Middle School Orientation

Middle school orientation is for parents and not soon-to-be middle schoolers.  

Clearly, parents have a much harder time with the transition to middle school than their 12 year old children do.  This is sad and pathetic, but also painfully true.  Middle school orientation is held in the winter so parents have a solid two seasons to fret about their child's in ability to navigate the stressors of middle school.

Middle school takes a child from the comfort and safety of elementary school and throws her into the halls of junior high.  I would be less concerned about this transition if I wasn't scarred from my own middle school experiences.

I clearly remember nearly flunking home-economics because my grape jelly was really more like grape soup.  Grape jelly = yum; grape soup = yuck.

Middle school was also the time I had the worst hair day of my life that lasted a solid two years, my heart was broken by some nameless prepubescent boy, and I learned my mom was right about the consequences of not washing my face each night. Darn pimples!

Then there was the time I gave my undies to one of the geeks at school.  During the school dance he charged admission into the boys bathroom to anyone who wanted to see my undies.

Wait.  That didn't happen.

I was totally smitten with a rich boy.  My BFF, Duckie, wasn't sure he was right for me, but that's mostly because Duckie had a crush on me.

Wait.  That didn't happen either.

Well there was that one day when I had to go to detention on a Saturday morning.  I met a rebel named Bender who was totally not my type, but I fell for him anyway.

Geez, that didn't happen either.  Do I actually remember anything accurately from my own adolescence?

I think perhaps this sketchy memory is protecting me from going completely overboard with nerves regarding my own daughter's middle school transition.  My own experiences were certainly less dramatic, less memorable, and less amusing than a John Hughes' film.

My real hope is she finds her niche and a BFF just like Molly Ringwald.

(Note:  Molly Ringwald was the author's imaginary friend from 7th - 12th grade. In fact, they may still be "friends.")

The Ghost of Bunions Past

My grandmother had the ugliest feet on the planet. She was a lovely woman, but her feet!  

I would secretly sneak horrified glances at her feet.  While at home, she often just wore stockings on her feet since her bunions were the size of European cars. Its hard to find comfortable shoes that can fit a small automobile.  Her big toes never pointed forwarded and seemed to be red and angry all the time.

When my grandmother passed away, I thought I would never see her on earth again.  One day while showering, I looked down and saw her feet.

EEEK!  Her feet are now MY feet.
Honestly, some people inherit money, homes, china, or silver.
I inherited bunions the size of a small condo complex.  Lucky me!

Driven by guilt over never buying me quality shoes as a child, my mother insists I've had bunions since birth. I won't dispute this, although it's hard to fathom how I made it through the birth canal with these enormous bunions.

I don't recall ever having attractive feet. That's one of the reasons I like hiding them in cute shoes.  Now in addition to being hideous, they hurt. They hurt all the time.  They especially hurt in cute shoes.  This fact alone was enough for me to seek the help of a professional.

I finally dragged my unsightly bunions to a podiatrist for a little conversation.

The podiatrist, to his credit, did not shriek when I revealed my hideous feet. He examined the X-rays, rubbed my feet (which I secretly loved!), and then recommended that one of my bunions be removed.

This news really ticked off my soon-to-be-gone bunion who seems to be getting redder and angrier as the surgery date approaches.

On the plus side, I will be confined to my bed for 1-2 weeks while taking prescribed narcotics.  On the down-side, when I come out of my narcotic haze, my family may be buried under a mountain of dirty clothes and dirty dishes.

To be continued...

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Democracy Unglued

I love voting.
I love, love, love, love it!

I love it so much I wish I could vote twice, but those darn polling people are pretty sharp. I'm 92% sure I would never get past them twice.  As it is, I have a hard enough time getting through the process one time.  This is because I am nearly incompetent.

I wake up excited to vote.  Yes, I'm that person.

I race out the door and down the block to my polling place.  Ironically enough, I vote in a church. Please don't tell Mike Huckabee this or I'm pretty sure he would damn me to hell twice.  Once for voting "incorrectly" and another time for voting "incorrectly" in a church. But I digress...

