Kids are weird. Especially your kids. That’s right, I’m talking to all you parents out there who send their kids to school every day armed with all the weirdness the world can handle. I’m qualified to make the call, because I’ve got kids of my own – but I’m positive about the fact that yours take the cake, evidenced by the chat I had recently while subbing in my fourth grade daughter’s classroom. Sure, my kid had her sweatshirt on backwards, but this other kid, Dougie, and I had the following conversation after I noticed him yawning and rubbing his eyes for the better part of the first hour of the school day.
Me: Sleepy, Dougie?
Dougie: Yeah, really sleepy.
Me: Didn’t sleep well last night?
Dougie: No, me and my dad went hunting. We were up all night.
To better understand what I was going through at that moment, imagine a split screen, showing what the two halves of my brain were trying to do simultaneously: form an acceptable reply. One side of the mental jumbo-screen flashed something along the lines of, “You went hunting and were up all night?” while the other half read, “What kind of hillbilly, redneck parent lets a nine year old stay out hunting all night on a school night?” Since the latter mental query contained its own answer, I went with the former:
Me: You stayed up all night hunting?
Dougie: “Yeah!” said Dougie, suddenly all fired up. I mean, I could tell this kid was a miniature version of his highly agitated dad, whom I’d never even met. “We got back to the gate too late and got locked in! We drove around and around to other gates and couldn’t get out!”
I pictured a really pissed off guy in camo-gear, which is scary, with a Remington or Ducks Unlimited cap perched crookedly on his head as a result of scratching it while he stared at the lock on the gate(s). Then I visualized Dougie and his dad sleeping in the truck. A big truck with a gun rack in the back window, maybe an ice chest bungee-corded in the bed and a “Nuke Iraq” bumper sticker on the tailgate. To be fair, it wasn’t exactly terrible parenting. They got trapped on a locked ranch. I got it.
Me: “Soooo, what did you do?”
Dougie: “Well, we had to call my mom.”
My mind conjured the image of a sleepy good ‘ol gal in her sweats, t-shirt and socks, sound asleep, being awakened by the sound of a phone and feeling that horrible surge of adrenaline that only parents feel when the phone rings in the dead of night while family members are out somewhere. Especially when dads, guns, ice chests and sons are involved. I pictured her looking at the clock. I asked Dougie for more information:
Me: “What time was it when you called her?” I asked
Dougie: “8:18.”
The familiar feeling of my one brain working on two realities hit me again. I only had a few seconds before I’d need to reply. Dougie was anticipating a reaction. A correct reaction. The kid needed some validation and I wasn’t about to let him down – especially after the night he had, which I was failing on a grand scale at understanding. I quickly recalled that yes, Dougie had been in his seat at 8:00 a.m., so how could he have called his mom at 8:18 a.m.? Better yet, why would Pa wait until morning to call? I decided to go with something vague to cover up the fact I was not computing.
Me: “Then what?”
Dougie: “She brought the extra key and I didn’t get home and get into bed ‘til 9:22.”
More eye rubbing and yawning. This time it was me. It was 9:22 right now.
Judging by the look on the kid sitting next to Dougie, whom I’ll call Mugsy, I had company. Mugsy’s mouth hung open. His brow was furrowed and eyes were turned straight up toward the ceiling as he crunched the numbers. My light bulb, on the other hand, shone brightly.
Me: “So, you went to bed last night at 9:22?” I said, with the building intensity of a trial attorney about to pounce on an unsuspecting witness. I had Dougie’s number, and it was 1-800-WEIRD.
Dougie: “Yes. It was like 9:22 or 9:23,” Dougie reiterated very matter-of-factly, while I tried to keep a straight face.
Me: “What time do you usually go to bed, Dougie?” I asked, expecting an answer of, like, 5:30 p.m.
Dougie: “Like, EIGHT O’ CLOCK!” he said with the dramatic flair of a highly offended Lawrence Olivier.
Clearly, Dougie needs his twelve hours or he’s just no good. I dismissed my witness, satisfied that I had solved The Mystery of Dougie and the Locked Gate(s).
