Life Lessons Learned at the Mall

I went shopping with my 18-year-old daughter before she left for college.  I was rapping loudly to a Drake song on the radio and grunting on the words I didn't know, which were most of the words.  For some reason she seemed tense—slinking down in her seat with her head in her hands and white-knuckling her phone.  

http://lifeexperiencemash-up.blogspot.com/2012_01_01_archive.html

To be fair, she WAS feeling tense and torn about leaving for school.  She lamented leaving the local Boyfriend (BF), but she was downright giddy anticipating liberation from "tyrannical" parents whose worst offense was occasionally asking where she was at 1 a.m.

At that point in her life she wavered between "I love you" and "Leave me alone."  

But that's normal, right?  They say it's God’s way of helping moms let go.  

On the way to the mall, we stopped at my friend's house and talked in her yard.  A friendly cat without a collar sauntered up and my daughter petted it while we chatted.

We got back in the car, and I figured I should probably use our rare, precious girl-time to ask how she felt about college and life and to weasel out of her how she truly felt about BF.  

"How do I FEEL?" she asked, clinging tightly to her aloofness.  "Mom, I just want . . . to jump out of the car." (She really didn't say that last part, but the eyes are the windows into the soul).

She tweeted to her constituency, 

"Captive in SUV.  Please advise."  

http://www.femside.com/health/healthy-living/6-habits-that-are-stopping-you-from-anything/

Delighted by our bonding, I smiled at her and noticed her face was beet-red and her eyes looked like the morning after I drank too much celebrating the NEGATIVE line on my pregnancy test last month an errant fly ball hit me in the eye at a Cardinals game.

"Oh, this is just GREAT!  She's allergic to the freaking cat!  It's always SOMETHING with her,”  I thought, distraught with motherly concern.  

“Last month she had Mono for gosh sakes.

WOW, that's really welting up.  She should take a selfie.

Crap, now I'm gonna have to take her to the doctor, and that's really gonna cut into my happy hour."  

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She asked me to stop for Benadryl so I guess between that and showing her how to stop her nosebleeds with a tampon, I'd taught her SOMETHING through the years.

After the Benadryl kicked in, we had a good time at the "Cheap-Clothes-For-Cheap-Girls" store where we waded through hootchie clothes.  She tried on a bright, beautiful sweater, and I said "NO" in all caps because "it's cheap and made of acrylic  . . .

                  and it has a future full of lint balls."

She frowned for a second because she wanted to buy it (ME to buy it), but she placed it back on the rack because she knew I was right. 

It was then I realized I may have taught my teenager something else — it may be what everyone's wearing, it may make you feel confident, and it may feel good on your body and against your skin.  But it's cheap.  And it won't last long.

In a few short weeks she would be on her own.  Had I spent enough time teaching her how tempting cheap substitutes can be in real life?  

Especially when he feels tailor-made for you and he makes you feel good and his breath is hot and fast on your neck?  And when no one will know he's a cheap substitute but you?

I'm old, but I know things.  Because I've endured my share of lint balls.

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Maybe through the years, our time "just shopping" was more than that.  Maybe by osmosis, I accidentally taught her not to settle for second-best. 

I knew she'd be fine on her own at college.  She's got a good head on her shoulders, she knows how to treat an allergy and a bloody nose, and she knows acrylic from cashmere.

As long as she doesn't pet any strays.

Geek Squad Rule #1: Run From Mom Jeans

Geek Squad Rule #1:  Run From Mom Jeans

Yesterday I went to Best Buy to shop for a computer.  Seeing as how my memory bank is full of irrelevant stuff like the “Gilligan’s Island” theme song, there has been no room in it to learn about new technology.  

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In order to compare computers in the store, I took pictures of them on my iPhone and typed their specs in the “Notes” section of the phone.  Hoping to attract a salesperson's attention, I looked around and spoke to myself out loud..

"When I write in 'Notes,' I wish I could put pictures with it."  

Rajeev, a nice salesman nearby, made the tragic mistake of looking me in the eye.  He was now going to have to engage me in a sales conversation. 

Poor Raj was a fairly new employee, and he had just been thrown under the bus by his “Team Member” pals who scattered at the sight of approaching mom jeans.  

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Rajeev addressed my dilemma bravely.

“Ma’am, this might help you,” he said with a voice of dread, like he was slowly sinking in quicksand.  He pointed to the little jumbled black and white square by the computer descriptions. 

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“Those squares remind me of that game ‘Tetris’ we used to play!” I said excitedly.  

Raj stared at me, silently cursing his Geek Squad agents for leaving him with someone who was alive when Elvis was.

Please note, he did not stare at me like this . . .

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But like this . . .

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“Do you have a QR Reader?” asked Raj, seriously expecting me to know what that was, despite my mom jeans.  “It’s an app.  Here, let me see your phone.”