I race into the polling place with my very fat wallet that contains no actual money, but every receipt or scrap of paper I've ever been handed in the last 31 days which is somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 slips of paper.

I know the nice polling people will need to see my ID.  I know this.

None-the-less, when asked to produce it, I cannot free it from my wallet's plastic cover.  While trying to free my ID from the wallet that binds it, half of those nearly 5,000 slips of paper decide to take flight.  They float around me like large confetti while I continue to dig and scratch at my ID.  Since I am no longer in my early 30s, no one ever asks to see my ID when I'm trying to buy my boxed wine.  For this reason, my ID is permanently glued inside my wallet.

The nice polling man says I can stop my epic battle to free my ID and just show it to him through the crusty plastic.  Brilliant!  So I do this while simultaneously trying to clean up all the scraps of paper that litter the area.

The nice polling man points out to me that my license has expired.  Whaaaat?

Yep.  Two weeks prior to voting I had the audacity to turn a year older and my license expired.  Apparently this explains why my ID could not be extracted from my wallet.  It has been nesting there undisturbed since the last time I voted.

The good news is I am still able to vote.  I just need to provide a bunch of other information including my social security number which is always a fun memory game for me to play at 6:30 in the morning.

After all of that, my moment to actually vote comes.  I love it!
Absolutely my favorite part of the entire adventure!  Uncle Sam wants MY opinion!  Boy, do I have opinions!

My polling place is "old school."  No, there's no hanging chads to worry about.
Just me, my lady parts, my ballot, and a black pen.  I carefully color in the oval spaces next to the candidates I support.

Then it happens.  Why does it always happen?
I start to have flashbacks to all the standardized tests I've failed as a youth.  I mean, come on people, there is a reason I have a liberal (no pun intended) arts education.  It's not because I nailed the math section of the SAT.

Suddenly, I am not 100% sure if I want to vote yes on Issue One or not.

Yes.  No.  No.  Yes.  Crap.

Now I'm forced to read the fine print.  Did I mention how much I hate story problems?  I look around incase my neighbor's ballot will offer me a clue it will come to me.  As I look around the polling place I realize, not for the first time, what a great country this is.

There I stand.
I'm with my lady parts, a wallet containing no money and a plethora of recyclable confetti, an expired license, and a nearly unglued state of mind.  All I have are my opinions and a desire for this country to do well in the next four years and beyond.

Despite all of my obvious inadequacies, I have a voice. I have the right and the privilege to vote.

God Bless America!

Tennis vs. Me

My tennis crush started last year when I picked up a tennis racket for the first time.  It was a surprise love affair because I have a long history of being really bad at sports.

In 6th grade I was a 5'10" flat chested, braces-wearing, permed hair tween who was as awkward as I looked.  Occasionally I was picked first in gym class by an idiot-child who erroneously believed my obscene height would equate to physical prowess. This was simply not true.

In gym class, I would frequently duck during basketball scrimmages.  Once while playing volleyball I was hit right in the face with the ball because I wasn't coordinated enough to lift my hands and shield myself.  In truth, the only physical activity I could do with any amount of competence was run.  Add a ball, and it just got complicated.

Fast forward three decades, and not much has changed (although I'm happy to report my braces are off and I did finally manage to grow some breasts!).

Now I have two children, and every Saturday I sit and watch them take tennis lessons.  Their coach finally convinced me to try tennis.  My kids made it look so easy; I thought I may have a chance.

I completely fell in love.  I wasn't good, but I thought I could get better.
I really worked at getting better.
My goal was to get good enough to wear a tennis skirt without feeling like a fraud.
Finally, I got to that point.  That's when my tennis crush blossomed into love. I was adequate at a sport that allowed me to shop for and wear cute clothes. Awesomeness.

I suppose I should have known Tennis would eventually break my face heart.

It happened on a beautiful fall evening during a weekly tennis clinic.
The clinic instructor groups players based on skill levels.  I was accustomed to playing on the court of shame..the losers' court...the court for newbies and klutzes.  That's my court.
But I'd been practicing...

Finally my moment to shine came. The tennis coach placed me on the advanced court. I was going to play doubles with three tremendously skilled women. I had arrived!  Like a young person moving from the kid table at Thanksgiving dinner to the grown up table, I had advanced.

