For Christmas

We just hoped he'd be home for Christmas.  There were never any guarantees with the Navy.  There was always that chance... 

We had hoped for a card or a letter of reassurance, but 13 years ago, the only communication we were likely to have was one-way; roughly a dozen "Family Grams" of 40 words or less, spread out over a 3-6 month deployment.  My husband wouldn't get to respond to these messages that were sent along radio waves.  And if the submarine didn't surface in time to capture our messages, they would disappear into thin air--literally.  

But that was the way it was.   It was never easy, but we accepted it.  This very meager amount of communication was often difficult for a civilian friend or relative to comprehend.  "What do you mean you don't know where he is or when he's coming home?!"  And my husband's favorite:  "Can't you call him?"  His response was always, "Yes, of course.  On the underwater phone."

So we finally got the word.  We got down to the pier early to send Santa up the river on the tugboat to meet the crew of USS San Juan, with a giant lei to adorn the sail.  We hardly felt the December Connecticut cold.  

Our oldest daughter, Jessica, was ten, our youngest, Holly, was not yet a year.  A band was playing and the excitement in the air was palpable.  We watched for a submarine sighting with our dear friends, Meghan and Lee-Hannah, no one admitting their biggest worry.  It could be postponed, somehow.  

Finally, it was spotted by the lighthouse, entering the river from the ocean.  Then there it was, with Santa riding at the very top in the sail, the crew standing at attention along the topside.

Then came the real waiting.  It's no easy feat to dock a fast-attack submarine.  We had to wait for what seemed like forever, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar face out of the identical outfits.

Then there he was coming toward us.  I'm not sure who he hugged first, because Holly was crying her heart out.  

She didn't know who he was.  Her father was a complete stranger to her.  She wouldn't stop crying and wouldn't let him hold her.  A local news crew thought that would be a great story.  (I have boycotted that particular station, ever since!)

Finally, it was Santa, himself, who came to the rescue.  Santa with a candy cane.  It was the only thing that would stop the tears.

It was a while before we all got used to each other again.  But we will always remember that as the year Santa brought Andy home for Christmas.  

Andy's safe at home this holiday season, in a civilian job, having retired after a 20 year career.  Here's to those that are away from their families this year.  Stay safe and know you are appreciated.