14 Points They Don't Cover in Driving School—But Should

12 Points They Don't Cover in Driving School—But Should

       I’ve taught three teenagers to drive without once, well hardly ever, ripping off the “OH-MY-GOD handle.” (handle located in interior of vehicle above door.  Grasped tightly to avoid chiropractors, or possibly even REAL doctors)

       My daughter is attending driving school next week, mostly for the insurance discount and to learn about driving with beer goggles.  

http://www.arlnow.com/2011/06/02/prom-bound-wakefield-students-learn-about-dui-risks/

       
          Actually additional beer goggle practice would be advantageous so that in a bar in college she can discern Tristan Framingham III, with a bulging wallet in his back pocket, from Joe Darryl with a bulging Skoal can in his back pocket.

http://latestnewspics.blogspot.com/2013/06/rich-
and-single-celebrities.html

http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/southern-boy

       

       Driving school can teach her how to turn her wheels in a skid, but it should also touch on other essential information, such as:

       Emergency protocol when arriving at an important peer group debriefing meeting and all the spots are taken at Sonic.

       How much farther can one really, really go on two tablespoons of gas.

       Perfecting the “guilt wave,” after close calls.

       How to throw blood hounds off the scent of the body in one’s trunk.

       How to get out of a ticket. (Taken in conjunction with Improv/Role Play 101)

       What not to wear to one’s traffic court appearance.  Hint: shirt emblazoned with  “Cocaine and Caviar.” (You can’t make this stuff up)

pic by Cathy Cantu at traffic court (for none of ur bidness).  He
crossed his arms because he must've thought I was a narc and because I suck at being nonchalant taking pics with an iPhone.

       Knee driving 101 (Eating/cell phone usage), 201 (Grooming/shaving/brushing teeth), 301 (changing clothes), and Graduate Program (all of the above while finishing algebra homework due in fifteen minutes)

       How to blend in when lost in a neighborhood where one sees lots of chalk body outlines.

http://dallas.culturemap.com/news/life/06-13-13-police-arrest-teens-beating-death-murder-sam-morris-south-dallas/

       Excuses for rolling down the window, or "Purging the Cabin," when one is driving with one’s significant other and feels a Silent But Deadly coming on.

       Combining Red Bull and alcohol only makes one do stupid stuff with more enthusiasm.

       Legal limits: For driving under the influence of Benadryl and Zyrtec.                For the circumference of a spastic dog in driver’s lap.

https://www.facebook.com/DogsAreFamily

       Funeral procession procedures.  Where’s your respect?  Geez, you people just need to pull over and wait.  Except not me of course, but the rest of you.

       And just for ladies:

       How to approach an ATM without opening the car door and leaning out the window.  Tips for remembering to release the parking brake before arriving at your next destination.  I know I’m making broad generalizations here.  Deal with it.

       And a few classes for parents:

       Method to circumvent the “Con Your Mom” anti-phone tracking app your minors have.  Procedure 100% effective roughly 60% of the time.

       When Facetime-ing minors to verify their location, how to distinguish whether they are seated in front of real or faux library books.

http://www.visualphotos.com/image/2x4165748/portrait_of_teenage_girl_reading_book_in_library
Artist: Lea Roth  Agency: Beyond Fotomedia

       How to translate a minor’s texts from Dos Equis into American.

       Most 16- to 18-year olds embrace the obnoxious DAWNeD ideology:  (Daring, Arrogant, often Wrong but Never in Doubt) 

       And just a warning from parents to all teens:  Most of us in the OAT (Old And Treacherous) set know how to throw off the bloodhounds.

Everyone's Got a Hot Button—And Mine's George Clooney

Everyone's Got a Hot Button—And Mine's George Clooney

Recently a friend and I took our daughters to Atlanta, mecca of the spiritual disciplines of eating and shopping.  One morning my friend woke our exhausted teenagers, coaxing them to life by hinting about our day’s agenda.

She woke her daughter. “Lizaaaaa, C. P. Kaaaaaay!!”  (California Pizza Kitchen)  

She woke my daughter whispering “Sweetieeeeeee,  H & Mmmmmm!!”  (The cheap-clothes-for-cheap-girls store in every city but Memphis).  Seriously—my daughter isn’t cheap, but she’s all about a nice five-inch platform.

Motivating kids to move more than their texting fingers requires finding their hot buttons.  

One summer, my daughter refused to wear rubber bands on her braces.  If I couldn’t persuade her, she’d be the only metal-mouthed girl in her college sorority that could open a beer bottle with her teeth.  Except if you go to Ole Miss—almost ALL the sorority girls can do that.