He searched for a second and found it right next to my app “1000 Glorious Ways to Swear Using Emojis.”  

  
    

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I do not know how either of those apps got there.

He opened the app, “QR Reader” and took a photo of the Tetris-looking box.  Like magic, the picture and specs of the computer I was looking at popped on my screen.   My eyes widened and my mouth dropped open with delight just like when there was only one line on the pregnancy test I took last year.

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I grabbed the phone from Raj and tried it myself.  As Raj babbled on about stuff, I couldn’t get the camera to work.  Raj snapped at me.

You're MISSING it!"

“I am NOT missing your point!” I rebutted, having no clue as to what he was just  babbling.  

“No,” Raj said patiently as he touched my hand softly.  

“Whoa.  Why did he do that?  I know I’m looking nice in my jeans and I just got my roots done.  But Raj, it just couldn’t work.  I’m almost 40. (bwaaahhh ha haaa!)  How am I going to break this to you gently?”

“No, you’re MISSING,” said Raj, interrupting my thoughts.  “You’re aiming at the BAR CODE—not the um . . . Tetris-box.”

“Oh, my bad.”

Raj took a deep breath, implying he wished he was in the break room writing code, as usual, for The Cloud instead of dealing with me.

In a final, desperate attempt to get commission for this freaking sale, he spoke to me slowly on account of me being a moron and all.  

“First, hold the phone over the Tetris-box, NOT the bar code. 

Second, do NOT press the button to “TAKE” the picture!  QR Reader will AUTOMATICALLY take the picture when it's focused, for God’s sake!”

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Why didn’t he say that before?

Well . . . maybe he did.  It’s not my fault I couldn’t concentrate.  While he was babbling, something else was blaring in my mind.

"Here's the story of a lovely lady
who was bringing up three very lovely girls . . ."

Meeting Big-Time Authors: All In a Day's Work

Meeting Big-Time Authors:  All In a Day’s Work

Last week I attended a fund-raising luncheon for Literacy Mid-South where W. Bruce Cameron, a New York Times best-selling author, was slated to speak.  He’s only just the funniest writer of all time, and I had the chance to meet him!   But to me, social situations where everyone knows each other feel like the front-yard lamb roast in My Big, Fat Greek Wedding.  Me being the lamb.  And honestly, it’s been a long time since my sweatpants and I have been apart that long.

http://www.brucecameron.com/books/8-simple-rules-for-dating-my-teenage-daughter

The morning of the luncheon, I placed my hands over my heart chakra, greeted my Spanx respectfully with “Namaste,” (we had a little bad karma from the last Open House debacle) and successfully squeezed into rubber fabric the diameter of a garden hose. 

Arriving at the luncheon, I perused the books for sale and noticed a smaller room adjacent to the lobby where two mom-friends from school mingled with Mimosas.  Obviously this was the room for me, so I grabbed a flute and mentioned to them I wanted to meet W. Bruce but I was extremely nervous.  My friends were no help because they do not meet famous people every day like me, being a journalist and all.

I'm usually calmer after a drink and, I must say, I ALWAYS look better.  But I soon realized bubbly isn’t something one should drink when one’s mid-section is wearing an iron boa constrictor.  

Just then a sweet woman asked me if I’d like to meet Mr. Cameron.  After three mimosas, my swag was more than ready to take on a guy worth a gazillion dollars—I mean he’s just a writer like me, right?  (What??  Dear God.  The oxycodone from my root canal just shook hands with my friend, Korbel Brut)   

She introduced me.  “Heeyyy, Mr. W.,” I said.  “Ummm, sorry.  I called you W.  Wad’nt he a awesome president?” I asked in my Southern Brut accent.  The woman who introduced us flinched.

Mr. Cameron politely commented that winter is so bad in the South this year he probably wouldn’t come back for a while.

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As I tried to redeem myself, a champagne burp, sparked by a Spanx revolution, rose and parked in my esophagus, and I was racked with angst because an expulsion of air was imminent.  Should I turn away?  Act like I was whhhhhispering Mimosa instructions to the oblivious bartender?  Or let it fizzle through my nose while he was talking?  That would've burned, and Dr. Oz says that's not safe AND it’s the leading cause of belly fat.  

I couldn't concentrate on what to say because my Spanx were hissing too loudly in Parsel-tongue, squeezing my mid section up into my brain. (Ok.  Parents of teens ARE my demographic, and you haven’t seen Harry Potter?)

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Parseltongue-298676672

  OH SORRY!!! WRONG PICTURE!!

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Then, I realized if I stifled my burp, it Had. To. Expel. Somewhere.  