I pictured my own kids subjecting the other adults in their life to stories such as the one Dougie had shared with me. Are there adults, like teachers and grocery store clerks who think my kid is weird? Do my kids have stories like this? If so, what would they be called? Sadly, it took only four seconds before I had a list going. Perhaps one would be “Why I Like to Smell My Sister’s Dirty Feet” or “Ketchup on Scrambled Eggs: Is There Ever Enough?” I stared dejectedly at the still-yawning Dougie.
Maybe your kids don’t have the market cornered on weird after all.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Plan, Forest, Plan!
I may not know what I’m doing tomorrow (for as the Zen master says, it does not yet exist.) I may not remember what I did yesterday (for as the day planner says, it was forty-two things), but I do know what I’m doing today: planning.
My husband and I are going somewhere. Not to the Grand Canyon with the kids or to Vegas without them; those are trips. We’re planning a vacation. We’re going to Great Britain. More specifically, we’re going to Wales with some good friends of ours and we aren’t taking the children. There is a very good reason (lots of them actually) why we aren’t taking the children with us. They won’t be children anymore.
We’re going to Wales in 2018.
We hatched the plan a few nights ago, while out to dinner with another couple, the husband of which hails from Wales.
“What’s it like in Wales, Martin?” I asked wistfully, picturing thatched-roofed cottages, a rolling green countryside, and shepherds in natty tweed caps with small herds of white goats following behind. Baaaaahhh. Baaaahhhhh.
“It’s great. Pubs everywhere.”
“Let’s go,” I said to my husband, who immediately whipped out his built-in calculator (not the one he uses to count to one) and began wiggling each finger one at a time.
“2018. The last two graduate in 2018,” he said, in a deadly serious tone, and then added, “We’d have to be morons not to be able to save up for a vacation that’s eight years away.”
“We can go to Wales! Without the kids!” I squealed.
“Yay!” said my girlfriend.
“Cheers!” said her Welshman.
“College tuition,” said my husband.
A hush fell over the table. Our friends have one child. They were silent, but only in deference to our obvious pain. We have four children. Four tuitions. Four sets of books. Four kegs at one per month for four years, minimum, probably five and possibly nine if they follow in my footsteps…We stared dejectedly at our friends, wondering how they got so lucky to have fertility issues. Then, my husband and his calculator sprang to life (again, not the one he uses to count to one).
“Okay, here's how it's going to work," he began, as we leaned in so as not to miss any important details of the jewel heist it looked like we were planning. "We'll have everyone's braces paid off by 2015. We sell the house in 2016, after Jackson graduates. Then, we move into our rental, which still gives all three girls their own bedrooms. We’ll have time to save up even more money before the last two graduate because we’ll only have one piddly little mortgage! Wales here we come!!”
“Yay!” said my girlfriend.
“Cheers!” said her Welshman.
Like Forest Gump and his famous cross-country footrace, we were planning!!
My husband and I are going somewhere. Not to the Grand Canyon with the kids or to Vegas without them; those are trips. We’re planning a vacation. We’re going to Great Britain. More specifically, we’re going to Wales with some good friends of ours and we aren’t taking the children. There is a very good reason (lots of them actually) why we aren’t taking the children with us. They won’t be children anymore.
We’re going to Wales in 2018.
We hatched the plan a few nights ago, while out to dinner with another couple, the husband of which hails from Wales.
“What’s it like in Wales, Martin?” I asked wistfully, picturing thatched-roofed cottages, a rolling green countryside, and shepherds in natty tweed caps with small herds of white goats following behind. Baaaaahhh. Baaaahhhhh.
“It’s great. Pubs everywhere.”
“Let’s go,” I said to my husband, who immediately whipped out his built-in calculator (not the one he uses to count to one) and began wiggling each finger one at a time.
“2018. The last two graduate in 2018,” he said, in a deadly serious tone, and then added, “We’d have to be morons not to be able to save up for a vacation that’s eight years away.”
“We can go to Wales! Without the kids!” I squealed.
“Yay!” said my girlfriend.
“Cheers!” said her Welshman.