I stood tall as I approached the court in my snazzy tennis skirt and hip shoes.
I was ready. I would impress them.

After a brief warmup, the game started. My partner and I scored first. I was feeling strong and confident.  The other team served to me. I swung, hit the ball over the net, followed through on my swing, and promptly hit myself in the head with my racket.

"Ouch," I thought.

I continued playing. I wasn't about to let that little misstep slow me down or cause me to lose focus.  Then I started sweating.  Strange because it was a cool evening, but I was under a lot of self-induced pressure to beat the crap out of my opponents play well.

I hit the ball again, and again I wiped more sweat from my face. I was really starting to sweat. I nonchalantly wiped more sweat off my face.

As I hit the ball a third time, I looked down at the ground in time to see a large drop of blood splash to the court. That's when I realized I wasn't sweating.  I was bleeding from my head.

The game stopped as the other three women looked on in horror. Not only had I hit myself in the face with my racket, causing a bloody gash under my eyebrow, but I had then repeatedly smeared blood all over my face.  I was either a tennis bad ass or a complete fool.  Can we go with tennis bad ass?

After being tended to by fellow tennis players who included a nurse, an eye doctor and ironically enough a psychologist, I was sent home to heal.

As I sat at home with a bag of frozen peas on my face, my daughter looked empathetically at me and said, "It's ok, mom.  I think you are still pretty good."  My son just wanted to hear more about the blood.

I suppose I'll never qualify for the US Open, but had anyone taped my obvious display of tennis inadequacy, I'm quite sure you'd be seeing me on the next episode of "The World's Funniest Home Videos."

Tennis, anyone?

The Homework Wars

I remember being in 4th, 5th, and 6th grade.  Yes, my memory can actually go back that far.  My memory is not completely broken.  Yet.

I remember hating homework.  I remember thinking my teachers were mean for giving me homework and my parents were even meaner for making me do it.  I remember tears, yelling, more tears, and the development of my delusional belief that I would eventually outgrow homework.

Ironically, I am a 39-ish year old woman who still HATES 4th -6th grade homework!
My life has come full circle.  Now I am the mean, thoughtless mother who insists that homework be completed each night.  I pull this off nightly with varying amounts of tears, screaming and liquor in my system.

I want to believe we aren't the only family in the midst of the Homework Wars.
I want to believe our neighbors are fighting this war, too.  Certainly, we aren't the only parents drafted.  I want to believe we aren't alone, but I don't see the battle wounds on my fellow parent friends.

Am I the only one who wants to take "new math" and banish it to the bowels of hell?  Am I alone here, people?

This war has gone on for so many years I have forgotten who the enemy is.
Is it my daughter who has been known to weep loudly while doing math?
Is it my son who denies having homework until 4 minutes before leaving for school in the morning?
Is it both of them when they announce at 9 PM on a Thursday that they have a school project due the next day that will require poster board, styrofoam balls, duct tape, cotton balls and large amounts of green and blue paint?
Is it the teacher who assumes my children are competent enough to keep me in the loop on such upcoming projects?
Is it the school curriculum that has changed the way kids learn how to add double and triple digits?  What's the crime in carrying the one?
Is it me, the helicopter mom? Am I the enemy?

My goal this year has been to sell my helicopter. I will not be a helicopter mother.

I don't actually think I sold my helicopter.
By all appearances, my helicopter crash landed in the midst of the Homework Wars.
Man down! Man down!

Olympic Gold

I got Olympic gold. 
In fact I got several of them.  It was as easy as ordering a drink at a bar.  Mostly because my "Olympic Gold" is a drink at a bar.

Olympic fever is in the air.  Blessedly, that includes the beach bar at the resort where we stay during our summer vacation. Thus the "Olympic Gold" drink special.

Let's face it, if it weren't for the drink special, I would never get Olympic Gold.

For starters, I do not have the Olympic spirit.  As I watch an obscene amount of Olympics, I see cyclists crash their bikes, get back on, and continue racing.  I see swimmers swim and win a relay in the qualifying heat only to be excluded from swimming in the finals.  I see a footless man run a race, and I learn about countless athletes overcoming amazing stories of adversity in pursuit of Olympic gold.