I got so nervous, my dress started sweating.  I casually crossed my arms while listening to W.’s writing tips and realized it was my shapewear that was sweating . . . spray Pam.  How else do you think I got the $%@# things on?  (FYI, there’s an online Spanx forum hosted by “Smart Physics Gals and Cross-dressing Divas,” since you ask.  I can’t think of that scientific stuff myself!  For the love of all professions with zero earning potential, I’m a writer!)

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Soon another newbie writer wandered up and I bolted for the Ladies Room, exhaling something about squeezy snakes and 
“s-uurrrp-ents,” which I’m sure will surface on Youtube soon.

While cutting off and disposing of my Anaconda, I missed Bruce’s comments about his teenagers, the inspiration for his first book.

  

In “8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter,” he writes that his opinions are often out-voted and ignored by his wife and girls, but he never backs down from his role as Decision-Maker because—“I’m the Father, that’s why.”

Like Bruce, my opinions are ignored by my kids, but I still have to perform motherly obligations like signing forms and other really important stuff.  Besides, I still get satisfaction embarrassing my 15-year-old and her friends by driving them to the movies, loudly rocking my “Raspberry Beret."  I've totally earned that—because I’m the Mother, that’s why. 

Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

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Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

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Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

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Me (from below):  Go get your uniforms!  I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

Me (hearing their conversation):  I'm gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mooooom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah,  go nag DAD!

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

fotocommunity.com  by Rix Weber

 I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

Dad Coaches: "Have Fun. Winning Is Fun!"

Dad Coaches:   “We’re Gonna Have Fun.  Winning Is Fun”

My daughters won their school’s State Championship in soccer last Saturday.  My senior daughter said goodbye to an incredible coach she’s had for four years. 

School coaches do a great job teaching the nuances of their sport to kids who already know the basics.  But who taught them the basics?  Dads (and moms) who sacrificed their patience and sanity coaching church and community leagues since their kids were spastic kindergartners.

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&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nhnotebo

A good Dad-coach knows his players in ways a school coach can’t.  He’ll call Katie before a game to reassure her she can handle that tall #23 under the basket.  He knows Anna’s gonna cry if he yells.  And he knows Alexa likes chocolate milk with her pancakes after his daughter’s sleepover. 

A good Dad-coach will angrily throw his clipboard down.  And at least once each season, he’ll be ejected from the ball park and watch the game from his car for uttering “another word” when the umpire orders him not to.

http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=1b3FDIWPhIYQuM&tbnid=PpR78W0ae
FZRKM:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.

He knows how to smile nicely while questioning a ref’s masculinity.  

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He knows how to beat the Star Wars pin ball machine at Garibaldi’s after games.

He knows trash talk is just as crucial as a good helmet.

And the best team isn’t always the one that looks best on paper.  

A good Dad-coach is also über-competitive.  In second grade, my daughter played on a basketball team coached by her friend Grace’s dad.

In the championship game, they were short a player because of a stupid family wedding or something, and Grace, the best player on the team, was injured.  Naturally, Coach John sent his daughter onto the court as if she was simply sporting a bandaid on her toe instead of a giant orthopedic boot. 

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The ref, a teenage boy with video game needs, wasn’t going to get paid for a forfeit, and boots weren’t prohibited in the manual he didn’t read. So game on.

Soon Grace flew through the air, diving for a loose ball.  My daughter Catherine, a 3 1/2 ft. Dick Butkus, but twice as mean, joined the fray and Grace’s boot cut her forehead.

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The ref, at the sight of blood, was thrown into a Call of Duty virtual war zone haze so Coach John stopped the game.  I let John handle it because I’d get my Mom Card taken away if I approached my child on a court/field unless her eyeball was falling out.    

After the game, I called John’s wife who wasn’t there.  “We won!  And Grace scored 15 points!! 

“What?”  Silence.

“Oops.  Well, I really can’t talk right now because I’m taking Catherine to get, um . . . stitches . . . her head ran into Grace’s boot, um . . . we have a bad connection,” I said.

“Are you telling me John let Grace play?  What the heck was he THINKING?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, but Catherine’s beaming.  She said Coach John taught them something today—’Don’t come in second.  That’s just being the first loser.’”

Poor John, our brave, competitive Dad-coach won on the court that day, but I’m sure he paid the price at home that night.  Licking his wounds, he probably just left the house for awhile and worked on his pinball game at Garibaldi’s. 

Tired of All Those Christmas Brag Letters?

December 7, 2013

By Cathy Cantu

I really admire the families who include letters with their Christmas cards.  They send perfect pictures of their well-behaved children in the beautiful places they’ve visited this year.

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However, I don’t have time for perfect on account of I’m too busy watching Dr. Phil and that medical talk show with all those hot doctors.  And I’m always plagued by some important task hanging over my head.  It’s too bad I can’t remember what it is.