I made a monthly chart and suggested giving her a dollar for each day she wore the rubber bands.  Thirty dollars could score her five or six cool tops at H & M online.  No luck.  Charts only work for Super Nanny because she’s a delicate mix of Rachel Ray and Kim Jong-un. 

So I did what any veteran mom would do whose creativity petered out after “Tinkle Targets” during her son’s potty training phase.  Bribe her.  

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It couldn’t be any old bribe—but an Instagram-worthy, braggable asset.  I sought the advice of Shannon, a frazzled friend with seven kids.  I figured she had to be creative to find ways to keep her husband away from her ‘til, um. . . forever.

“What does she like to do?” Shannon asked wisely.

“Shop online at HootchieFashion.com, text, start major physics projects at midnight before they’re due, not clean her room, and drag mounds of trash and clothes out of her car and leave them in our yard in full view of the judgey HOA president,” I said.

“No.  What is her enticement to negotiate?  Has she been asking for anything lately?”

tmz.com

“Well, she is quite the Belieber and wants to meet J.B., but he probably can’t talk right now with his foot stuck so far in his mouth.  Um. . . she wants me to stop stalking George Clooney on her laptop when mine’s dead, Usher and Shakira to tweet her back, and an iPhone.”

“That’s it!” she said.  “An iPhone is doable, and the swag factor is substantial.” 

Hmmm, my daughter’s old flip phone WAS broken.  It was basically useless because all it could do was make calls.  Perfect.  I was ready to negotiate like Tiger Woods in divorce court.

I presented her with the rubber band/iPhone proposition, and her braces were off in three weeks.

Now my struggle is cajoling her to wear her retainer.  I think it’s time for another bribe.  Although, “bribe” is such an ugly word.

justjared.com

I prefer “extortion.”  That sounds like I should be wearing a black dress and sunglasses, holding a martini and a briefcase full of money, waiting to meet an international man of intrigue.  And he would be swarthy and dressed in black too and . . . wait.  This isn’t the appropriate time to bring up my virtual vignettes with George Clooney.  

Maybe my creativity didn’t dry up during the “Tinkle Targets” phase after all. 

3 No-brainer Rules for Customer Service

3 No-brainer Rules for Customer Service

It’s unusual to find a company with great customer service.  When I find one, I’m very loyal.

In the past, I might have gone all Tonya Harding on a few mechanics with poor customer skills.  But for the record, since I now have a writing outlet, it was NOT me who “opened up a can” on the bartender at Applebee’s last week because he wouldn’t extend happy hour by three minutes.  

Here are my Customer Service delights and nightmares:

When Pottery Barn Kids delivered my bedroom furniture, they left a single red rose on the dresser with a note that read,  “We really appreciate your business.”  It doesn’t take much to buy me.

My sprinkler guy is great.  He gives me home-made jam every Christmas, and he arrives speedy quick when my son breaks the sprinkler heads by running over them with the lawn tractor.

I’ve also rented a couple of limos on occasion.  If we exceeded the time limit by thirty minutes, the smart drivers didn’t charge us for it.  Limo companies don’t need billboards.  Just make the middle-aged moms happy because guess what?  We know thousands of friends whose kids will have proms next year.  For all that advertising, he should be paying ME.

Next we have the plankton in the scumbucket of Crabby Patty customer service.  

hollyturner.co.uk

Let’s talk technology—Big Gangnam Warehouse Style. The remote control to our home theater system needed reprogramming.  I’m not gonna name names, but the telephone customer service at “Crest Cry” had me searching my kitchen for the cameras from Punk’d.  

I was exasperated with their “Freak Squad,”  and I complained to the heads of Customer Service, Double Agents Lucy and Ethel, to no avail.  

ilovelucy-kmint.blogspot.com

I fantasized about tying Secret Agent Cody to my barstool and demonstrating the merits of my Cutco collection.  If the knife cuts through pennies, it can handle a pocket protector and a few nerdy vital organs.  

Which leads me to my most recent customer service nightmare.  I’m planning a big party, and I hired a professional to print formal invitations.  (Note:  She charged me a $175 “design fee” which is NOT applied to the price of the order).  

The invitations resembled a Tiffany’s box, and my design included a small paper square glued on the front displaying, “Tiffany & Co.”  No big deal, right?  She delivered the invitations promptly.

The next week, I stuffed the envelopes and noticed half the glued-on squares were not straight—unless you were pretty drunk.  I emailed her a picture of an extremely crooked one and assumed she’d fix the bad ones.  Here’s the good part.  This is what she said:

“I’m sorry you were not happy with the invitations.  I took a lot of time and care putting the squares on.” (while I was high).  “They were NOT CROOKED WHEN I LEFT THEM WITH YOU.” (when I was also high).  