On the flip side of the Olympic athlete is me.  I am a total sissy. 

If my bike crashed, I would curl up in the fetal position and cry like a baby.  I lack the Olympic spirit.  Completely. 

I also lack athleticism which is also apparently key to achieving true Olympic gold.

Excuse me, I need to take another swig of my Olympic Gold.

Mmmm.  Now where was I?

Perhaps I'm not an Olympic athlete because my mother didn't push me enough. 

While Olympians spent their childhoods perfecting their skills, my mother allowed me to sit outside and play in the dirt.  Yes, I am going to blame my mother for giving me a fun-filled childhood.  Mom, thanks a lot! 

Instead of trying to get my face on a box of Wheaties, my biggest challenge as a child was trying to hide as much junk as possible under my bed in an effort to make my room look clean.  This is no easy task and I suggest it becomes an Olympic sport.

In fact, there is an activity I want added as an Olympic event.

I would definitely make it to the Olympic trials if not go all the way to the gold.  After giving this an incredible amount of thought while sipping on my Olympic gold, I would like to recommend the following as the next Olympic sport:

Sock matching. 

That's right, people.  I could totally be a contender for gold if sock matching would ever get the respect it deserves.

I do the laundry for four people.  This means there are, at this very moment, 6,273 individual socks in my house.  I can match 6,272 within 5 minutes.  I hold on to the last sock indefinitely because I just know the second I throw it away its beloved match will be found.

Alas, there are not many 39-ish year old Olympians.  For this reason, if I want to experience Olympic greatness up close, my kids are going to have to bring home the gold.  I would like to propose the following activities be future Olympic "sports." This will up the odds of those two unambitious children being able to bring mommy home a gold:

-  Nose picking.  Gross, yes, but it's a talent.  You've got to lack all shame and be totally  committed to really digging deep.  I've got a child up to that challenge.

-  Lego scattering.  Please don't confuse this with actually building a Lego structure.  I'm talking about the ability to take a set of small Lego pieces and as quickly as possible scatter them throughout an area.  For the sake of argument, let's say the area is a house.  A bronze medalist may be able to scatter Legos to 2-3 rooms within a 20 second period, but a true champion can scatter Legos to all four corners of the house and leave a couple in the bathtub just for good measure. 

Yeah, I'm really proud of my Olympic hopefuls.

Now, please excuse me.  I'm about to get another Olympic Gold.

Dear Gynecologist

Dear Gynecologist,

Don't you think this annual exam would go better for both of us if you bought me a drink first?

I remember being around 12 or 13 years old when I read an article in "Sixteen" magazine about annual gynecological exams. The memory of that article is burned into my brain. The article stated that women need to go to a gynecologist when they turn 18 OR when they become sexually active. That's when I vowed to remain a virgin for all of my natural life.

The article described in great detail what a gynecological exam entails. I COULD NOT BELIEVE what I was reading. Why in the world would any doctor venture into that cavernous space and root around?! Why were women not rioting in the streets over such a violation?! Why didn't anyone ever tell me about this?! I was simply disgusted and shocked!

Of course the 12 year old female brain is different from the 39-ish year old female brain. At least now I understand the medical benefits of a pap smear, and I know the doctor isn't just digging for lost treasures. By the way, where did I put my keys?

Despite my understanding of the need to endure such a humbling experience, I still remain curious as to proper etiquette. For example, if I were expecting house guests I would want to perhaps mow the front yard and certainly vacuum the living room. I understand the innate desire to to trim the bush before introducing your vajayjay to a gynecologist, but why do I also feel the need to shave my legs and paint my toenails?

Now, if I have the courtesy to tidy my yard, couldn't the doctor do me the courtesy of not making small talk while shoving cold metal objects into my fruit cellar? (Yes, I have a nearly endless supply of euphemisms for the word vagina.)

It's very difficult for me to talk about my summer vacation plans while there is seemingly a fist and a curling iron-like device knocking on my cervix. Hello? Please let me retreat to my happy zone where I image this entire experience is part of a bizarre dream sequence.

