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.

danoah.com

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!!

brooke-johnson.blogspot.com

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!)

posh24.com

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.

greatclownportraits.com

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.  

britannica.com

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. 

flickriver.com   shutterbug2188

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.

"My Summer Reading Essay" by: a high school student who didn't read the book

“My Summer Reading Essay” by: 

(a high school student who didn’t read the book)

1. Describe in 200 words what you learned about Ernest Hemingway by reading The Sun Also Rises.

The author of The Sun Also Rises is Ernest Hemingway, who is a very famous author.  I do not know much about Hemingway, but my sister is a big fan of the “classics,” however I am not at all.  I am more into Judy Moody books because I have a lot of individuality and attitude, and she doesn’t.  

We have had to read many other books written by the famous Hemingway for summer reading in the past.  There is also a restaurant named after him in Destin, Florida which serves splendid snapper in a “Hemingway” sauce, which probably contains alcohol because I imagine that Hemingway has an alcohol problem, which is basically the vibe that I get from most authors; that they are alcoholics.  I am all for people doing what they want to do, but they can hurt someone else and they are slowly ruining their lives.  

independent.co.uk

Because Hemingway is a classic author, I imagine him to have an extensive vocabulary.  Because I am good at peering into the souls of people, I also imagine him to be a little bit bitter because of all the alcohol he has been consuming.  And because he was not as famous as his drinking buddy, the guy who wrote The Great Gatsby. 

timesunion.com

        In summary, even though he was a bitter alcoholic, it goes without saying that he had periods of lucidity in which he was able to write famous pieces of work.  

        2.  Describe the book’s intended audience.

I think the book’s intended audience was definitely college-level or adults.  I think this because this book was obviously written by an author with an extensive vocabulary and a vast muse.   

This book was not meant for high school students because it requires a deeper level of understanding. The funny thing about Hemingway is that some high school students are very intelligent and can actually understand his work, but not every high school student is like that. 

Teachers think that students will really try to dig deep and understand what is going on in these stories, but in reality, students give up because it is frustrating to read page after page of words that make no sense to you. 

gemmlearning.com

        The average high schoolers brain is deluded by alcohol and drugs anyway, so it makes it that much harder to understand the point Hemingway is trying to make. Well, I would not actually know if alcohol and drugs make it harder to understand, but I would imagine it would.  
        
        Actually, since Hemingway was an avid drinker, maybe drinking would actually make it easier to understand what his writing meant, since he was drunk when he wrote most of it.  I may have to try out my theory someday when I am able to drink alcohol. 

fineartamerica.com

In summary, I learned that I am glad Hemingway was alive because if he wasn't, we wouldn't have the nice restaurant in Destin that he created. I also learned that I did not like this book and not to bullfight since it is very dangerous, especially if you’ve been drinking.

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.

College Goodbyes

College Goodbyes

My oldest child is starting college this week, and my husband and I will drive him thirteen hours to school to help him get settled in his dorm.  Saying goodbye will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

A mother’s life is full of teaching and guiding, and it’s full of letting go too.  It’s full of late nights spent rocking babies, praying they’ll survive the confusion and temptations of adolescence without needing intervention or therapy.  

And before you know it, teenagers are born who pull and strain against the walls of a cocoon which has held them in its sacred embrace since they were just a snuggle in their mothers’ hearts.  And as they pull away, we must helplessly watch as they cry into their pillows or endure the consequences of bad judgement.   

I’m not very good at letting go.  During my son’s first weeks of preschool, I hugged him and had to walk away as he sat crying on the floor.  Leaving him there to navigate on his own stretched my mommy muscles to a new breaking point.  And I piled on a few more pounds of guilt that squeezed my stomach into a gnawing angst.  

Sometimes letting go meant pushing my son forward.  When he was six on the first day of flag football practice, he didn’t know anyone and was reluctant to get out of the car.  

He sat with his cleats barely touching the floorboard and pleaded, “Mom, I don’t want to go.  Don’t make me go.”

“It’ll be ok, son.  I promise.”

If it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have made him go.  But he needed his share of dirt and sweat and the August sun.   

When he turned fifteen I thought I might be doing something wrong.  He hardly talked to me or looked up from his computer when I said goodnight.  I often walked away and wistfully reminisced about how my little boy used to fly at me, smothering me with hugs and kisses.  

Yes, I know all kids turn quiet during the teenage years.  But he’ll never know how the younger and prettier and more energetic me poured myself into him until there was hardly any of me left to go around.  But all teenagers forget, and mothers are just annoying.  Please go away.  