“College tuition,” said my husband.
A hush fell over the table. Our friends have one child. They were silent, but only in deference to our obvious pain. We have four children. Four tuitions. Four sets of books. Four kegs at one per month for four years, minimum, probably five and possibly nine if they follow in my footsteps…We stared dejectedly at our friends, wondering how they got so lucky to have fertility issues. Then, my husband and his calculator sprang to life (again, not the one he uses to count to one).
“Okay, here's how it's going to work," he began, as we leaned in so as not to miss any important details of the jewel heist it looked like we were planning. "We'll have everyone's braces paid off by 2015. We sell the house in 2016, after Jackson graduates. Then, we move into our rental, which still gives all three girls their own bedrooms. We’ll have time to save up even more money before the last two graduate because we’ll only have one piddly little mortgage! Wales here we come!!”
“Yay!” said my girlfriend.
“Cheers!” said her Welshman.
Like Forest Gump and his famous cross-country footrace, we were planning!!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Massimo's Oil
http://www.oliveoiltimes.com/massimo%e2%80%99s-oil
This is a short story I just had published in The Olive Oil Times. Follow the link to read a true romance...with olive oil.
This is a short story I just had published in The Olive Oil Times. Follow the link to read a true romance...with olive oil.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
March Madness
It’s March and that means madness around my house. Of course, so does January, February, April, May, June…you get the idea. The madness this month comes not from basketball. I actually find it amusing to watch a grown man agonize over a bunch of brackets. The source of this month’s madness is my (and by my, I mean our) annual Spring Project. With the exception of every year prior to this one, I’ve chosen a special (and by special, I mean expensive) project to complete so that I can enter into the season without some nagging, energy-draining task sitting around, in all of its incomplete glory, cluttering up my life and mind. So, my first annual Spring Project is….The Yard(s).
Three years ago, our front lawn was passable and a nicely manicured flowerbed, complete with happy azaleas, lined the front porch. The back yard was mostly beautiful hillside, with an ugly patio/lava rock wasteland nightmare that honestly, couldn’t get much worse. Then, we came to town.
This is our backyard, looking up the hill away from our house. Lovely, right?
With an acre lot, two-thirds of which is wildland, we bought a John Deere riding mower and I’m not allowed to mow. Fine by me. My husband can’t wait for the weeds of early spring to start growing on our hillside so he can do the one chore that allows him to both sit and be productive at the same time. I’m sure it’s highly satisfying. He also likes to weed. He’s a sick, sick man.
Then, there’s me. I have no green thumb, do not find gardening relaxing and if you must know, possess a shockingly immature fear of bugs. I don’t even like to water. I have so successfully dodged my husband’s many attempts to show me how to turn on the sprinklers that to this day, if he asks me to turn them on or off, I answer, “I don’t know how” and I’m not even lying.
There is only one thing I love to do in the yard. I love a freshly hosed-off porch, especially on a hot summer evening while enjoying a glass or wine, or shot of whiskey. It’s cool and clean and I can easily spot and kill spiders who make the fatal mistake of thinking they can enjoy a refreshing drink on the porch with me. I often do the same thing on a summer morning, but don’t worry, I don’t drink wine or whiskey at that hour. That’s what mimosas are for, silly.
The problem is, once we made the decision to re-do the lawns with new sod, I grew discontent with the azaleas. I decided that simply trimming the neglected azaleas was less appealing that ripping them up, I mean, tenderly removing them, and planting daffodils. (See the post dated March 15 for that happy story.)
In the backyard, where the ugly red lava rocks live, we shoveled. Like mad.
The backyard, looking toward the house...
As outdoor tasks go, I’d still rather be using a long handled tool than have my hands in the dirt, weeding and avoiding slugs, and eight-legged terrorists. Speaking of long handles, my husband didn’t even complain about the pace I kept both before and after my 10 a.m. lunch break. While some may have called my movements geriatric, I like to think of them as more zen-like and rhythmic: shovel rocks, dump wheelbarrow, shovel rocks, dump wheelbarrow, shovel rocks, dump wheelbarrow….doesn’t it just have a soothing flow? It did, until I started this convo:
“Um, I was just thinking…”
“Oh no. You want to put them back?”