Men, I know you have the prostate exam to complain about, but two fingers and a cough is a fun night on the town compared to stirrups, metal objects, a blanket made by Brawny the quicker picker upper, and a side table filled with strange, cold metal objects. Top it off with a chatty gynecologist and you have an appointment from hell.

So, Dr. Gynecologist, I'll shave my legs, tidy up my living room, and prepare for our "visit", but could you pretend to be a deaf, mute physician who is not the least bit interested in my travel plans?

Thank you,
A 13 year old at heart

Camp Grandma

School's out, school's out, teacher let the fools out!

Now the fools' parents need to find some way to entertain the fools during the long summer months. In our house that means signing both fools children up for one summer camp after another.

Our kids attend a variety of summer camps, but all of them pale in comparison to the annual week-long overnight camp at grandma's house. Yes, Camp Grandma is the highlight of the summer for everyone except, perhaps, grandma.

A week before camp, the questions start.
"Are you leaving us at Grandma's? "
"You're not staying with us, right?"
"We get to stay at grandma's all week!?"

Clearly, we are a total buzz kill. Our kids want us out of their hair for a week.

Of course, secretly, hubby and I are ticking off the days until Camp Grandma like prisoners counting days until release. As we pull our minivan out of grandma's driveway, we try to keep our hooting, yelping, and cries of joy from reaching our children's precious ears.

"Ohhhh, sweet freedom!" we yell as we drive away like bats out of hell.
We are eager to flee before Grandma comes to her senses and decides this whole "Camp Grandma" gig is overrated.

Camp Grandma is a week filled with parenting indiscretions.
Frankly, I'm amazed Camp Grandma is run by the same lady who raised me.

At Camp Grandma there is actually a cookie jar filled with...get this...cookies!
Kids can eat from the cookie jar without...believe it or not...being scolded!
Kids don't have to eat everything on their plates because....are you ready for this? ...maybe they aren't hungry!
Kids can play more video games because...I can't believe this one...they want to!

Children eat pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Days are filled with trips to the zoo, toy store, drive-in theatre, waterpark, and random festivals. Root beer floats are served nightly and the television is on non-stop. Or so our children say.

Grandma is adamant her grandchildren are lying, little heathens who do not get everything they want during their 7 days at Camp I can't believe this is my mother! Grandma.

I'm really not sure who is lying about the shenanigans that go on at Camp Grandma.
All I know is when I pick up my precious, sugar-filled angles at the end of the week, and ask them to do something, anything, their glazed over eyes look at me like I've lost my mind.

"Grandma doesn't make us do that," they say in unison.

Well, kids, welcome back to reality.

Dad

I love my dad.

Growing up he seemed absolutely hell bent on teaching me how to appreciate the things I had versus coveting the things others had. I was a slow learner so this took tremendous effort on his part.

I would frequently moan, "But life's not faaaiiiiir!"

My father would agree. "Life's not fair. The sooner you realize that, the happier you will be."

When in the car with him, he knew he had a captive audience so he would drive me and my sister by a house and say, "See that man on his porch? He has no legs, but you don't hear him complaining. He is not complaining about not having the latest style of jeans or the newest electronic device. No. That man is just happy to have his arms."

Well, that will shut up a spoiled teenager.

This is an open letter of apology to my father. Who is my father?

He is the man who came to nearly every track meet I ever had from 7th - 12th grade. He showed up wearing white tube top socks pulled up to his shins and short shorts. I ignored his presence and pretended he was someone else's father.

He endured hours upon hours of seemingly endless dance recitals. He made me believe I could actually dance despite my two left legs and total lack of grace and coordination.

He's the dad who would pick me and my friends up from after school activities in his two-door aqua green Vega with gold interior. I would jump in the backseat and pretend he was one of my friend's dads. Yes, I even called him by that other man's name.

He's the dad who embarrassed me to tears even while my friends all called him "cool."

He's the dad who tells a great story and an even better joke.

He's the dad who is now a fabulous grandfather who has a gaggle of grand kids who love him dearly.