Through the years, my son and I danced to an unpredictable song, faltering and side-stepping whenever the tempo changed without warning.  As soon as I memorized the pattern of dipping and twirling, the song switched directions and I had to adapt.  At times I was sure-footed, and other times I was scared to death.  We were making up the dance as we went.   

We swayed together, and sometimes I released his hand and watched as he experimented with unsteady steps of his own.

Mom, I want to ride my bike to Michael’s alone.  

Will you just drop me off at the movie this time?  

Can I get my driver’s license on my birthday?  

I’d like to visit that college in Florida.  

With every milestone, he was becoming.  And so was I.

In a few days, his dad and I will hand him a credit card and most importantly, the Xbox, and leave him to find his wings.  In an awkward moment I’ll stand before him trying to translate the mystery of a mother’s love into the language of a teenage boy.

I want to tell him how very much I love him and why this parting is so difficult for me.  I want to explain to him that he, my first-born, holds a cherished place in my world because it was his kicks that made me tremble with awe when I felt the very first flutter of life inside me.  

He’s the one who carved the mommy into my body and soul and planted in me the purest, fiercest love in the world.  A consuming love that ignited my heart, eventually singeing the corners, causing his needy mother to pull back from the pain of it and to stop being so clingy and involved.

This goodbye hug will be hard because in an instant, he will be five again, a snaggle-toothed testament to sandboxes and green army men.  I’ll kiss his cheek and breathe in memories of new crayons and lunch milk and jitters on his first day of kindergarten—the initial step of a journey that would lead him to this point.

At the crux of where raw meets real, I’ll look up into his eyes and this time I will be the one saying, “I don’t want to go.”  

And my grown-up son, eager to explore and uncover the future inside him, will reassure me.  

“It’s my turn, Mom.  It’ll be OK.  I promise.”

I’ll manage a proud smile, thankful for our amazing journey together.  Then I will commit my son into his Creator’s hands and whisper a prayer that God would take my hand more tightly as my son’s hand falls from mine.

Most Popular Posts

        Here's the summary of my most popular posts from the last two weeks:

BTW - PLEASE "Follow my blog" and "Subscribe."  Let's be clear, I'm SO not above begging.  


        Looks like "José Cuervo Might Move In" came in first. You can read it here for a good laugh.
It's about my plight with the cell phone company and Charlene, God's gift to Customer Service.

     

            I hope everyone had a good HALLOWEEN.  It has been very different for me and hubs the last few years because the kids are getting older.  I have a great story about that here.  I think you'll find it very touching.   It's about how the kids grow up so fast.

        By the way, since all the blogging experts say that you should write as if you have an audience of THOUSANDS, I'll go outside the box with my wonderful audience of 30 and ask,

 "WHAT SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT THIS WEEK?"  

        Is there something that gets on your last nerve, chaps your cheeks, curdles yer cream, puts sand in your craw?  

        Does it burn yer biscuit that when the kids go out and you have 1 hour and 45 min. to watch an R-rated movie, (you haven't seen one in a few years) that you always only get 3/4 of the way through because they have the gall to come back?  

        And why do they have to come back to YOUR house?  Maybe because all the other moms want to drink wine and watch Magic Mike?  Methinks.

        Does someone in your household leave HAIR on the bar of soap?  Did I hit a nerve?

        Why do your kids always take other people's advice and NOT yours?

        The bag of Halloween candy you just ate?

        How 'bout some Mom- and Dad-shaming photos?  

        Teaching your teenager how to DRIVE?  Doing that now!  AARRGGHH. . .  I just have to drink wine breathe deeply.  Did it in my SUV today—taught her to drive that is.

        Have a great week and PLEASE come back.  I'm trying to post new stuff every day!  BTW - "Follow" and "Subscribe" now.  The first 10 new followers get a bottle of José Cuervo and a straw. . .    

Wooo!  I crack myself up.

Retirement Is Not My Style...Neither Are "Mom Jeans"

I love fall because I can return my “tankinis” (bikinis for tanks) to the back of my closet where they belong.  Cooler temperatures give me a burst of energy.  I ride my bike to get my chin waxed, I do lunges while I watch “Murder, She Wrote,” and occasionally I get bat-crazy and add a little Grey Goose to my prune juice.  

Today I casually looked through the mail—bills, the Victoria’s Secret catalogue that my son reads when I’m not looking, and then...my brand new AARP card.  Buzz. Killer.  

The “R”, of course, stands for “retired.”  That’s like being put out to pasture.  Actually, rollicking alone in a pasture sounds fun, except for dodging the cow patties.  Instead, I dodge the wicked verbal barbs of teenagers, fail to help with math projects about how many meters-per-second Cheetos fall from our balcony, and explain to my pre-teen why those couples in the movie Bride Wars are sleeping in the same bed when they’re not married yet.  