“No. I was just thinking that the dog and the kids are going to be walking through all this dirt and it’s going to be a big pain.”
(No reply from husband. I could tell by the way his eyelids were flickering that he was searching the mental hard drive for something I might say next that would require more hard labor.) I continued:
“Can we put down some kind of tarps or lining to keep it from becoming a big mud puddle the next time it rains?”
“Can’t we just tell them to stay out of it?”
“Sure. I’ll tell the kids. You explain it to the dog.”
“No more rain this year.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s softball season. No more rain.”
“I’m just curious…do you cross your fingers and your toes when you say that?”
So, the giant mud triangle and the madness of the March project has begun. The first round bracket: Us vs. The Yard(s). With luck, March Madness will not become August Angst.
Three years ago, our front lawn was passable and a nicely manicured flowerbed, complete with happy azaleas, lined the front porch. The back yard was mostly beautiful hillside, with an ugly patio/lava rock wasteland nightmare that honestly, couldn’t get much worse. Then, we came to town.
This is our backyard, looking up the hill away from our house. Lovely, right?
With an acre lot, two-thirds of which is wildland, we bought a John Deere riding mower and I’m not allowed to mow. Fine by me. My husband can’t wait for the weeds of early spring to start growing on our hillside so he can do the one chore that allows him to both sit and be productive at the same time. I’m sure it’s highly satisfying. He also likes to weed. He’s a sick, sick man.
Then, there’s me. I have no green thumb, do not find gardening relaxing and if you must know, possess a shockingly immature fear of bugs. I don’t even like to water. I have so successfully dodged my husband’s many attempts to show me how to turn on the sprinklers that to this day, if he asks me to turn them on or off, I answer, “I don’t know how” and I’m not even lying.
There is only one thing I love to do in the yard. I love a freshly hosed-off porch, especially on a hot summer evening while enjoying a glass or wine, or shot of whiskey. It’s cool and clean and I can easily spot and kill spiders who make the fatal mistake of thinking they can enjoy a refreshing drink on the porch with me. I often do the same thing on a summer morning, but don’t worry, I don’t drink wine or whiskey at that hour. That’s what mimosas are for, silly.
The problem is, once we made the decision to re-do the lawns with new sod, I grew discontent with the azaleas. I decided that simply trimming the neglected azaleas was less appealing that ripping them up, I mean, tenderly removing them, and planting daffodils. (See the post dated March 15 for that happy story.)
In the backyard, where the ugly red lava rocks live, we shoveled. Like mad.
The backyard, looking toward the house...
As outdoor tasks go, I’d still rather be using a long handled tool than have my hands in the dirt, weeding and avoiding slugs, and eight-legged terrorists. Speaking of long handles, my husband didn’t even complain about the pace I kept both before and after my 10 a.m. lunch break. While some may have called my movements geriatric, I like to think of them as more zen-like and rhythmic: shovel rocks, dump wheelbarrow, shovel rocks, dump wheelbarrow, shovel rocks, dump wheelbarrow….doesn’t it just have a soothing flow? It did, until I started this convo:
“Um, I was just thinking…”
“Oh no. You want to put them back?”
“No. I was just thinking that the dog and the kids are going to be walking through all this dirt and it’s going to be a big pain.”
(No reply from husband. I could tell by the way his eyelids were flickering that he was searching the mental hard drive for something I might say next that would require more hard labor.) I continued:
“Can we put down some kind of tarps or lining to keep it from becoming a big mud puddle the next time it rains?”
“Can’t we just tell them to stay out of it?”
“Sure. I’ll tell the kids. You explain it to the dog.”
“No more rain this year.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s softball season. No more rain.”
“I’m just curious…do you cross your fingers and your toes when you say that?”
So, the giant mud triangle and the madness of the March project has begun. The first round bracket: Us vs. The Yard(s). With luck, March Madness will not become August Angst.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Daffodil Hell
Coming soon: in with new sod, out with ugly red lava rock.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)