There are all sorts of dads in this world. I was blessed to get one of the best. My kids can say the same even though they are still too young to know it.

Happy Father's Day to dads everywhere, but particularly to one dad in Warren, Ohio.

He's a dad who taught his daughter to appreciate all life has to offer.
Dad, I'm still learning, but that's not your fault. I'm sure I get my learning disabilities from mom!

The Worst Job in the Whole Wide World

Question: What is the worst job in the whole wide world?

Answer: Driving around town picking up road kill.

"That's not a real job," you say.
"Really? 'Cause I had that job in college." I say back to you. Yep. Me.

Here's the thing about me. I hate being dirty. I hate blood, guts, and gore. I am basically a prissy chick. I mean that in the nicest way possible. In college I wasn't just a prissy chick. In college I was also a naive, stupid, prissy chick.

When I took the job, which was clearly not advertised as "Road Kill Picker-Upper," I was told I would need "gloves." Well, heavy duty work gloves are bulky and do not accentuate my slender dainty hands. No, I could not possibly hide my petite hands in big, masculine work gloves. Instead I bought a pair of garden gloves. Yep, garden gloves. As you are learning, I'm not exaggerating when I say I was stupid.

The job was attractive because it was a 9-5 Monday to Friday commitment. The job entailed working outside while perfecting my farmer's tan. If it rained, no one worked. That was the summer I learned it only rains on weekends.

I was not the only college student stupid enough to take this job bamboozled into taking this job. Nope, I had company. His name was Marcus, and he was always hung over. Always. I was the young, stupid, prissy chick and he was the young, stupid, hungover, college dude. Together we made quite the pair.

Not surprisingly, when a call came in about a large dead animal blocking a road, Marcus and I were always called upon. Always.

Hungover Marcus drives to the scene of death with his prissy chick side kick in tow. We were totally out of our element trying our best. The problem was, our best was really not all that great.

On particularly hot summer afternoons we smell the animal before we see it. Upon getting close to it, the stench is suffocating. I stop and pull out my garden gloves and rub strawberry Lip Smackers under my nose to mask the smell. Marcus openly mocks me initially, but by the end of the summer Marcus is smearing his face with my strawberry Lip Smackers, too. He, at least, has the good judgement to invest in real work gloves.

Perhaps it's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but even now when I drive by road kill I still think about the best way to move it. Road kill in pieces is always preferable because you just need to shovel it off the road. Road kill in one large piece, like a deer, is never a good thing.

I know you don't want the gory details, but I'm finding this therapeutic. Frankly, writing this saves me a $20 co-pay to a therapist. Don't read any further if you just ate a venison sandwich or if stories about dead deer cause you nightmares or night sweats.

I still remember one particular dead deer. Seriously, this happened 2 decades ago. I can't remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I remember a dead deer from 20 years ago.

There she is, sprawled across a two-lane country road. A man stands outside his home watching her and then watching us. Marcus and I approach. I pull my garden gloves from my back pocket. As we approach I see the deer's chest rise and then fall. I look at Marcus and tell him the deer is still alive. Marcus looks at me like I am a stupid, prissy, college chick.

None-the-less, we know we must move Ms. Deer from the 2 lane country road. We bend down. Marcus grabs the hind quarters and I grab the head. We lift her while groaning at her weight (I am also whimpering because I'm holding a deer's head). As we lift the deer, she literally rips into two parts and a flood of maggots and goo spill out. In utter shock and horror, I realize that what I thought was evidence of breathing was actually maggots moving within the dead deer body.

I have not been right since.

No amount of strawberry Lip Smackers can make that image go away.

The next time you see a Yahoo news story about the worst jobs on the planet, just remember it's all poppycock. The worst job in the whole wide world is picking up road kill.

And you thought you had a bad day at work!

The Most Magical Place in the World!

No, Silly, I'm not talking about Disney World. I'm talking about your local beauty salon!

Where else can an unfortunate woman with a mustache and a uni-brow enter with a mane of grey hair and leave with golden locks and a face as smooth as a baby's bottom? Mickey Mouse can't perform that kind of magic!