If I were rollicking in a pasture, I wouldn’t have to worry about what I wore.  Clothes shopping is a challenge for someone my age.  I can either shop in the Juniors section where I have to wear a size 37 or go to the dead-woman-walking "Misses" department.  

sodahead.com

I really don’t want to wear high-waisted “mom jeans,” but if I bend over and accidentally “let down my tailgate,” if ‘ya know what I mean,  my kids’ therapy is going to suck my wine budget dry.

I should just accept that I’m at the end of my forties.  Some of my friends need to do the same.  

My friends give me those "bless her heart" looks when I wear my sweatpants and Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt every day, but hons, you’re gonna get thrown off the island in those over-the-knee leather boots.  Save ‘em for the Fifty Shades of Grey party.  Ditto on the 24/7, over-stretched, tennis outfits. Just sayin.’”

Another questionable style element of the “I-actually-saw-Neil-Armstrong-walk-on-the-moon” crowd is Uggs.  They are expensive moon boots which were born ugly in the 70‘s, and after a suede remake, are still Ugg-ly.  Paired with Nike gym shorts, they are the staple of every teenage girl’s wardrobe.  Moms should also be allowed to wear that get-up too, according to no one.   

croquisitchic.blogspot.com

  Obviously, a monumental clerical error caused AARP to include me in their Cougar, I mean, Codger Co-op.  I admit I don’t Tweet very well and I only recently learned what hashtags are, but I am hip enough to have heard Psy, the one-hit-wonder Korean pop icon, sing “Gangnam Style.”  My style may scream “AARP,” but the only thing that may retire soon is my Welcome Back Kotter t-shirt.

I Was No Coppertone Girl

“Why These Kids Can’t Be Mine” day

I Was No Coppertone Girl

pierjewelry.com

On fall break in Florida, I was surprised to see my daughter sitting on a beach chair covered from head to toe with a beach towel. 

Now as I posted yesterday, teenage girls are obsessed with tans.  Wrath is spewed if someone blocks their sunlight resulting in an inferior degree of crispiness.    

“I thought you wanted a tan?” I projected through the beach towel.

“I do.” (Of course, minimal information)

“Why are you covered up?”

“Mom, how do you expect me to watch Gossip Girl on my phone when the sun is so bright I can’t see the screen.” 

So I guess sometimes Gossip Girl trumps a tan.  I don’t know the rules anymore.

All I know is that when I was a teenager, tans were just as important as they are now. But I couldn’t go to a breezy beach at the drop of a hat so I “laid out,” as we called it, on a bath towel on the driveway. 

pinterest.com     DIY   by Brandy Garrett

Who remembers using this?

Just so you know, it was 1978, and baby oil was the potion of preference for the advance of the “Dark Arts.”  And according to the most recent U.S. data at the time, mixing it with iodine sped up the tanning process by 891%.  I mean, the U.S. was involved in a stagnant Cold War against the “evil empire,” but we were waaaayyy ahead of other countries in potions—like the Epidermal Crispus Mortem Potion, which is Latin for “potion for dead, crispy skin.”  By the way, literary journals agree that if you use “Cold War” and “Dark Arts” in the same paragraph, that’s really good writing.

Let me digress—remember the experiment in which sunscreen companies put two slices of bacon in the sun, one sprayed with sunscreen and one without?  The one without looks like it was blasted with radioactive matter.  The one with sunscreen looks like it has been in the microwave maybe ten seconds. The sunscreen protected the bacon, keeping the pork much cooler.  

Bottom line—before Mr. Coppertone, we got hotter when we “laid out” because we had no UV protection.  

To distract us from the infernal heat, we used our dial-controlled, AM radio that was never exactly on the station and only had one antennae.  The static was so bad you could barely hear Andy Gibb’s falsetto.  

My point is that it was BRUTAL.  Eight hours a day every summer until I was 16 and could get a job. 

But the damage had already been done.  I am now 75,000% more likely to get skin cancer, but more importantly, wrinkles.  This is why I require so much maintenance now, cosmetically AND mentally.  

According to reliable sources such as Cracker Barrel Magazine, long-term tanning with baby oil and iodine has been scientifically proven to diminish neutron activity in the brain.  I am proof of that.  I can’t remember anything, I repeat myself, and I say the first thing that comes to my mind, even if it’s vulgar.

But this is the “instant” generation.  Teens today don’t have the patience to brutalize themselves anymore like normal people.  However, I’m a little softer in my old age too.  Now when I’m on the beach, I embrace relaxation instead of pain.  Just give me shade, SPF 80, an umbrella drink, and a beach towel over my head so I can watch “Magic Mike.”