And why can’t I go to those beautiful places?  Because I’m home editing a five-page paper on why Zeus and Medusa wound up inside the Trojan Horse or some crap like that.  The next day I’m scraping burnt french fries off my rusty cookie sheet, and my friend is over there in Italy telling Edwardo, her hot masseuse, “A little more warm oil, please.”

commonmedicalquestions.com

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my friends who send letters.  I want to know about their exciting lives.  A part of me wants to slip it down the garbage disposal, but the sender may ask me later what I thought about their Alaskan cruise.  But a part of me is glad they are thoroughly enjoying their lives.

Why am I jealous sometimes, though?  I have everything I want.  I have plenty of time to ponder my blessings when I’m driving back at 9 p.m. from a wrestling match an hour away.  Thank God I usually remember to buy granola bars for my other two kids for dinner.  I also ruminate on my blessings, shivering, at 7 a.m. and again at 7 p.m. at soccer games in a tournament seven hours away.  Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with thankfulness that I want to get on my knees right there on the sideline but my butt is stuck to the bleachers.

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But the thing is—there’s no where I’d rather be.  I’ll never have these days back, but Turks and Caicos will always be there.  I’d rather watch my daughter play point guard for the very first time than visit some Paradise Point.  I’d rather see her perfect her rise ball than watch a sunrise in Oahu.  And most of all, seeing my daughter’s embarrassment when I volunteer to have her Bible study at my house is priceless.

One day I might make it to an exotic location, but right now I’m enjoying watching my beautiful children put their home-made (well, school-made) ornaments on our Christmas tree.    When I do make it to Italy, I wonder if Edwardo will still be there.

Serious Disorder Leads to Wearing a Coconut Bra

Serious Disorder Leads to Wearing a Coconut Bra

I was a room mom extraordinaire.

For Halloween, other moms brought cupcakes with a Milano-cookie tombstone sticking out of the top.  Pu-leeeze. 

I brought a masterpiece with a lighted skull and glowing skeleton hands and feet that are supposed to stick up out of the ground, as if the fiend was clamoring up from the netherworld, except my skeleton was clamoring up out of a 48” x 48” cake grave.  Everyone raved about how did I do that and lots of stuff about how great I was.  

My all-or-nothing obsession began years ago when I was asked to create a centerpiece for the cookies-and-punch table at a school spring program. What an opportunity to show all the moms my insecurity, um . . . creative talent!  

No sweet vase of crocuses for me.  Somehow I stumbled across a huge furry Bugs Bunny head that begged to be tablescaped. 

My husband took over the household and child-rearing duties while I labored for weeks to make that head look like it was popping out of a grapevine rabbit hole.  I was like Evan Almighty building the ark, except with only one animal, and a lot less hairy.  Did I say this was a singing program for THREE. YEAR. OLDS?

Yes, it's true

Years later, I officially passed the punch ladle to others, and I never decorated for one freaking function again.

But lately my guilt over pretending I was always out of town on Scarecrow Day got the best of me.  

Recently, while frantically delivering forgotten homework, I sprinted down the school hallway in my Tweety Bird t-shirt and sweatpants to avoid the gift wrap Nazi.  Just as I realized I’d left the house without a bra, the perky mom of the Senior Class suddenly appeared from behind a plant like Beetlejuice in Lilly Pulitzer.

http://www.philly.com/philly/blogs/style/Lily-Pulitzer-has-died.html

“Cath, since every other mom has worked 12 shifts in the library and you . . . haven’t, will you decorate for the Senior Luau?  Thanks!”

“I’m sorry Deena Fay, I have a disorder,” I admitted.

“Nothing that a good plastic surgeon couldn’t fix,” she replied, staring at my chest.

“I am a craftaholic,” I said, ashamed.  When I fall off the wagon, my family doesn’t see me for long stretches of time.”  

Like once, I went out for poster board, and weeks later they found me stowed away on a Disney Cruise, sitting in a corner by the Little Mermaid ice sculpture folding towels into animal shapes.  

huffingtonpost.ca

“You’ll have PLENTY of help,” said Deena Fay not listening, sort of like my kids.  “Like Charlene!”

“Charlene couldn’t even shine my shoes,” I thought smugly.  “However, she could fetch me my lattés.”

I wavered.  Visions of colorful tissue paper flowers and a tropical photo backdrop twisted me into Jekyll and Hyde dancing the Hula and serving up Pu-pu platters.

Yes, I was in charge of decorations at the senior luau

Suddenly, Deena Fay spun around and caught Charlene, herself, by the arm.

“I’ve been looking for you!” said Deena Fay.  “Could you decorate for the Senior Luau?  I asked Cathy, but she’s sick,” she said with her back to me and making circular motions with her finger at her temple.

Whatever.  Their loss.  I hope Charlene’s cheap blow-up pink flamingos look precious.  But maybe it’s best.  I’d probably blow my daughter’s college fund flying in fire-stick jugglers walking on hot coals—before Charlene could even shine my shoes.