However, there is a dark side to beauty salons. A beauty salon can also be a house of horror, as I well know. I have countless salon stories. Every woman does. Let me share one of my earlier experiences...

I have thick, straight, fine hair. In my youth, hygiene was not a priority so my mother never knew what to do about my greasy, tangled hair. I managed to lose gum, pens, and small toys in my hair on a somewhat regular basis. Since brushing hair took so much physical effort on my part, I often chose to just focus on other things like picking scabs, chewing my toenails, and being "charming" to my parents.

For reasons that are not clear to me, except that it was the early 1980s (and we know that was a time of amazing styles and trends), my mother decided my hair was best kept in a short permed state. Think little orphan Annie. Every three months or so I was forced to sit in the salon and get a perm. I will maintain (as I did then) that this is a disguised form of child abuse.

Since I have no idea how to post pictures to this blog (remember, I am not as smart as a 5th grader), you'll have to rely on the mental picture I am about to create. Picture this:

A young, prepubescent girl of about 11 years old sits frowning. The girl is 5'9" when she stands up straight, but she is typically slouched in an effort to be 5'4" (yes, she was a freakishly tall 6th grader who was taunted endlessly by cruel creatures known as "boys."). Every tooth in her mouth is wrapped with costly silver braces. Blessedly, no head gear is involved. There is not a single ounce of fat anywhere on her body including any breast tissue (much to her chagrin).

Her mousy colored hair is wrapped tightly around perm rollers, and she is pouting in hopes of making her mother sense how truly miserable she is. (To this day she believes the pouting had absolutely no impact whatsoever on her mother. However, she is convinced it led to fine lines on her 39-ish year old face.
 Kids - Pouting never pays!)

She sits begrudgingly in one of a dozen salon chairs. The other chairs are occupied by women in their late 80s. Blue and white hair represent the majority in this salon, a sure sign that other 11 year olds were not out getting perms. After seemingly days of sitting, the rollers are taken out to reveal the tightest of curls. They are pubic-like and not a single strand falls below her earlobes.

She stands and looks in the mirror. She doesn't think of movie stars or beauty queens. No, she knows with absolute certainty that she most closely resembles a toilet bowl brush. The mousy color of her hair sadly suggests that it is a rather filthy toilet bowl brush at that.

She leaves the salon with the same attitude as when she arrived (miserable and generally annoyed with her mother). Upon entering the car she reaches under the seat for the one item she hopes will finally signal her utter hate of permanents and beauty salons.

She pulls out the brown paper grocery bag and places it over her head in a sign of quiet protest. She's been planning this moment and had the forethought to cut out eye holes and a mouth so that basic comforts like seeing and breathing are not compromised.

With the brown bag securely on her head, she turns to look at her mother who exclaims,
"Oh, for Pete's sake! You're being ridiculous! Those curls will soften over the next few days."

This, of course, is not true. I have school pictures to prove it!

Snow Days

My parents had to walk up hill to and from school, and school was never canceled due to inclement weather. They knew getting coal for Christmas was a real possibility, and they knew they were walking up hill to school even if there was a blizzard the previous night. That generation was tough as nails. My parents never exaggerate so I'm quite sure this is absolutely true.

Our children have it easy. Mother Nature simply spits a few flakes their direction and the entire town comes to a complete standstill. School is canceled and the party in our house begins.

The party in our house looks a little like this...

Two young children scream for joy and immediately begin asking for ridiculous things.

"Can we eat cereal in our rooms? Can we have pop for breakfast? Can we build a snowman in our bedroom?"

The words "snow day" seemingly makes them think they need to push every boundary possible. The thrill of missing a day of school isn't enough. They are after the ultimate snow day experience.

If this is the first snow day of the season, the two parents are both making the case to stay home with the kids:

"Oh, we can't leave them alone. Honey, you go to work and I'll stay home with them."

"No, Sweetheart, I know how busy you are at work these days. You go to work and I'll watch our darling children."

If this is snow day number 2-3, the conversation between the adults is a little different:

"I would love to stay home with those kids, but I just can't."

"Really? I have a meeting I must attend."

"And I suppose YOUR meeting is way more important than mine."

"Well, I stayed them with them last time!"