Wait.  Is she implying that I moved the squares?  

It’s one thing to screw up and admit you’re wrong.  I mean, stuff happens, and if you fix it, I’ll probably come back.  Seeing the picture, she couldn’t deny they were crooked.   So she blamed ME? 

Finally, there are three concrete rules of customer service: Treat customers the way you’d want to be treated.  A rose now and then would be nice.  And don’t rankle a writer.

Throw 'Em Out of the Nest and Have a Glass of Wine

Throw 'Em Out of the Nest and Have a Glass of Wine

I just love Oprah.  

I think she’d like me more than Gayle, her moocher friend and juice box girl.

ms.104tube.com

Oprah’s ground-breaking magazine is like Cosmopolitan to moms who are tired of all Cosmo’s advice such as “7 Ways to Raise the ‘Bar’ in Bed: (You Won’t Believe It!)” 

O’s headlines pull me in with “7 Reasons You Are So Messed Up” and “Me! 10 Ways I’m So Much Better Than You!”  The articles include questionnaires from psychology experts to help me determine my strengths and weaknesses.  But I don’t need a questionnaire to tell me I’ve lost my mind and I’m too sensitive.  My husband tells me every day. 

Sometimes an “expert’s” ideas are so ridiculous I have to call time out.  For example, Oprah featured an article by a “helicopter” mom who realized her 17-year-old son didn’t know how to make pasta or do laundry.  She gave him a crash course in Home-ec before college because she didn’t want to “unleash a spoiled princeling into the world.”

blog.teenlife.com

I agree most boys don’t even know how to find the milk in the fridge.  And sometimes we’d like to slap the entitlement attitude out of them (however slapping doesn’t work, not that I’ve ever tried that).  But it doesn’t bother me a bit to unleash a princeling into the world.  

Why?  Because some McDonald’s manager will push Little Lord Fauntleroy with his pastel Polos in the mud speedy quick in the real world.  The Justin Bieber mentality will end as soon as his boss asks him to clean the fryer and actually expects him to clean the fryer.

I think Mommy Weirdest wasted her time showing her son how to poach things and make pie crusts.  I mean, no one poaches in real life.  And why can’t he just buy Mrs. Smith’s pies like normal people?   If I were her, I’d just send him out to shoot hoops in the driveway and go have a glass of wine.  

sheknows.com

I say throw him out of the nest and he’ll fly.  He doesn’t need to be taught how to fly first.  That’s just redundant. 

When he moves out, he’ll discover that “food fairies” hardly ever come and replenish the Mountain Dew anymore, and most importantly, Uncrustables are just expensive, teeny PBJ sandwiches that almost any college kid can make if he Googles ehow.com.  

Thinking it through, having a husband who cooks wouldn’t be such a bad idea.  I’d just let him take over the kitchen. That way I can go to Bobbie Jean’s and play bunco while he makes pies and poaches his little heart out. 

O Come All Ye Braggers: Merry Christmas From Me and My Hot Masseuse

O Come All Ye Braggers:  Merry Christmas From Me and My Hot Masseuse

It really chaps my chestnuts when friends send Christmas cards including brag-letters about their amazing trips.  I never go anywhere cool.  My cultural awareness consists of the time Layna and I happened to be at Nuttin’ But Beer ‘n Wings on “Chug Around the World” night.

At Christmas, friends who are normal all year lose their humble filter and send beautiful pictures of themselves on gondolas in Venice and dubious ones of their kids hugging and smiling after the ten-hour flight.  Please.  I could Photoshop too, but I spend all my time not cleaning out from behind the dryer.                                   

blog.sandiego.org

Here’s an example of holiday brag-mail:

“This year Barbie challenged Babs that if she maintained a 4.0 GPA all year, Barbie would reward her with a trip to Paris!  Her average was a 4.3 so the clan donned their berets and hopped on a plane!  They saw the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, and Barbie discovered she loves champagne and that French people are very nice!   In fact, after several glasses of bubbly, she danced the Can-Can at the Moulin Rouge and several guys gave her very friendly hugs!  Ken bought some manly skinny jeans, and Kenny Jr. wants to pursue an internship in the French Quarter in ‘Nawlins!   Babs was disappointed that no restaurants served “French” fries though!  hee hee!” 

