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.  

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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.

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. 

15 Things I Know For Sure

15 Things I Know For Sure

One of my personality flaws is that I can’t make decisions.  Choosing a picture for our Christmas card is just as hard for me as buying a car.  

I can’t even decide on a bag of grapes because I doubt myself.  Green or purple?  Is that brown, damaged grape going to defile the other grapes it touches?  Should I buy the huge, toxic ones or the wimpy, organic ones?  The multitude of unknowns out there fuels my anxiety.  

Writing a list of absolutes in life makes the world a little less scary for me.  Here are some things I Know For Sure. 

If my snarky attitude takes me straight to the Devil, the PTA president will be driving me there.

You must seek cover when a redneck guy stands up and yells, “Hold my beer!  Ya'll watch this!”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_Wx_Ue8dFE

Every December 1st, my husband says, “We need to send out the Christmas cards.”  Exactly who is “we”?  Hopefully the other half of “we” brings hot toddies.

When my husband and I travel, he plans the route and researches the weather.  Conversely I am only interested in staying at the hotel with free cookies.

One day I will change the sound of my car horn to a chainsaw, drive up close behind a biker in the middle of the road, and let ‘er rip on the egotistical jerkwad who thinks he owns any slice of the earth he occupies.  And my Anger Management class starts back up in the fall, since you ask.

One day when I’m buying a fifty-pound bag of Purina Dog Chow at Costco and someone in line asks me, “Oh, you have a dog?”  I’m going to say, “Nope, I’m doing the Dog Chow diet again.  Last time I lost 40 lbs, but wound up in the hospital.”  When they ask, “What happened?” I’ll say, “I stepped into the street to sniff a labrador’s rear, and I got hit by a car.”

Cats just do not care.

When threatening your teenager, whispering in her ear is scarier than yelling.

If you use “template” in any conversation, you automatically sound smarter.

When snow skiing, don’t trust your husband when he says, “Let’s take this shortcut.” 

http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=extreme%2Bsnow%2Bskiing&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=w2Y00AcKuURI-M&tbnid=znrjfTsOkeqG4M:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=h

I can’t browse Pinterest, play Farmville, or stalk Chaz Bono online for JUST ten minutes.

http://celebrities.ninemsn.com.au/?blogentryid=635568&showcomments=true

If you don’t challenge yourself, you’ll never realize what you can become.  I know that’s true because I read it on a sign at the dry cleaners.

There is no imaginable reason for me to use calculus in my daily life.  Schools are taking away dodgeball on playgrounds because it makes the fat kids feel bad.  What about me?  Why don’t they take away math?  That would make me feel better.

When you return a swimsuit at Macy’s, the sales clerk wonders if you tried it on with no underwear. 

And, the number one Absolute of the Universe . . . the fifty-percent-off sale ended yesterday.

I hope meditating on these truths will ease the uncertainties in my readers’ lives.  

Just knowing that I have a “template” for my Christmas cards next year eases my stress—giving me more time to maintain my blog, “Chaz Bono: A Great Actor Who Just Needs More Parts.”

Wife Swap and a Passionate Encounter With Doritos

Wife Swap and a Passionate Encounter With Doritos

I love reality shows, and one of my favorites is Wife Swap.

Every episode two polar opposite families agree to swap wives for two weeks. 

http://www.campaignbrief.com/2011/12/post-119.html

The first week the new mom has to adhere to her new family’s lifestyle.  The second week, they must abide by her rules.  In conclusion, everyone gathers for a “come to Jesus meeting” and a) agree they can learn something from one another or b) violently accuse the other family of being the spawn of Satan, which is lots funner.

I can imagine living with the flip side of my family.  

The dad would wear a t-shirt emblazoned with, “Is that true or did you hear it on FOX News?”  And every morning the kids would say thank you when I toss them PopTarts as they’re walking out the door.   

http://www.youtube.com/all_comments?v=PzYKsLch4GM

At night, I’d retire to my bedroom to have a passionate encounter with a bag of Ranch Doritos, which are always gone at my house.  And I’d go to the bathroom ALONE.

I’d finally read the other mom’s instruction manual, similar to the one I’d left for her at my house.  Actually, not similar at all.

With my luck, I’d get a real nut job family whose manual reads:

“We do not take our clothes to the cleaners because of the harmful plastic they put over the clothes.”  Oh, yay!  I suppose I get to eat vegan all week. 

“We do not eat processed foods.”  As long as you have margarita ingredients.