The love between these two adults vanished as soon as the automated call woke them from a sound and peaceful sleep to notify them that school is canceled (again).

If this is snow day number 4 or more, the adults unite in their utter disgust of the lazy, unmotivated person who made the decision to cancel school:

"Are you kidding me?! Is the superintendent of schools from Belize?! Has he never seen snow before??!! There's only 1 millimeter of snow out there! They will be going to school until July to make up these missed days!! No wonder our kids look and act stupid - they're never in school!" (Yes, every sentence requires an explanation mark!)

The children remain euphoric. A snow day is a gift from Mother Nature or at least a gift from the burned out superintendent of schools. Whatever! It is an unexpected and certainly undeserved free pass.

They spend exactly 23 minutes bundling themselves up in snow pants, gloves, scarves, coats, and boots. This task is complicated only marginally by the fact that they are bouncing up and down and cheering while trying to squeeze themselves into thermal outerwear. They dig through piles of gardening supplies to find their buried sleds. They race to the 3 degree hill in their front yard. In a moment of true teamwork they assist one another in positioning the sled just so. With one mighty push, they realize what their bitter, hardly speaking parents already knew. There is less than a quarter inch of snow on the ground, and they aren't going anywhere on that sled. Grass is sticking up through the dusting of snow and openly mocking them.

They return to the house. They are wearing no less than 4 layers of clothes on this balmy snow day so they are sweaty and hot after their failed attempt to sled. Despite the beads of sweat glistening on their foreheads, they still summon the will to ask their mother for hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.

Love those snow days!

Turtleneck Christmas

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. Now they, and all of their contents, are strewn around the living room as if they were unwrapped by sleep deprived children who had nothing but a Christmas cookie, a cinnamon roll, and a donut hole for breakfast. Wait, that is exactly what happened!

As my children's pores actually seep sugar, I am reminded of Christmas past. After celebrating 39-ish Christmases, one comes to realize that some are simply more fruitful than others. Of course we all know the true meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with the items carefully wrapped under the tree, but the gifts are delightful nonetheless less!

I remember one Christmas when I went downstairs and discovered the Barbie Dream House. Santa outdid himself that year. My 5 year old brain nearly exploded with excitement when I saw it had a working elevator. Ken and Barbie were finally homeowners! The three of us were so happy!

I also remember a Christmas when I was 12 or 13 years old. I was becoming less interested in toys and more interested in clothes. Among other things, I asked Santa for a turtleneck. Well, Santa outdid himself that year, too. I opened a white turtleneck, a cream turtleneck, a mother of pearl turtleneck, a red turtleneck, a crimson turtleneck, a scarlet turtleneck, a green turtleneck, an olive turtleneck, a forest green turtleneck, a black turtleneck, a black mock turtleneck, a grey turtleneck, and an orange turtleneck. I'm forgetting a few because I am nearly certain I received 15 turtlenecks that Christmas.

I watched as my younger sister opened a present. She received a cool new board game. I unwrapped a turtleneck. She opened a box with costume jewelry, and then I unwrapped a turtleneck. She opened a box of art supplies, and then I unwrapped a turtleneck. She unwrapped a a box of Christmas chocolates, and then I unwrapped a turtleneck. You get the picture.

I was old enough to know that no one should cry on Christmas. Tears on Christmas really anger Santa! Truth is that I felt like bursting into tears around turtleneck number 6. By turtleneck number 11, however, I gave into the humor of it all.

I've never seen my father so angry at Santa! I started to feel bad for Santa. Poor old Santa! He had been delivering items to good little boys and girls for years. He was bound to make a mistake like this at some point. Santa felt horrible (I have it on good authority), but you can't possibly expect Santa to get it right all of the time.

To this day, my family still laughs about the Turtleneck Christmas.

I was reminded of Turtleneck Christmas this morning when my son unwrapped two identical Mario Brothers toys within 10 minutes of each other. He was thrilled the first time he opened one of the gifts, but he was puzzled and confused when he opened the second identical one. All I could tell him was, "At least it's not a turtleneck!"

May you have a lovely Christmas filled with all of your favorite things even a turtleneck or two!