                                                                                                    burlesqueandcabaret.com

Reading it, I wished I’d skipped the cheesy burrito for lunch.  Just take away my wine and shoot me now if someone uses seven exclamation points in a row and says “donned,” because that’s kind of bizarro unless you’re J. K. Rowling or you collect Lord of the Rings paraphernalia.

Why can’t I take a week off and travel to beautiful places?  Because my fingers are flitting over a keyboard at midnight, editing my kid’s paper on why Zeus and Aphrodite wound up inside the Trojan Horse or something.  Meanwhile, the hands of Edwardo, the hot masseuse, are flitting over my friend’s back in Italy as he coos, “Would you like a leeetle more warm oil, cara mia?”

                                                           

marcelgoldstein.blogspot.com

I shouldn’t be jealous.  I have everything I want.   I ruminate on my blessings driving back from my kid’s basketball camp in Chattanooga and shivering at the crack of dawn at soccer tournaments in Atlanta.  Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with thankfulness that I’d hit my knees there on the sideline if my rear wasn’t stuck to the bleachers.

But honestly, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.  I’ll never have these days back with my children, but Turks and Caicos will always be there.  I’d rather watch my daughter play point guard 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.  

In the future I might make it to an exotic location, or maybe even to Dollywood for a Christmas show.  But right now I’m enjoying watching my beautiful children put their old home-made (OK, school-made) ornaments on our tree.  Someday I’ll get to Italy.  And I’m definitely looking up Edwardo .

The Magic of Ordinary

Last weekend, like good parents, Hubs and I mercilessly forced our female slaves to perform excessive and unnecessary yard work.

However,  the slaves have been known to report said parents to Child Protective Services if forbidden to watch Teen Nick on Saturday mornings.  Fine.  Hubs and I really don't want to deal with that again.  

While they were engrossed in Spongebob, Hubs and I went out to tackle the ocean of fall leaves.  The girls were supposed to follow after  breakfast.

An hour passed and they hadn't moved so Hubs returned, gently yelling, “GET UP OFF YOUR FLIPPIN' CARCASSES!” in all caps.

“This show has seven more minutes, Dad!” 

Begrudgingly, he gave in, but the girls never appeared to help with chores.

Maybe this would take a little female ingenuity. I went inside and yelled, “Girls, what are ya’ll doing?” 

“Cleaning my room,” replied Youngest, checking Facebook.

“Hanging up my clothes,” said Eldest, tweeting derogatory parent hashtags.

Right.  And I’m wearing a thong.  

Before I could scream, “Gimme your phones!” Dad returned, yelling and clapping (fact:  dads always think clapping helps).  “Girls, come outside NOW!”

Eldest crawled into a semi-upright Neanderthal stance and groaned.  The condemned inmates plodded out the door, sticking their phones in their waistbands.

“Why are they bringing phones?” Hubs asked me.  

“Let them bring their phones outside.  Otherwise, they’ll be inside every five minutes checking them," I said, proving I am a female.  That way they could stay outside and at least LOOK busy, making their father happy.  A win-win.

After thirty minutes raking leaves into trash bags, Youngest went in for a drink.  Eldest waited there, rake in hand, reading her texts.

“Why are you busy not raking?” Dad sneered.

“She went inside.  You don’t expect me to do all this by myself, do you??”

“Here, I’ll help you,” he said.  Together they raked, bending down to bag the mountain of leaves.  

As they worked, Eldest wasn’t thinking about what was really happening at that moment.  She thought she was just helping dad with chores on a fall day.  They were just raking.  

She glanced over with a twinkle in her eye and tossed an armful of leaves in her dad’s face.  Before he could yell, she belly-laughed, and he pushed her over.  She went for his leg, and when he fell, she pounced.  Youngest bolted out of the house and jumped on his back. They stuffed leaves under his shirt and crushed them in his hair, and he cackled and held them upside down.  Their faces were red from the cold, and they relished the fun of 2-on-1.   

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Later they burst in the house, and I was captivated by the faces of my teenagers, glowing with remnants of childhood, which are now often covered by the masks of Bored and Detached.  

“Thanks for helping me, girls,” Dad said.

“Dad, why do you always bother us while we’re doing chores?  It takes twice as long to finish,” Eldest said, grinning up at him.

“Mom, we’re all muddy.  Here’s my phone,” Youngest said, pulling it out of her waistband.  “Take a picture of us.”

Small snapshots of Ordinary, like snatches of songs, that shade of blue, the wood handle of an old rake.  But years later the memories swirl together like leaves in blazing flutters of Long-ago and get stuck in a certain flannel shirt or in the salt and pepper of dad’s graying hair.

Memories made, just raking.