“We do not yell.”  Note to self:  Get Xanax refilled.

I’d encourage ultra-competitiveness with my laid-back, polar opposite family who’d have a daughter who only cheers at school for FUN. (No cheer championships??  What a freak.) 

I’d play Monopoly with them, and when I win, I’d strut around jeering, “Awwwww, does Daddy need a bailout?  How ‘bout I redistribute my Monopoly money?  NOT!”  And that would turn ugly when little Willow and Phoenix run to their rooms crying.  (J.K. I’m really SO politically correct)

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I’m sure there’d be advantages to living with my bizarro family—like they’d probably have sports bottles that actually have lids.  

But the experience would probably make me long for my panic-inducing, dysfunctional “reality show” at home.  After one week, I’d miss my angst-riddled teenagers who usually declare, “Mooooom, I can take care of myself!” and at other times whisper, “But I’m not so sure.”

Just like I still miss helping my two-year-old tiptoe along the balance beam at Little Gym and afterward, mothering her on my shoulder, her exhaustion exhaling softness on my neck.

http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/Family_g212-Baby_In_His_Mothers_Shoulder_p57423.html
By David Castillo Dominici

And when they’re at college soon, I’ll miss soccer games and proms and catching the bouquet of their hair when I kiss them asleep every night.

But I shouldn’t worry about having an empty nest because I’m still having mondo fun cleaning jelly off the sofa and embarrassing them by singing "She's a very freaky girrrrrrllll, the kind you don't take home to muthaaa......" a la Rick James, when their friends are in the car.

http://spreemancommunications.com/2011/07/24/gangsta-and-other-words-im-not-allowed-to-say/

Besides, I have a lot to look forward to—like having the Doritos all to myself.

Kids Are Bored? Maybe a Schedule...yeah

Kids Are Bored?  Maybe a Schedule...Yeah

Recently, at Longhorn with the family, I pulled out my credit card to pay since hubs forgot his wallet.

“How are YOU gonna pay, Mom?” my kids heckled.  “It’s dad’s money!” 

“I have money too,” I said.

“Yeah, all the money you make from JOURNALISM??”

That’s funny coming from the unemployed.  Although blood pooled in my eyeballs, I handled it well.  With my iPhone, I simply Googled TacoBell.com/teen_job_applications/, and handed it to my daughters to fill out while we paid.

theglutlife.com

There are certain things my kids say that make me go postal, including their summer mantra, “I’M BORED!”

To avert their boredom, I’m being proactive and ordering my teenagers to devise a weekly summer schedule.

I imagine this is a schedule many high school kids would concoct:

First week of June:  Complain about how mom is so lame for forcing me to call people and talk to them on the phone.  When would I ever need to do that in real life?  

Second week of June:  Complain about how mom always comes in my room.  Why can’t she leave me alone?   I’ll let her know when I need money or new noise-canceling headphones to drown out the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

Third week of June:  Research location to buy illegal fireworks/beer for fourth of July party.  Hide illegal items by moving them every day to the houses of different friends who are allegedly not invited to the party I am allegedly not having.  

Fourth week of June:  Ask dad if I can take the boat out on Pickwick Lake with a group of friends the night of July 4th to watch fireworks. 

First week of July:  Take boyfriend on boat ALONE the night of July 4th to watch fireworks. 

Second week of July:  After Pickwick incident, research methods to bypass our home security system in order to sneak out of house after being grounded until the first day of school.

Third week of July:  Go on stupid vacation with stupid family to a stupid condo without internet.  Beg to fly back home alone two days early to start a vague summer project I forgot about for school.  Host a totally legit party for 175 Twitter friends at my house before parents return. 

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Fourth week of July:  Start two-a-day soccer practices.  In between practices, clean garage and our 172-degree attic on account of the recent “parents were gone and police arrived” family meeting.

First week of August:  Gripe about how parents should’ve made me work out this summer because of having to run sprints on a soccer field that has more gravity on it than last year.

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Second week of August:  Shop online with mom’s credit card at ShortSkirtsAndSheerShirts.com for new school clothes I can’t wear to school.  Pay more for expedited shipping than the clothes cost because I wasted valuable shipping time researching “Clothes That Work It, Girl!” on Pinterest.

Third week of August:  Start school.  Take new clothes purchased on internet with mom’s credit card to Plato’s Closet for cash.

On second thought, I want to ensure that my kids are too busy to engage in devious summer activities.  I’m heading to Taco Bell for a chalupa, so maybe I’ll have a few words with the manager.